But Dickson had barely put his foot on the parapet when there was a sound of steps within the House approaching the verandah door.
The ladder was left alone.

Dougal's hand brought Dickson summarily to the floor, where he was fairly well concealed by a mess of matting.
Unfortunately his head was in the vicinity of some upturned pot-plants, so that a cactus ticked his brow and a spike of aloe supported painfully the back of his neck.

Heritage was prone behind two old water-butts, and Dougal was in a hamper which had once contained seed potatoes.

The house door had panels of opaque glass, so the new-comer could not see the doings of the three till it was opened, and by that time all were in cover.
The man--it was Spittal--walked rapidly along the verandah and out of the garden door.

He was talking to himself again, and Dickson, who had a glimpse of his face, thought he looked both evil and furious.