green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth.
To me at least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought.
Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows.
“Look there!” said he.
A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into a grove at the highest point.
From amid the branches there jutted out the grey gables and high rooftree of a very old mansion.
“Stoke Moran?” said he.
“Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” remarked the driver.
“There is