The Green Eyes of Bâst | Page 2

idly curious concerning the message, and:
"The Red House," continued the sergeant, "in College Road? Yes, I
know it. It's on Bolton's beat, and he is due here now. Very good; I'll
tell him."
He hung up the receiver and, turning to me, smiled and nodded his
head resignedly.
"The police get some funny jobs, sir," he confided. "Only last night a
gentleman rang up the station and asked them to tell me to stop a short,
stout lady with yellow hair and a big blue hat (that was the only
description) as she passed this point and to inform her that her husband
had had to go out but that he had left the door-key just inside the
dog-kennel!"

He laughed good-humoredly.
"Now to-night," he resumed, "here's somebody just rung up to say that
he thinks, only thinks, mind you, that he has forgotten to lock his
garage and will the constable on that beat see if the keys have been left
behind. If so, will he lock the door from the inside, go out through the
back, lock that door and leave the keys at the station on coming off
duty!"
"Yes," I said. "There are some absent-minded people in the world. But
do you mean the Red House in College Road?"
"That's it," replied the sergeant, stepping out of the hut and looking
intently to the left.
"Ah, here comes Bolton."
He referred to a stolid, red-faced constable who at that moment came
plodding across the muddy road, and:
"A job for you, Bolton," he cried. "Listen. You know the Red House in
College Road?"
Bolton removed his helmet and scratched his closely-cropped head.
"Let me see," he mused; "it's on the right--"
"No, no," I interrupted. "It is a house about half-way down on the left;
very secluded, with a high brick wall in front."
"Oh! You mean the empty house?" inquired the constable.
"Just what I was about to remark, sergeant," said I, turning to my
acquaintance. "To the best of my knowledge the Red House has been
vacant for twelve months or more."
"Has it?" exclaimed the sergeant. "That's funny. Still, it's none of my
business; besides it may have been let within the last few days.
Anyway, listen, Bolton. You are to see if the garage is unlocked. If it is

and the keys are there, go in and lock the door behind you. There's
another door at the other end; go out and lock that too. Leave the keys
at the depôt when you go off. Got that fixed?"
"Yes," replied Bolton, and he stood helmet in hand, half inaudibly
muttering the sergeant's instructions, evidently with the idea of
impressing them upon his memory.
"I have to pass the Red House, constable," I interrupted, "and as you
seem doubtful respecting its whereabouts, I will point the place out to
you."
"Thank you, sir," said Bolton, replacing his helmet and ceasing to
mutter.
"Once more--good night, sergeant," I cried, and met by a keen gust of
wind which came sweeping down the village street, showering
cascades of water from the leaves above, I set out in step with my stolid
companion.
It is supposed poetically that unusual events cast their shadows before
them, and I am prepared to maintain the correctness of such a belief.
But unless the silence of the constable who walked beside me was due
to the unseen presence of such a shadow, and not to a habitual
taciturnity, there was nothing in that march through the deserted streets
calculated to arouse me to the fact that I was entering upon the first
phase of an experience more strange and infinitely more horrible than
any of which I had ever known or even read.
The shadow had not yet reached me.
We talked little enough on the way, for the breeze when it came was
keen and troublesome, so that I was often engaged in clutching my hat.
Except for a dejected-looking object, obviously a member of the tramp
fraternity, who passed us near the gate of the old chapel, we met never
a soul from the time that we left the police-box until the moment when
the high brick wall guarding the Red House came into view beyond a
line of glistening wet hedgerow.

"This is the house, constable," I said. "The garage is beyond the main
entrance."
We proceeded as far as the closed gates, whereupon:
"There you are, sir," said Bolton triumphantly. "I told you it was
empty."
An estate agent's bill faced us, setting forth the desirable features of the
residence, the number of bedrooms and reception rooms, modern
conveniences, garage, etc., together with the extent of the garden, lawn
and orchard.
A faint creaking sound drew my glance upward, and stepping back a
pace I stared at a