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The man called Rogers strolled quietly through the woods as if he were merely a benevolent old gentleman with nothing on his mind. He came presently to the main road, and, in the course of time, to a long white house standing back behind a tennis lawn and a rose garden, a house almost embowered in trees, and in every way a picture of rural refinement and content.
Into a shady drawing-room, with the windows open on to the lawn, the man called Rogers made his way. And then, once secure from observation, he sat down and wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead. Just for a moment he thought he was alone, until a cool, mocking voice in the corner of the room hailed him.