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us stay where we are.’

      ‘Shall I wait for Miss North?’ offered Nigel.

      ‘If you would, sir,’ said the chauffeur.

      ‘Do get in, Marjorie darling,’ murmured Arthur Wilde, who was sitting in the front seat. ‘I’m longing for my tea and bun.’

      His wife and Rosamund Grant climbed into the back of the car, and Rankin sat between them. The two-seater sports car drew up alongside.

      ‘Sorry I’m late,’ shouted Miss Angela North. ‘Who’s for fresh air and the open road and the wind on the heath and what-not?’

      ‘They all sound loathsome to us,’ screamed Mrs Wilde from the Bentley. ‘We are leaving you Charles’s cousin.’ She opened her eyes very pointedly at Nigel. ‘He’s a fine, clean-limbed young Britisher. Just your style, Angela.’ The Bentley shot away down the lane.

      Feeling incapable of the correct sort of facetiousness, Nigel turned to Angela North and uttered some inadequate commonplace about their having met before.

      ‘Of course we did,’ she said. ‘I thought you very nice. Get in rather quickly, and let’s catch them up.’

      He climbed in beside her, and almost immediately had his breath snatched away by Miss North’s extremely progressive ideas on acceleration.

      ‘This is your first visit to Frantock,’ she observed, as they skidded dexterously round a muddy bend in the lane. ‘I hope you like it. We all think Uncle Hubert’s parties great fun…I don’t know why, quite. Nothing much happens at them. Everybody comes all over childish as a rule, and silly games are played amidst loud cheers and much laughter from those present. It’s going to be Murders this time. There they are!’

      She caused the horn to give birth to a continuous belching roar, mended their speed by about fifteen or twenty miles an hour, and passed the Bentley as it were in a dream.

      ‘Have you ever played Murders?’ she asked.

      ‘No, nor yet suicides, but I’m learning,’ said Nigel politely.

      Angela laughed uproariously. (‘She laughs like a small boy,’ thought Nigel.) ‘Feeling flustered?’ she shouted. ‘I’m a careful driver, really.’ She turned almost completely round in her seat to wave to the receding Bentley.

      ‘Soon be over now,’ she added.

      ‘I expect so,’ breathed Nigel.

      The wrought-iron posterns of a gate flashed past them, and they dived into the rushing greyness of a wood.

      ‘This wood’s rather pleasant in the summer,’ remarked Miss North.

      ‘It looks lovely now,’ Nigel murmured, closing his eyes as they made for a narrow bridge.

      A few moments later they swung into a wide curve of gravelled drive and stopped with dramatic brevity in front of a delightful old brick house.

      Nigel extracted himself thankfully from the car and followed his hostess indoors.

      He found himself in a really beautiful hall, dim with the smoky greyness of old oak and cheerful with the dancing comfort of a huge open fire. From the ceiling an enormous chandelier caught up the light of the flames and flickered and glowed with a strange intensity. Half drowned in the twilight that was already filling the old house, a broad staircase rose indefinitely at the far end of the hall. Nigel saw that the walls were hung conventionally with trophies and weapons…the insignia of the orthodox country house. He remembered Charles had told him that Sir Hubert possessed one of the finest collections of archaic weapons in England.

      ‘If you don’t mind giving yourself a drink and getting warm by the fire, I’ll rouse up Uncle Hubert,’ said Angela. ‘Your luggage is in the other car, of course. They’ll be here in a moment.’

      She looked squarely at him and smiled.

      ‘I hope I haven’t completely unmanned you…by my driving, I mean.’

      ‘You have…but not by your driving,’ Nigel was astonished to hear himself reply.

      ‘Was that gallantry? It sounded like Charles.’

      Somehow he gathered that to sound like Charles was a mistake.

      ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy,’ said Angela. ‘There are the drinks.’ She waved towards an array of glasses and disappeared into the shadows.

      Nigel mixed a whisky-and-soda and wandered to the stairs. Here he saw hanging a long strip of leather, slotted to hold a venomous company of twisted blades and tortuously wrought hafts. Nigel had stretched out his hand towards a wriggling Malay kriss, when a sudden flood of light blazed across the steel and caused him to turn abruptly. A door on his right and opened. Silhouetted against the brilliance of the room beyond was a motionless figure.

      ‘Excuse me,’ said an extremely deep voice, ‘we have not met, I believe. Allow me to make an introduction of myself. Doctor Foma Tokareff. You are interested in Oriental weapons?’

      Nigel had given a very noticeable start at this unexpected interruption. He recovered himself and stepped forward to meet the smiling Russian, who advanced with his hand outstretched. The young journalist closed his fist on a bunch of thin fingers that lay inert for a second and then suddenly tightened in a wiry grip. Inexplicably he felt gauche and out of place.

      ‘I beg your pardon…how do you do? No…well, yes, interested, but I’m afraid very ill-informed,’ stammered Nigel.

      ‘Ah!’ ejaculated Doctor Tokareff deeply. ‘You will by compulsion learn somesing of the weapons (he pronounced it ‘ooe-ponz’) of the ancients if you stay here. Sir Hubert is a great authority and an enthusiastic collector.’

      He spoke with extreme formality, and his phrases with their curiously stressed inflexions sounded pedantic and unreal. Nigel murmured something about being very ignorant, he was afraid, and was relieved to hear the hoot of the Bentley.

      Angela came running back out of the shadows; simultaneously a butler appeared, and in a moment the hall was clamorous with the arrival of the rest of the party. A cheerful voice sounded from the head of the stairs, and Sir Hubert Handesley came down to welcome his guests.

      Perhaps the secret of the success of the Frantock parties lay entirely in the charm of the host. Handesley was a singularly attractive man. Rosamund Grant once said that it wasn’t fair for one individual to have so many good things. He was tall, and although over fifty years of age had retained an athlete’s figure. His hair, dead white, had not suffered the indignity of middle age, but lay, thick and sleek, on his finely shaped head. His eyes were a peculiarly vivid blue, and deep-set under heavily marked brows, his lips firm and strongly compressed at the corners: altogether an almost too handsome man. His brain was of the same stereotyped quality as his looks. An able diplomat before the war, and after it a Cabinet Minister of rather orthodox brilliance, he still found time to write valuable monographs on the subject of his ruling passion—the fighting tools of the older civilizations—and to indulge his favourite hobby—he had almost made it a science—of organizing amusing house-parties.

      It was characteristic of him that after a general greeting he should concentrate on Nigel, the least of his guests.

      ‘I’m so glad you’ve been able to come, Bathgate,’ he said. ‘Angela tells me she fetched you from the station. Ghastly experience, isn’t it? Charles should have warned you.’

      ‘My dear, he was too intrepid,’ shouted Mrs Wilde. ‘Angela took and threw him into her squalid little tumbril, and he flashed past us with set green lips and eyes that had gazed upon stark death. Charles is so proud of his relative…aren’t you, Charles?’

      ‘He’s a pukka sahib,’ agreed Rankin solemnly.

      ‘Are we really going to play the Murder Game?’ asked Rosamund Grant. ‘Angela ought to win it.’

      ‘We are going to play A Murder Game…a special brand of

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