years ago, I realize.  There’s a sort of dark corridor between then and this morning—don’t ask me about that, either.  What you and I’ve got to decide now is how to go about the job of reintroducing me, as it were. . . .  Any ideas?”

“If you’ll give me a little time, Mr. Charles—I’m still rather—“

“I know—bumfoozled is the word old Sarah used to use.”

“Fancy you remembering that.”

“What’s happened to her?”

“She’s still living in the village.  Of course she’s very feeble.”

“Poor old girl. . . .  And too bad about Parsloe—how did that happen?”

“Pneumonia after the flu.  Very sudden.  We had quite an epidemic about a year ago.”

“The new man seems all right.”

“Marsh?  Oh yes.  Used to be one of the gardeners.”

“Don’t remember him. . . .  God, what are we gossiping like this for?”

“Just what I was thinking, sir, because there ARE more important

things I must tell you about.  I’m afraid you’ll find the house in

a rather disturbed condition—“

“I know.  I realize I couldn’t have turned up at a more awkward

moment—in some ways.  Much rather have come when it’s quiet—

nobody here—“

“You mean the family?”

“Well, yes—bit of a problem, how to let them know.”

“We have to face it, sir.”

“THEY have to face it, you mean.”

“Naturally they’ll be delighted to see you once they get over the— the surprise.”

“The surprise of finding I’m still alive?”

“Well, after such an interval, and with no news—“

“I know.  For God’s sake don’t think I’m blaming anybody.”

“May I say, sir, speaking for myself—“

“I know, I know, and I’m grateful—think it was marvellous the way you kept your head in front of Marsh.  Of course he’ll have to know soon, like everybody else, but I was glad you postponed the—er— the sensation.  Funny . . . when I wanted to say something over the telephone that would make you know I was genuine and yet wouldn’t mean a thing to him, the only thing I could think of was the Left-Handed Room—remember how we used to call it that because the door opened the other way?”

“You remember those days very clearly, sir.”

“So clearly it’s like—like head-lamps along a road on a dark night.  TOO clearly, that is—everything a bit out of focus.  It’ll all come right, I daresay.”

“I hope so, sir.”

“Well, let’s not talk about it. . . .  We’ve got this other problem to settle, and my suggestion is what we always used to say when we were kids—leave it to Sheldon.”

“I was about to suggest that too.”

“Well, go ahead—any way you like.  And in the meantime if you’ll find me a bedroom that’s a bit off the map I’ll get a good night’s sleep before making my bow at the breakfast table.”

“I’m afraid—er—Mr. Rainier doesn’t come down to breakfast nowadays.”

“I know, Marsh said he was ill.  I’m sorry.  You’d better go easy when you tell him—the shock, I mean.”  He caught Sheldon’s glance and interpreted it.  “Don’t worry about me, Sheldon—I know you’re thinking I’m not behaving according to formula, but I can’t help it—

I’m too dead tired to face any reunions tonight.”

After a pause Sheldon answered:  “I doubt if there IS any formula for what you must be feeling, Mr. Charles.  I could give you a bed in my own apartments if that would suit.”

“Excellent. . . .  Thank heaven something’s settled. . . .  Been having decent weather here lately?”

“Fairly, sir, for the time of the year.  I noticed the barometer’s rising.”

“Good.  It was raining in Liverpool this morning.”

 

 

He slept a heavy troubled sleep, full of dreams he could not clarify, but which left him vaguely restless, unsatisfied.  December sunlight waked him by pouring on to his bed; he stared round, wondering where he was, then remembering.  But he could not recognize the room—somewhere in the servants’ wing, he supposed, and he confirmed this by leaning up to the window.  The central block of Stourton faced him grandly across the courtyard—there was the terrace, the big curving windows of the dining-room, the East Wing with its corner turret.  The spectacle found and fitted into a groove of his mind—somehow like seeing a well-known place and deciding it was reasonably like its picture postcards. . . .  He was still musing when Sheldon came in with a tray.

“Good morning, Mr. Charles.  I brought you some tea.”

“Thanks.”

“The barometer’s still rising.  Did you sleep well?”

“Pretty well.  What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock.  The family usually begin to come down about nine, but perhaps this morning—we stayed up rather late, you see . .