He must have
slipped out by the back and crept round the house.
The incident had puzzled the Jetsons, especially that involuntary
flash of contempt that had come into Mrs. Hepworth's eyes. She had
always appeared to adore her husband, and of the two, if possible,
to be the one most in love with the other. They had no friends or
acquaintances except the Jetsons. No one else among their
neighbours had taken the trouble to call on them, and no stranger to
the suburb had, so far as was known, ever been seen in Laleham
Gardens.
Until one evening a little before Christmas.
Jetson was on his way home from his office in the Finchley Road.
There had been a mist hanging about all day, and with nightfall it
had settled down into a whitish fog. Soon after leaving the
Finchley Road, Jetson noticed in front of him a man wearing a long,
yellow mackintosh, and some sort of soft felt hat. He gave Jetson
the idea of being a sailor; it may have been merely the stiff,
serviceable mackintosh. At the corner of Laleham Gardens the man
turned, and glanced up at the name upon the lamp-post, so that
Jetson had a full view of him. Evidently it was the street for
which he was looking. Jetson, somewhat curious, the Hepworths'
house being still the only one occupied, paused at the corner, and
watched.
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