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Pushing the door open, he called Creager by name, and when that had failed he walked back to the road to look for somebody. There was a woman in sight; she had apparently come from one of the small houses at the farther end of the road.

"Mr. Creager? Yes, sir, he lives here, and he's usually at home at this time of the day."

"He doesn't seem to be at home now. Is there anybody else in the house?"

"No, sir; he lives alone. My sister comes in in the morning and cleans up the house for him. Why don't you go in and wait, sir?"

It seemed an excellent idea, especially as it had begun to rain, and, pushing open the door, Spike walked boldly down the passage into what was evidently the living-room. It was comfortably furnished, and over the mantelpiece was a portrait, which he recognised instantly as the bearded man. He was in some sort of uniform, which Spike could not recognise.

He sat down, and, taking the newspaper out of his pocket, read over again the story of the Green Archer. It was extraordinary, he thought, that traditions of this kind could live in the twentieth century and that there were still people who believed in manifestations such as were described here.