There was no sound at all from the bedroom.

Rollison backed towards the telephone, groped cautiously, touched the table, pressed close to the wall and squeezed into a recess.

Scratching sounds at the door told him that the intruder was working on the lock. Soon, the kitchen door squeaked open loudly.

The light from a torch flashed on, striking the wall opposite, and was reflected from the glass of one of the small pictures. The intruder lowered it and moved it round slowly. It shone on the telephone, and Rollison, pressing tightly against the wall, prepared to act if he were seen.

The beam of light moved away, missing him, and made a complete circuit of the hall until finally it came to rest on the bedroom door-handle. The circle of fight on the door grew larger, and in the reflection Rollison could just make out the man’s figure. The light grew whiter as the torch drew closer to the wall. Suddenly part of it was hidden by the man’s figure. A short, squat fellow, he moved with great stealth. The shadow of his hands appeared on the door as he changed the torch a florid, ugly-looking creature with powerful shoulders and a thick barrel-like torso.

“Get up,” ordered Rollison.

The man didn’t move.

“Get—up.” Rollison leaned over the bed, bent down and grabbed the man’s wrist, pulled him to his feet and gave him a shove against the wall. He came up against it with another thud and nearly fell again. He shot out a hand and clutched the dressing-table for support. The trinkets rattled, a brush fell to the floor.

“I should get back to bed if I were you,” Rollison said to Barbara.

She obeyed; her nightdress was thin and the room cold. She sat down and pulled a blanket round her shoulders, looking first at Rollison and then at the burglar.