"And at what time is young Mr. Barcroft expected?" he asked in a tone that implied mild curiosity, as he stepped over the threshold. "I'm not for sayin' for certain. Master had a telegram. You'll not be wantin' anythin', sir?" Norton shook his head. Accompanied by the two dogs he entered the study and switched on the lights. As he did so he heard the door slam and Mrs. Carter's retreating footsteps on the hard path. He knew how to make himself at home during his friend's absence. He was one of those men who have the happy knack of forming quick friendships, and the somewhat easy-going Peter was a good subject in that respect. Andrew Norton was a man of forty-five, although he looked considerably younger. He was of medium height, full-featured and inclined to stoutness. A keen motorist, he had attracted Barcroft's attention on the very first day of his taking possession of "The Croft," when he was endeavouring to take a large car up the difficult lane beyond Ladybird Fold. Since there was plenty of accommodation in the outbuilding utilised as a garage at Barcroft's house Peter's suggestion that it would be easier for the newcomer to The Croft to keep his car there and thus save a steep and loose ascent was accepted with profuse gratitude. From that moment the friendship ripened. Almost every evening after the literary man's strenuous labours were completed for the day Andrew Norton would drop in for a smoke and a yarn. "Rotten nuisance!" mused the hostless guest as he settled himself in an easy chair. "If only I knew what time he was returning. The uncertainty will probably make a regular mess of present arrangements." It might have been idle curiosity that prompted him to cross over to the desk and examine Peter's uncompleted work; sheer anxiety that led him to the open window to listen intently for the sound of his absent friend's footsteps. Through the uncurtained window three shafts of brilliant light were flung upon the closely-cropped lawn, the limit of the rays being defined by a thick hedge dividing the lawn from the rose-garden. "No signs yet," he muttered, as he glanced at the clock for the twentieth time. "Friend Barcroft's regrettable absence is spoiling my evening. I'll get back to The Croft." He drew the curtains with deliberate care, so that no stray ray of light should escape. Lighting restrictions were lax in that part of Lancashire, as the twinkling glimmers from the houses in the valley testified; for in the district where he had previously lived for two years there were drastic observances on that score, and now the habit of conforming to the requirements of the authorities was not lightly to be dropped.