Bassett lounged outside the neat privet hedge which it was Harrison
Miller's custom to clip with his own bachelor hands, and waited. And
as he waited he tried to imagine what was going on inside, behind the
neatly curtained windows of the old brick house.

He was tempted to ring the bell again, pretend to have forgotten
something, and perhaps happen in on what might be drama of a rather high
order; what, supposing the man was Clark after all, was fairly sure to
be drama. He discarded the idea, however, and began again his interested
survey of the premises. Whoever conceived this sort of haven for Clark,
if it were Clark, had shown considerable shrewdness. The town fairly
smelt of respectability; the tree-shaded streets, the children in socks
and small crisp-laundered garments, the houses set back, each in its
square of shaved lawn, all peaceful, middle class and unexciting. The
last town in the world for Judson Clark, the last profession, the last
house, this shabby old brick before him.

He smiled rather grimly as he reflected that if Gregory had been right
in his identification, he was, beyond those windows at that moment, very
possibly warning Clark against himself. Gregory would know his type,
that he never let go. He drew himself up a little.

The house door opened, and Gregory came out, turning toward the station.
Bassett caught up with him and put a hand on his arm.