“We could go for a drive now; there’s a place near here I’d like to show you. You don’t have to be back yet, do you?”

“I ought to be back by half past eleven,” I said, but it was only just after nine. The thought of going for a drive appealed to me: it postponed things, and it was a lovely evening, with a lot of clouds blowing across the sky in a hurry. But we did not drive very far. After a few miles along roads that seemed too narrow for the car Wyndham drew up in a place that seemed to be nowhere, but which turned out to be a very small village. I could see from the car a church on a sharply rising slope, and we had stopped by a high brick wall.

“Where on earth is this?” I said as I looked round. I felt that he had some trick up his sleeve, as indeed he had.

“This is a village,” he said. “The house behind this wall belongs to my aunt. I thought we might go and have a look at it.”

“Will she be there?” I said, unable to think of anything else to say.

“No, she won’t,” said Wyndham. “She’s dead. I think the house is for sale. I wanted to have a look at it before they ruin it. Would you like to come and see?”

“Of course I would,” I said, wondering by what chance or stroke of intuition he had struck on so precisely the kind of excursion that has for me an irresistible charm.