‘Like all Bills, he’s nice,’ she stated. ‘I told him I didn’t care much about his cousin’s ways, and he said he’d take care that he behaved himself in future. I told him he need not trouble because I thought I had settled Tiny’s hash, but I think there were words. Bill is an ex-Naval officer, and speaks his mind. Besides, Tiny had a black eye when Jon met him next day. He said he fell over one of the dogs, but I have my own views about that. Here comes Jon. Let’s wait for him to catch us up.’

Mrs Bradley interpreted this last remark as a hint to drop the subject of Tiny Fullalove. Jonathan, who had sprinted after them, dropped into a walk beside his wife, and the conversation turned on the Fullalove cousins again, but upon a different aspect of them.

‘I’ve had to ask both the Fullaloves for Christmas Day as well as Boxing Day, Deb,’ said Jonathan. ‘Sorry. I know you don’t like Tiny, but I couldn’t leave him out.’

‘Who said I didn’t like Tiny?’ demanded Deborah. ‘I’ve never mentioned such a thing!’

‘Your face will never be your fortune, sweetheart. It gives too much away!’ retorted her husband. ‘Anyway, they’ve both accepted for both days, so you’ll have to put up with them for lunch and probably for supper on Christmas Day, and tea and dinner on Boxing Day. And another sickening thing. They want us to put up a couple of pals of theirs. I’m awfully sorry. But they’ve very little room in that bungalow. Hullo! What’s the matter with Worry?’

‘I think he’s seen your ghost,’ said Mrs Bradley, closely scrutinizing a small lively dog which had come into view. ‘That’s the same gate again, isn’t it? Who, by the way, is Worry’s owner?’

‘He’s Will North’s dog. The gamekeeper, you know,’ said Deborah. ‘Will must be somewhere about. Something has upset Worry! I wonder whether he’s run a thorn in?’

She hurried down the slope. The terrier was standing about ten yards from the gate, yelping hideously, and all Deborah’s cajolings could not persuade him to go any nearer. At this moment, Will North, the gamekeeper, came up and spoke to the dog. It nuzzled him, and, in a whining tone, began to explain its fears.

‘Hallo, Will,’ said Jonathan. ‘Meet my aunt, Mrs Lestrange Bradley. She’s a dead shot and a straight rider.’

‘I’ve heard of you, ma’am,’ said the tall man. ‘You wrote a book I’ve got. Psychoneurosis in the history of the Sixteenth Century. I’m sorry about Worry. He isn’t a silly chap really.’

‘He’s seen the ghost,’ said Jonathan.