CHAPTER THIRTEENI went through the hedge nevertheless. The windows of Lucy Lee’s cottage were open, the brightly printed curtains showing dimly through the shining copper screens under the drawn shades. It seemed the most utter nonsense to think of anyone behind any of those windows peering out at me. I shook off the idea and went around in front. There was no sign of life about the house, no clatter of dishes and yelling children, no Lucy Lee singing as she banged her pots and pans about. The whole place was as quiet as the grave.
Through the trees I could see Mrs. Gould’s house—large and white, with its wide lawn running down to the lane along the beach. I hurried along the flagstone walk and went in through the side door. Hawkins was there in his white coat with a coffee service balanc
