There was ice on the flagstones of the terrace also. Gini made her way across them carefully, then paused for a moment, looking up at the night sky, bright with stars.

“You never see stars in London anymore,” she said. “The lights of the city block them out. Aren’t they magnificent? I used to be able to recognize some of the constellations, but now I’ve forgotten them. Orion…”

“Those stars there.”

“And the Pole Star? The Plow?” She tilted her head backward.

Rowland, who had not been looking at the sky, now glanced upward again.

He pointed out each sequence of patterns in turn. There was the Plow, there the Great and Little Bear, there Cassiopeia, and there the Pole Star, so useful in navigation. Looking up at this last star, Gini shivered, and Rowland, with an air of courteous concern, took her arm and guided her across the slippery flagstones, to the door.

Lindsay was sitting in the kitchen when she heard the spurt of gravel as the Land Rover turned into Max’s drive.

She had been reading a story to Colin and Danny. In pajamas and robes, they were now curled slumberously on either side of her, fighting sleep. Max was in his study telephoning; Charlotte was upstairs supervising Alex and Ben’s bath. Lindsay closed the book. It was eight o’clock. Rowland and Gini had been gone several hours.

“Bed, you two,” she said. “You’re both half asleep. No, no arguments. Off you go.”

Danny gave her a wet smack of a kiss; he and Colin left obediently, hand in hand. Lindsay rose and paced the room. Ten minutes passed. What on earth were Gini and Rowland doing? Were they sitting talking in the dark?

Max had said, over tea, his manner very casual, that he was just wondering if Lindsay might be persuaded to give Rowland a lift back to London the next day. He himself, he said, had decided to return a little later than usual, on Monday morning, by train. If Gini was going to work on the Cassandra Morley story, she would want to stay on a day or two, to interview Cassandra’s and Mina’s friends. Max then began to discuss train timetables. Lindsay, thinking his manner was shifty and evasive, quickly realized the reason: Max thought this proposal would not please Rowland McGuire.

“Why can’t he take the train with you?” she asked.

“He just can’t, that’s all. I—he doesn’t like trains.”

“Why on earth not?”

“He’s—funny about them,” Max said, polishing his eyeglasses.

“He’s funny about a lot of things, if you ask me.”

“Come on, Lindsay. You can stand his company for a couple of hours, surely?”

“Oh, very well,” Lindsay said. “I’ve got something to tell him anyway.”

“You have?” Max looked interested.

“Yes. He gave me that file to look at, you remember? The one on Lazare? I’ve finished going through it, and I noticed something strange. I—”

“Damn. The phone’s ringing. It’ll be the news desk. Or Landis. Tell me later, Lindsay.”