“I’m Miss Gale,” said Olivia. She noticed an involuntary twitch of surprise, at once suppressed, pass over his face. “And my name’s Olifant. Major Olifant.” She had pictured quite a different would-be intruder, a red-faced, obese, and pushing fellow. Instead, she saw a well-bred, spare man of medium height wearing a stained service Burberry the empty left sleeve of which was pinned in front; a man in his middle thirties, with crisp light brown hair, long, broad forehead characterized by curious bumps over the brows, a very long, straight nose and attractive dark blue eyes which keenly and smilingly held hers without touch of offence. “I’ve decided not to let the house,” said Olivia. The smile vanished from his eyes. “I’m sorry,” said he stiffly. “I was given to understand——” “Yes, I know,” she said quickly. Her conscience getting hold of the missing arm smote her. “Where have you come from?” “Oxford.” She gasped. “Why, that’s a hundred miles!” “Ninety-four.” “But you must be perishing with cold,” she cried. “Do come in and get warm, at any rate. Perhaps I can explain. And your man, too.” She pointed. “Round that way you’ll find a garage. I’ll send the maid. Please come in, Major Olifant. Oh—but you must!” She entered the house, leaving him no option but to follow. To divest himself of his Burberry he made curious writhing movements with his shoulders, and swerved aside politely when she offered assistance. “Please don’t worry. I’m all right. I’ve all kinds of little stunts of my own invention.” And, as he said it, he got clear and threw the mackintosh on the oak chest. He rubbed the knuckle of his right hand against the side of his rough tweed jacket. “Just five minutes to get warm and I won’t trespass further on your hospitality.” She showed him into the drawing-room, thanked goodness there was a showy wood-fire burning, and went out after Myra. “I thought the house wasn’t to be let,” said the latter after receiving many instructions. “The letting of the house has nothing to do with two cold and hungry men who have motored here on a raw November morning for hundreds of miles on false pretences.” She re-entered the drawing-room with a tray bearing whisky decanter, siphon, and glass, which she set on a side table. “I’m alone in the world now, Major Olifant,” she said, “but I’ve lived nearly all my life with men—my father and two brothers——” She felt that the explanation was essential. “Please help yourself.” He met her eyes, which, though defiant, held the menace of tears. He made the vaguest, most delicate of gestures with his right hand—his empty sleeve, the air. She moved an assenting head; then swiftly she grasped the decanter. “Say when.” “Just that.” She squirted the siphon. “So?” “Perfect. A thousand thanks.”