The village copper was an old friend of Cyril’s and predisposed in his favour. All the same, he conducted his inquiry in an impartial manner. Mr. Snow was summoned, and the daily woman. Mr. Snow said that he had been in the Trimbles’ sitting-room a few times, at their express invitation; he suggested he had never wanted to go. Asked if he had ever moved any of their things, he did not at first answer; then he said temperately, ‘No, why should I? I’ve got my own things to look after.’ The daily help was still more nonchalant. Yes, she had heard of the Trimbles and knew they occupied part of Mr. Hutchinson’s house; when pressed she admitted she had passed the time of day with them, but that was all: she was a woman who kept herself to herself. ‘It’s the only way,’ she added darkly. She didn’t look at the Trimbles while she was speaking; she gave the impression that they were not there. Cyril could not emulate his retainers’ lofty unconcern, but repeated his denials of any sort of interference in the Trimbles’ quarters. He laughed nervously after saying this, it seemed so absurd that the ambiguities of language should again betray him into an impropriety; but the policeman did not notice. Asked if they had missed anything as a result of the interferences, the Trimbles admitted that they hadn’t. The policeman shrugged his shoulders. Could he see the room where the alleged interferences occurred? They trooped down into the sitting-room, which was long, low and oval at the garden end. Furniture had been moved, said Mr. Trimble; this chair, for instance, had been there; and these letters—he pointed to them but didn’t hand them round—had been taken from this drawer and put in that one. Ornaments had been moved and a table-lamp knocked over; but no damage had been done and nothing was missing. In that case, the policeman said, he could take no action; he hoped there would be no recurrence of the interferences; but if anything was stolen or damaged they must let him know.

Nothing was; and after the Trimbles had gone, taking their belongings with them, Mr. Snow gave it as his opinion that the whole thing had been a frame-up on their part, staged to cover the fact that they had found a better job elsewhere, and wanted to break their lease. The other possibility, that Mrs. Trimble had reached an age when women were liable to imagine interferences of various kinds, he discounted; besides, it was the man who brought the matter up. ‘In my opinion, sir, you’re well rid of them,’ he said. ‘I never did hold with having them here—it was different with the Gooches—at least they worked for you. And they never complained of interferences. You may be sure it was a put-up job.’

Cyril wasn’t so sure. He felt he had been too hasty. The question of the interferences was not brought up again. After a period of cutting each other on the stairs, the Trimbles and he resumed relations—distant relations it is true, but such as permitted him to say good-bye to them with some show of goodwill. And he got the impression that they were sorry to go. But the whole episode left a bad taste in his mouth, of which the always unpleasant experience of having to dislike someone you have previously liked was only part.

So the five rooms were left tenantless, swept but not garnished. Cyril occasionally inspected them. A sort of compulsion, tingling with expectancy and dread, drew him towards them. Their very emptiness contained a sort of personality; he was aware of it the moment he unlocked the door: he felt he ought to apologize for intruding. The habit grew on him; the day seemed incomplete unless he had paid the rooms a visit. Sometimes he put this off until the evening when the summer twilight softened the impact of the glare from the bright curtainless windows on bare walls and uncarpeted floors; sometimes he left the inspection until bedtime, when he had to use a torch, for the Trimbles had taken with them all the detachable electric bulbs. Sneaking about on tiptoe he felt he was up to no good; passers-by, seeing the light flash from his torch, might think mischief was afoot and report it. The Dong with the Luminous Nose! But no, they wouldn’t, for there were no passers-by: that side of the house was bounded by the river and the trees that bordered it: even the policeman couldn’t see him. As time went on, one daily or nightly visit did not seem enough: he felt he must repeat his tour of inspection and maybe repeat it more than once, perhaps in his pyjamas, in case some aspect of the emptiness had escaped him. At such times he felt a heightened sense of being, as if he was in communication with something, and he would come away sweating and exhausted, as though from some nameless spiritual effort.

One day Mr. Snow said to him, “Why don’t you let me look round those empty rooms, sir, instead of you? I can do it last thing, when I lock up.’ Cyril was startled: he had no idea that Mr. Snow had caught him at his little games. He thought quickly. Might this be a way out of his obsession—for such he recognized it to be? Would his subconscious mind, that throve on sacrifice, accept Mr. Snow’s sacrifice of time and trouble as a substitute for his? At least let him try. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that would be very kind of you, Mr. Snow. And would you come and tell me before you go to bed that everything’s in order?’

Soon after eleven o’clock a knock came at his study door, and after the interval that elapsed before anyone entering the room could circumvent the screen that shielded his armchair from draughts, or other forms of surprise, the gardener stood before him. ‘I have to report, sir, that all is present and correct,’ he said, reminding Cyril that he had served in the army in the First World War—and with a little salute he was gone, almost before Cyril had had time to thank him.

Cyril struggled with himself, or rather with the part of him, the inward trouble-maker, that was so intent on upsetting his peace of mind. Was this the solution? How could he be sure that Mr. Snow had seen—all there was to see? Would he feel obliged to check up on the gardener’s nocturnal investigations, which would almost certainly have been less thorough than his own? Would Mr. Snow have known exactly what to look for? The fact that Cyril himself did not know made the question no less urgent. And there was another question-ought he to let Mr. Snow take the risk?

His mind’s unconscious use of italics brought Cyril to the verge of realizing how absurd was his neurotic dilemma—a realization which had before now exorcized his sick fancies. It was all too silly! Of course there was no risk. Mr. Snow might be a year or two nearer seventy than he, Cyril, was; but he was hale and hearty, a match for any tenant, any imaginary tenant he might encounter in those empty rooms. Besides, he had volunteered for this night-service; Cyril hadn’t asked him to take it on.

Gradually the urgent sense of something left undone that would haunt his sleepless hours—perhaps make them sleepless—faded, and on that night, and for many subsequent nights, Cyril went to bed without misgivings. ‘All present and correct!’ What was present? It didn’t matter, if what was present was correct.

Rarely did Cyril feel sleepy after dinner, but sometimes he did, and this was one of those times. It didn’t mean he would sleep well at night, rather the opposite, so he tried to fight it off. Do what he would his head kept nodding and if he let it loll on the chair-back a host of scenes and impressions, unrelated to each other or to his present situation, flooded into it. Once or twice Mr. Snow, returning from his nightly round, had found him asleep, a thing Cyril much disliked—he hated being taken at a disadvantage, with an unprepared expression on his face that might reveal who knew what about his private thoughts. And this danger was real and imminent for eleven o’clock was drawing on; at any moment now he might expect the knock that heralded Mr. Snow’s appearance.