Sinister House by Fred M. White — Read

Lyston retired in apologetic disorder, but he did not go very far. He paused once he was out of sight of the mill and sat down behind the shelter of a gorse bush to think out his next step. He removed the butterfly net from the end of his walking stick and cast it aside. Then he took off his spectacles and whiskers, and once more resumed his proper identity. There was no longer occasion for any sort of disguise, because he was going on another tack altogether.

Lyston was not the type of man to turn back when once he had put his hand to a thing. He knew what it was to go two or three days without food or sleep when once he was hot upon the trail of his quarry. So that he was not worrying much from the point of view of personal comfort for the next few hours. He sat in his hiding-place smoking until the shades began to fall and, when at length the darkness had come, retraced his steps and once more stood under the shadow of the water mill. He had to visualise his position exactly, so that there would be no chance of making a false step. And with that wonderful sense of locality of his, he was not likely to go wrong.