To reach the house it was necessary to pass through an iron gate and traverse a stone-flagged path to the door of the cottage.
On the night when Tarling of Scotland Yard was the victim of a murderous assault, Mr.Milburgh unlocked the gate and passed through, locking and double-locking the gate behind him.

He was alone, and, as was his wont, he was whistling a sad little refrain which had neither beginning nor end.

He walked slowly up the stone pathway, unlocked the door of his cottage, and stood only a moment on the doorstep to survey the growing thickness of the night, before he closed and bolted the door and switched on the electric light.
He was in a tiny hallway, plainly but nicely furnished.

The note of luxury was struck by the Zohn etchings which hung on the wall, and which Mr.Milburgh stopped to regard approvingly.

He hung up his coat and hat, slipped off the galoshes he was wearing (for it was wet underfoot), and, passing through a door which opened from the passage, came to his living room.