No one appeared at the windows in the front of the house. I walked down a turning which ran past the side of it, and looked over the low garden wall. One of the back windows on the lower floor was thrown up and a net was stretched across the opening. I saw nobody, but I heard, in the room, first a shrill whistling and singing of birds, then the deep ringing voice which Marian’s description had made familiar to me. “Come out on my little finger, my pret-pret-pretties!” cried the voice. “Come out and hop upstairs! One, two, three⁠—and up! Three, two, one⁠—and down! One, two, three⁠—twit-twit-twit-tweet!” The Count was exercising his canaries as he used to exercise them in Marian’s time at Blackwater Park.