with my view of the bungalow was the porch-rail. I made myself as comfortable as possible there, with a shoulder against the corner post, and prepared for an evening of watchful waiting.
Two hours and a half later a man turned into the cobbled walk from the road. He walked swiftly to the bungalow, with a cautious sort of swiftness, and he looked from side to side as he walked.
I suppose he knocked on the door.
The door opened, throwing a yellow glow on his face, Dolph Ringgo’s face.
He went indoors. The door shut.
My watchtower’s fault was that the bungalow could only be reached from it roundabout by the path and road. There was no way of cutting cross-country.
I put away the field glasses, left the porch, and set out for the bungalow. I wasn’t sure that I could find another good spot for the coupe, so I left it where it was and walked.
I was afraid to take a chance on the cobbled walk.
Twenty feet above it, I left the road and moved as silently as I could over sod and among trees, bushes and flowers. I knew the sort of folks I was playing with: I carried my gun in my hand.
All of the bungalow’s windows on my side showed lights, but all the windows were closed and their blinds drawn. I didn’t like the way the light that came through the blinds helped the moon illuminate the surrounding ground. That had been swell when I was up on the ridge getting cockeyed squinting through glasses. It was sour now that I was trying to get close enough to do some profitable listening.