“And to-night I’m actually dragging you off to play bridge at Whistlefield, eh? Well, the invitation didn’t originate with me. It came from Miss Hawkhurst. I admit that I angled for it in a somewhat unprincipled way—gave her to understand that the company of a sour old bachelor was getting on my nerves here, that I’d welcome a little bright feminine society, and that the society of herself and Miss Forrest had just the very kind of brightness that the case needed.” “She must have felt flattered!” Wendover commented ironically. “Oh, of course it was put in my most delicate vein.” Then Sir Clinton became suddenly serious. “I’m not very happy in mind about things, Squire; and I want to get a footing in that house apart from purely professional visits. Hence the angling. Otherwise, the thing would be in the worst of taste, I quite admit.” Wendover pricked up his ears. “Are you expecting more trouble even now? Nothing’s happened. . . .” “Since the last time? No, it’s rather a curious point which you may have noticed, Squire. Nothing ever does happen between the last time and the next time. That I should say was an almost invariable rule in life.” “You evidently lost the chance of a good job when the Sibyls went out of business,” said Wendover in a disappointed tone. “You could have written up their books for them in the very best style. You’re a past master in the art of seeming to say something important and really saying nothing whatever.” “It often comes in useful,” said Sir Clinton. “But why say anything at all? It seems just about the time when we ought to be starting for Whistlefield. Suppose we take the hint.” He refused to discuss the Whistlefield case during the drive across, or even to give Wendover an inkling of why he wished to get a footing in the house at all. The Squire was not quite satisfied. To him, it appeared rather like a breach of hospitality for them to go there with anything in their minds beyond the game for which they had been invited. He disliked the idea of Sir Clinton Driffield introducing his _alter ego_ the Chief Constable into a neighbour’s house by this indirect method. When they arrived they found only four of the Whistlefield party awaiting them. Arthur Hawkhurst was busy with the loud-speaker, from which he was evoking weird oscillation-notes in the course of his endeavours to pick up different stations. Ernest Shandon was sitting drowsily in a corner of the room; and Wendover noticed with distaste that he had a spirit decanter and syphon on a table beside him. As the Chief Constable and Wendover were announced, Sylvia came forward. “So glad you’ve come, Sir Clinton. We’re looking forward to some decent bridge. . . .” A weird howl from the loud-speaker drowned the remainder of her words. Ernest lifted himself from his chair with an effort and approached them.