The house was as dark as the night.

He’d been startled on discovering that there was no light back or front; worried when there had been no response to his knocking.

Janet had a cousin named Phyllis, who lived somewhere in Surrey. Roger had never met her, and didn’t think Janet had heard from her more than twice in the past five years.

Be reasonable. Cousin Phyllis had probably been taken ill, Janet had hurried out here, taken things into her capable hands, decided to move Phyllis to a hospital, possibly even taken her to Chelsea. There was no reason to feel scared. He turned towards the front of the house. From here he could see the sidelights of his car, facing the main road and parked in the narrow, unmade lane. He would try once more at the front door, then go into the village—two miles away—and telephone home.

The lights of his car disappeared.

He stopped moving, and stared. Only one thing could blot those lights out—someone standing in front of them. They were still on; he could see a faint glow, and the vague silhouette of a—man ? Or Janet ?

No, it was a man. The lights appeared again. Yet he’d heard no footsteps, and any ordinary sound would have been clear. The vague figure was lost against the black outline of the car.

Then he heard a sound; of the car door, opening.

He shouted: “Here!” and broke into a run. The car door slammed and the engine hummed. He was ten yards from the open gate when the car began to move, and it was twenty yards along the road when he reached the gate.

“Here!”

The only answer was the snorting of the car.