It was seldom that Sir William partook of a solitary meal. He was fond of society, and kept open house for all who cared to visit him. He had rented some shooting, and though the fishing in the river was not good, it at least was fishing. The tennis courts were always in perfect condition, and there was a sporting golf course at the neighbouring town of Halford. But it spoke well for Sir William that, of all his acquaintances, those whom he liked best to welcome were his old, somewhat unpolished business friends from the north, by few of whom these pursuits were properly appreciated. In this he had the full sympathy of his wife, a stout, placid lady of uncertain age, who ruled over his household with leisurely, easy-going sway. Enid Ponson, their only daughter, a young woman of some thirty summers, was a favourite everywhere. Not exactly beautiful, she was yet good to look at, with her pale complexion, dark eyes, and winning smile. But it was her wonderful charm that endeared her to those with whom she came in contact, as well as the sweetness and kindliness of her disposition. That she was unmarried was only explained by the fact that the man to whom she had been engaged had been killed during the Great War. Enid and her father were close comrades and allies. She adored him, while Sir William’s chief thought was centred in his daughter, upon whom he thought the sun rose and set. When the family were alone it was Sir William’s custom after dinner to join his wife and Enid in the music room, where for hours the latter would sing and play, while her father smoked cigar after cigar, and the elder woman placidly knitted or crocheted. But tonight, being entirely alone, he retired at once from the table to his library, where he would sit, reading and smoking, till about ten or later he would ring for Parkes, the butler, to bring him his nightly tumbler of hot punch. But ten came, and half past ten, and eleven, and there was no ring. ‘Boss is late tonight, Mr Parkes,’ said Innes, Sir William’s valet, as he and the butler sat in the latter’s room over a bottle of Sir William’s old port, and a couple of Sir William’s three and sixpenny cigars. ‘Sir William _is_ behind his usual hour,’ admitted the butler in a slightly chilly tone. Innes had followed his master from the north and was, as Mr Parkes put it, ‘well in’ with him. The butler therefore thought it politic to be ‘well in’ with Innes, and was usually affable in a condescending way. But the latter’s habit of speaking of Sir William as ‘the boss,’ grated on Parkes’s sensitive ears. The two chatted amicably enough, and under the influence of wine and tobacco time passed unnoticed until once again the clock struck. ‘That’s half-past eleven,’ said Parkes. ‘I have never known Sir William so late before. He is usually in bed by now.’