CHAPTER EIGHTEENMr. Oliver Peskett was in his room over the garage that George Colton had built in what had been the side garden of his home. Now and then he looked up from the work he was doing and listened intently. Once he heard steps on the pavement below. He moved quickly from the door and thrust the tools he was working with under his jacket lying on the table. He stepped to the small casement window overlooking the court yard and peered through the curtains. He waited until he saw the retreating figure of the fishmonger’s boy, and then went quietly and quickly back to his work. A few minutes later he brushed the fine wood dust from the floor in front of the door leading down into the garage, and put the brace and bit and screw-driver into the drawer of his wardrobe. He washed his ha
