Stumbling, Benteley retreated in a panic. The next thing he knew was that he was sitting on something low, bending down and fumbling for his shoes. His coat was lying on the floor in front of him and his shoes lay separated from each other by an expanse of rich carpet. There was no sound; the room was utterly silent and cold. In a corner a dim lamp flickered.

"Lock the door." Eleanor's voice came from nearby. "I think Moore's gone off his head. He's out there in the hall shambling round like a maniac."

Benteley found the door and tugged at its old-fashioned manual bolt. Eleanor was standing in the centre of the room, one leg pulled up, unlacing her sandals. As the man watched, awed and astonished, she kicked off her sandals, unzipped her slacks, and stepped from them. For a moment bare ankles gleamed in the light.

Then he was stumbling his way to her, and she was reaching for him.

Much later he awoke.

The room was deathly cold. Nothing stirred. No sound, no life. Through the open window grey morning light filtered, and a wind whipped icily round him.

Figures lay sprawled out, mixed with disordered clothing in heaps. He stumbled between outstretched limbs, half-covered arms, stark-white legs that shocked him. He dis­tinguished Eleanor, lying against the wall, legs drawn up under her, breathing restlessly between half-parted lips. He wandered on—and stopped dead.

The grey light filtered over another face and figure—his old friend Al Davis, peaceful in the arms of his soundly sleeping wife.

A little further on were more persons, some snoring dully, one stirring into fitful wakefulness. Another groaned and groped feebly for some covering. Benteley's foot crushed a glass; a pool of dark liquid leaked out. Another face ahead was familiar. A man, dark-haired, good featured... .