It was when she went along the passage to look up the bathroom that Sabrina first noticed the other flight of stairs with that locked door at the top, and was caught peeking. The house, in its spaciousness and dignity and the simple comfort of its furnishings—what Aunt Effie called good value—was perfect in Sabrina’s eyes. The exaltation of arrival was subsiding gently into a sense of deep satisfaction, and a healthy fatigue. But the riddle of the locked room was the finishing touch. And the room was actually mentioned in the lease as not being available for use by any possible tenants.

It was not until several weeks had passed that Sabrina began not to be able to stop thinking about the room all day long.

She made a pretext for hunting up Mrs. Pilton, the housekeeper, and then lingered in the passage outside the kitchen.

“By the way,” said Sabrina, elaborately casual, “have you got a key to that room—the one that’s locked?”

“I have,” said Mrs. Pilton.

“Could I see it some time—the room, I mean?”

“There’s nothing much to see,” said Mrs. Pilton. “He’s got his books there, mostly—and the sort of odds and ends a man collects.”

“Books?” Sabrina’s interest quickened.

“He’s a great one to read,” admitted Mrs. Pilton.

“So am I,” Sabrina informed her eagerly. “I’d like to see his books some time.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t let you use them,” Mrs. Pilton said firmly. “Even the family never touches his things. He’s kept himself to himself, always.”

“He sounds very mysterious and rather nice,” suggested Sabrina cunningly.

“We don’t see so much of him here since he’s been grown,” said Mrs. Pilton.

“Have you been at Nuns Farthing a long time?”

“Twenty years or more.”

“Then you must have known him when he was a child.”

“Oh, yes. He and Mr. George were always here for the summer holidays.”

“Which of them is the elder?”

“Mr. George.”

“Oh. I would like to see the room some time if you’re not too busy—”

“I’m afraid not today, I’ve got the baking to see to.”

Sabrina drifted away, feeling baffled. All that, and she had still not learned the name of this evasive creature whose room remained locked and whose things were not touched. Was he the family black sheep, she wondered, and therefore unmentionable? Or was he the jealously guarded darling of them all? Impossible to discover which, from Mrs. Pilton’s impassive face and noncommittal replies.