Miss Carnaby had arrived at Green Hills Sanctuary a week previously. Her attitude on arrival had been: ‘Now what’s all this nonsense? Really, Emmie, a sensible woman like you—etc., etc.’

At a preliminary interview with Dr Andersen, she had conscientiously made her position quite clear.

‘I don’t want to feel that I am here under false pretences, Dr Andersen. My father was a clergyman of the Church of England and I have never wavered in my faith. I don’t hold with heathen doctrines.’

The big, golden-haired man had smiled at her—a very sweet and understanding smile. He had looked indulgently at the plump, rather belligerent figure sitting so squarely in her chair.

‘Dear Miss Carnaby,’ he said. ‘You are Mrs Clegg’s friend, and as such welcome. And believe me, our doctrines are not heathen. Here all religions are welcomed, and all honoured equally.’

‘Then they shouldn’t be,’ said the staunch daughter of the late Reverend Thomas Carnaby.

Leaning back in his chair, the Master murmured in his rich voice: ‘In my Father’s House are many mansions . . . Remember that, Miss Carnaby.’

As they left the presence, Miss Carnaby murmured to her friend: ‘He really is a very handsome man.’

‘Yes,’ said Emmeline Clegg. ‘And so wonderfully spiritual.’

Miss Carnaby agreed. It was true—she had felt it—an aura of unworldliness—of spirituality . . .

She took a grip upon herself. She was not here to fall a prey to the fascination, spiritual or otherwise, of the Great Shepherd. She conjured up a vision of Hercule Poirot. He seemed very far away, and curiously mundane . . .

‘Amy,’ said Miss Carnaby to herself. ‘Take a grip upon yourself. Remember what you are here for . . .’

But as the days went on, she found herself surrendering only too easily to the spell of Green Hills. The peace, the simplicity, the delicious though simple food, the beauty of the services with their chants of Love and Worship, the simple moving words of the Master, appealing to all that was best and highest in humanity—here all the strife and ugliness of the world was shut out. Here was only Peace and Love . . .

And tonight was the great summer Festival, the Festival of the Full Pasture. And at it, she, Amy Carnaby, was to become initiated—to become one of the Flock.

The Festival took place in the white, glittering, concrete building, called by the Initiates the Sacred Fold. Here the devotees assembled just before the setting of the sun. They wore sheepskin cloaks and had sandals on their feet. Their arms were bare. In the centre of the Fold on a raised platform stood Dr Andersen. The big man, golden-haired and blue-eyed, with his fair beard and his handsome profile had never seemed more compelling. He was dressed in a green robe and carried a shepherd’s crook of gold.

He raised this aloft and a deathly silence fell on the assembly.

‘Where are my sheep?’

The answer came from the crowd.