I have also to report that on being questioned as to his movements, Mr. Questing has returned evasive and even lying answers.

I conceived it my duty to report this matter to the local police authorities, who displayed a somnolence so profound as to be pathological.

I have the honour to be,

Yours faithfully,

James Ackrington M.D., F.R.C.S., F.R.C.P.

The servant brought the drink. Dr. Ackrington accused him of having substituted an inferior brand of whisky for the one ordered, but he did this with an air of routine rather than of rage. He accepted the servant’s resigned assurances with surprising mildness, merely remarking that the whisky had probably been adulterated by the makers. He then finished his drink, clapped his hat on the side of his head and went out to post his letters. The hall porter pulled open the door.

“War news a bit brighter this morning, sir,” said the porter tentatively.

“The sooner we’re all dead, the better,” Dr. Ackrington replied cheerfully. He gave a falsetto barking noise, and limped quickly down the steps.

“Was that a joke?” said the hall porter to the servant. The servant turned up his eyes.

Colonel and Mrs. Claire had lived for twelve years at Wai-ata-tapu Springs. They had come to New Zealand from India when their daughter Barbara, born ten years after their marriage, was thirteen, and their son Simon, nine years old. They had told their friends in gentle voices that they wanted to get away from the conventions of retired army life in England.