“Hadn’t we better clear off for a bit?”

“Let’s go and knock them up at the Station Inn,” suggested Mary.

But Tommy, with a decision which reminded them that he was junior master of the house, merely pressed the bell again. They waited. It was cold.

“Is there any of that beer left?” asked Edward. Mary shook her head. Earle, who’d stayed in the dickey, now climbed out, cautiously, being careful not to disturb Georges, who was sound asleep again.

“What I like,” said Edward, grinning with pure glee, “is that you can’t hear the bell ring. It’s such a long way off. Do you know,” he added, turning to Earle, “the bell rings at least a quarter of a mile from here?”

“Is that so?” said Earle politely.

“Don’t you believe him, my dear,” said Margaret. “He’s only taking advantage of your innocence.”

“I expect it’s out of order,” said Tommy.

“You’d much better leave them alone till breakfast-time,” Mary said.

But Tommy sternly shook his head. His honour as host was, it seemed, at stake. Mary felt sorry for him. It was really no fault of his, for he’d never suggested this mad expedition. That, naturally, had been Maurice’s idea, inspired by Edward. And last night it had certainly seemed amusing to pack into the cars and go racing off through the suburbs, mildly drunk, shouting and singing. One always forgets that car drives take such a long time. Like that awful occasion when Edward had persuaded them to set off at a few minutes’ notice for Penzance. They’d ended up in an hotel at Bournemouth, where the food was beneath criticism.

Tommy knocked heavily with the iron knocker. They could hear the hollow echo of the knocking inside the house. No answer.

“This building must be tremendously old,” said Earle, in his polite, formal way—so that they all laughed.

“Come away, Tommy,” said Anne, laughing.

Tommy, with a smile, knocked four times. A dog began barking somewhere inside.

“Something’s begun to materialise,” said Edward.

“It’s the cry of a haound, Watson!” Maurice did one of his stock impersonations. Edward pulled a dreadful face. A bolt inside the door went off like a pistol-shot, making them all jump. They hadn’t heard footsteps. The door opened five or six inches on the chain. It was Mrs. Compstall, the housekeeper, who’d been taken over temporarily with her husband from Eric when Ramsbotham bought the house. She had her head in a shawl. She didn’t for a moment recognise Tommy.

“What is it?” she asked, her face a blend of aggressiveness and alarm.

“May we come in, Mrs. Compstall?”—Tommy was quite humble now. “I’m afraid it’s rather early.”

She opened the door with a bad grace, muttering an apology, of which was audible only:—“… of course, if we’d been let know.…”