In the flash of a second he had put down the bottle again and was stalking quickly through the bungalow. There was no one there, but he would have sworn someone had been at the whisky. He had not allowed any of it to dribble down the side like that. He was always particular when he put a bottle of anything upon a polished surface. He couldn't understand.
He went to his tin of cigarettes and for a few minutes stood staring down at them. He had only opened the box that morning and, having had a touch of palpitation lately, had been sparing in his smoking. Yet—there were a number gone. He counted those left. Only thirty-eight out of a fifty tin. He swore angrily and, now remembering the patch of oil by the garden gate, went out to look at it. He could distinctly see the mark of motor bicycle
