Its garden, surrounded by high
walls, was somewhat larger than those of the neighbouring houses, and was
filled with elms rising to a considerable height and with tall bushes
growing beneath them.
"Nice, truly rural sort of spot," said Melky, as they crossed the road and
approached the gate in the wall. "And--once inside--uncommon private, no
doubt! What do you say, Mr. Ayscough?"
The detective was examining the gate. It was a curious sort of gate, set
between two stout pillars, and fashioned of wrought ironwork, the meshes
of which were closely intertwined. Ayscough peered through the upper part
and saw a trim lawn, a bit of statuary, a garden seat, and all the rest of
the appurtenances common to a London garden whose owners wish to remind
themselves of rusticity--also, he saw no signs of life in the house at the
end of the garden.
"There's no light in this house," he remarked, trying the gate. "Looks to
me as if everybody was out. Are you going to ring?"
Melky pointed along the front of the wall.
"There's a sort of alley going up there, between this house and the next,"
he said. "Come round--sure to be a tradesman's entrance--a side-door--up
there.
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