On the landing, she hesitated a moment and then tried the drawing-room door. The room was empty, the fire unlit. She darted across to the study and opened the door without knocking. Marcus was sitting in one of the armchairs in front of the fire with a cigar in his hand and a glass of whisky at his elbow. He looked up at her and she stopped in the doorway. He stared at her, his face flushed and his eyes wide open.

The visitor stood up and turned toward her. He was slim and dark, with a small moustache and a face like a determined seal’s. Marcus, too, rose to his feet, though without enthusiasm, as if reluctantly obeying the dictates of a higher power.

“Ah, Lydia, my dear,” he said, articulating his words with the precision of the almost drunk. “I don’t think you know Rex Fisher.” He turned to his guest. “Rex, this is my wife.”

Fisher limped toward her, holding out his hand and smiling. “Indeed, we have met, Mrs. Langstone.”

“Of course we have, Sir Rex,” Lydia said. “You came down to Monkshill for a weekend. It must have been just after the war.”

They shook hands. Fisher had a trick of looking very keenly at you as if you were, for the moment, the most interesting thing in the world. It was at once flattering and alarming.

“And how are Lord and Lady Cassington?” he asked.

“Very well, thank you.” She smiled at him. “I know it must sound awfully rude, but would you mind if I took Marcus away for a moment? There’s something I need to tell him.”

Fisher stood back, the smile still in place. “Of course not, Mrs. Langstone.”

Marcus made an inarticulate sound that might have been a murmur of protest. But she gave him no time to think. She left the room and crossed the landing to the drawing room. She heard her husband apologizing to his guest, the closing of the study door and his footsteps behind her.