the bell, sir," she added. "Please ring if there's anything else you
want," and she left me to myself.

I had pushed back my chair and was filling my pipe when the telephone
rang. It was Swain.

"Swain," I said, "this is Mr. Lester. I'm at a place up here in the
Bronx, and I want you to come up right away."

"Very good, sir," said Swain. "How do I get there?"

"Take the Third Avenue elevated to the end of the line, and then the
trolley which runs along Dryden Road. Get off at Prospect Street, walk
two blocks west and ask for the old Bennett place. I'll have an eye
out for you."

"All right, sir," said Swain, again. "Do you want me to bring some
papers, or anything?"

"No; just come as quickly as you can," I answered, and hung up.

I figured that, even at the best, it would take Swain an hour and a
half to make the journey, and I strolled out under the trees again.
Then the thought came to me that I might as well make a little
exploration of the neighbourhood, and I sauntered out to the road.
Along it for some distance ran the high wall which bounded Elmhurst,
and I saw that the wall had been further fortified by ugly pieces of
broken glass set in cement along its top.

I could see a break in the wall, about midway of its length, and,