Sir Angus McCurdie, the hard, metallic apostle of radio-activity, glanced for a moment out of the window at the grey, frost-bitten fields. Then he said: "I'm a widower. My wife died many years ago and, thank God, we had no children. I generally spend Christmas alone." He looked out of the window again. Professor Biggleswade suddenly remembered the popular story of the great scientist's antecedents, and reflected that as McCurdie had once run, a barefoot urchin, through the Glasgow mud, he was likely to have little kith or kin. He himself envied McCurdie. He was always praying to be delivered from his sisters and nephews and nieces, whose embarrassing demands no calculated coldness could repress. "Children are the root of all evil," said he. "Happy the man who has his quiver empty." Sir Angus McCurdie did not reply at once; when he spoke again it was with reference to their prospective host. "I met Deverill," said he, "at the Royal Society's Soirée this year. One of my assistants was demonstrating a peculiar property of thorium and Deverill seemed interested. I asked him to come to my laboratory the next day, and found he didn't know a damned thing about anything. That's all the acquaintance I have with him." Lord Doyne, the great administrator, who had been wearily turning over the pages of an illustrated weekly chiefly filled with flamboyant photographs of obscure actresses, took his gold glasses from his nose and the black cigar from his lips, and addressed his companions. "I've been considerably interested in your conversation," said he, "and as you've been frank, I'll be frank too. I knew Mrs. Deverill's mother, Lady Carstairs, very well years ago, and of course Mrs. Deverill when she was a child. Deverill I came across once in Egypt--he had been sent on a diplomatic mission to Teheran. As for our being invited on such slight acquaintance, little Mrs. Deverill has the reputation of being the only really successful celebrity hunter in England. She inherited the faculty from her mother, who entertained the whole world. We're sure to find archbishops, and eminent actors, and illustrious divorcées asked to meet us. That's one thing. But why I, who loathe country house parties and children and Christmas as much as Biggleswade, am going down there to-day, I can no more explain than you can. It's a devilish odd coincidence." The three men looked at one another. Suddenly McCurdie shivered and drew his fur coat around him. "I'll thank you," said he, "to shut that window." "It is shut," said Doyne. "It's just uncanny," said McCurdie, looking from one to the other. "What?" asked Doyne. "Nothing, if you didn't feel it." "There did seem to be a sudden draught," said Professor Biggleswade. "But as both window and door are shut, it could only be imaginary." "It wasn't imaginary," muttered McCurdie. Then he laughed harshly. "My father and mother came from Cromarty," he said with apparent irrelevance.