It happened in this way. Francis had had to make a quick trip to America on business connected with some property of his American wife, and Desmond had gone down in his car to meet his brother at Southampton. Storms in the Atlantic had delayed the arrival of the liner, and after they had cleared the baggage through the customs, it was close on midnight before they took the road to drive to Desmond’s bungalow in Surrey. Yet, belated as they were, Francis was quite unable to prevail upon his brother to exceed a modest twenty miles an hour, which, as they dropped down a deep slope into the sunken road that led past the front gate of Desmond’s bungalow, fell to somewhere about ten. Before them the road, like a profound black trench, wound its way down into the dark night. The bright headlights of the car showed the high hedges on either side and, above them, the tall trees that bordered the road swaying and tossing with the violence of the storm. The driving-glass was a blur of wet; the side curtains flapped and banged and strained to the fury of the gale, and again and again a smother of icy rain beat on the face of Desmond at the wheel and of his brother at his side. “Push her along, Des., for the love o’ Mike!” urged Francis for about the sixth time that night. “This is worse than the Atlantic. And I want to go to bed.” “Awkward bit of road, this,” was Desmond’s answer as, heedless of his brother’s remarks, he changed down to second. “But, good Lord, what are you going to meet at three o’clock in the morning? Open her up and let’s get home!” “We haven’t far to go now,” Desmond replied shortly, and so, without further speech, they came at length to their destination. At the front door Desmond handed his brother the latchkey and took the car round to the back of the house. Francis crossed the wide hall and went into the dining-room, where a pleasant fire glowed redly on the silver and crockery that decked the table. Without waiting to remove his heavy ulster, Francis Okewood switched on the lights and, going to the sideboard, mixed two stiff whiskey-and-sodas. He still had his hand on the siphon when there came an exclamation from the door, and the room was plunged into darkness. “Here . . .” he began in expostulation. There was a click at the window, followed by a grinding noise. Then the lights went up again. Desmond, a curiously tense expression on his face, stood in the doorway. “Sorry, old man,” he said awkwardly. “I noticed that the shutter wasn’t closed. We . . . we don’t turn the lights up here as a rule unless the shutter is down . . .”