“Champagne is indicated,” said Antony; and that indication led us to the dining-room--a long, oak-panelled room at the back of the house. The curtains were not drawn across the two French windows, which gave out to a lawn sloping carelessly down to the water of Regent’s Park; and in the second in which Antony fumbled for the electric switch the dark shapes of the trees looked like the van of an impenetrable forest. But dark shapes of trees always look more or less like that. “Didn’t you say something about an appointment?” Tarlyon asked vaguely, as Antony ravished the wire off a bottle. “Did I?” He looked up at us from his business, very thoughtfully. “Oh, did I?” “Pop!” said the champagne cork. We drank, and Antony looked at his wrist-watch. “Damn!” he said. “It’s stopped.” “The time being just 11.25,” I helped him. “Thanks,” said Antony, very mild, very thoughtful. “Excuse me a moment, will you?” And he strode across the room to the folding doors which led to Roger’s old library and card-room. He closed the door behind him, but it did not catch, swung open a few inches. No light filled the dark vertical space. “Never known him so polite before,” I muttered. “He’s absent-minded,” said Tarlyon, looking thoughtfully at the dark space. “What I want to know,” he whispered, “is what he’s doing in there in the dark?” “Keeping his appointment,” I suggested facetiously. Tarlyon looked from the door to me. “Poor devil!” he said softly. I thought he was pitying me for my wit, of which I was never very proud. He put down his empty glass, dug his hands into his pockets, and lounged to the folding-doors. I never knew a man who could walk so casually as Tarlyon; you never expected him to get anywhere, but he always got there before you expected him to. He kicked the slightly open door a little wider with the tip of his shoe. I was just behind his shoulder. “Antony!” he called softly. From the light in which we stood the library was a pit of darkness. Nothing moved in the pit. There was no sound. “He’s not there,” I whispered; and I wondered why I whispered. “Can you smell anything?” a hoarse voice suddenly asked from the darkness. Tarlyon lounged into the black room. But somehow, I did not feel called upon to follow. I leant against the door. Deeply set in the darkness I could at last make out the faintly white patch which must be Antony’s shirt-front; and I wondered what tomfoolery he was up to now, asking stupid questions in a startling voice out of a poisonously dark room. I could smell nothing at all, and didn’t expect to. “What kind of a smell?” Tarlyon asked--in a reasonable tone! He stood just within the door, his back to me. “Can you smell _nothing_ at all?” the hoarse, subdued voice asked again. “But, of course, it’s very faint now.” Tarlyon put up his nose and sniffed. I sniffed. More than faint it was, I thought. “Been smoking?” Tarlyon asked, and he sniffed again. “No,” came a whisper.