Nerina explained, and together they inspected the suffering occupants of the kennels. No need to tell—it was abundantly evident on the floor of their well-kept abodes—what was the matter with them. But was it a symptom or a cause?

‘I’m sure you’ve done right,’ the vet said. ‘It’s one of those unexplained epidemics that dogs, even more than human beings, are liable to. But you might also give them these,’ and he brought out from his bag a bottle of pills. He frowned. ‘One never knows, in this kind of thing, if it’s better to let Nature take its course. Don’t hesitate to call me if they aren’t improving. I hope that by tomorrow all the swans in England will be dead.’

He waved and drove away.

Having administered his pills to the afflicted animals, some of whom were willing to swallow them and some not, Nerina went back to her library sitting-room, and sat down to answer some letters that had been too long unanswered.

It was now eleven o’clock; the traditional hour of respite and relaxation. She might well have felt tired but she didn’t, for work was more of a stimulus to her than leisure, or pleasure.

Presently, while her fingers were still busy on the writing-paper, a daily help came in with a tray, on which was some of the household silver, that was cleaned once a week.

‘May I have your clock, Miss Nerina?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Nerina, nodding towards the chimney-piece where it stood, and the clock went away with the salt-cellars, pepper-pots, spoons and the rest of the silver-ware which Nerina, who was not much interested in such matters, thought it necessary to keep bright and shining.

The clock—the little, silver travelling-clock, had been a present, and she was fond of it. It was engraved, on the margin, ‘For Nerina, from a friend.’ It didn’t say who the friend was, which made Nerina all the more aware of who it was.

She went on writing, always with an ear for sounds from the kennels, and didn’t notice the passing of time, until she was suddenly startled by the pealing of the front-door bell, which, clanging in the kitchen, also resounded through the house.

Was there anyone to answer it, apart from the cook, who never answered the door if she could help it? Yes, there was Hilda, the silver-polisher, who didn’t leave till after lunch.

Nerina settled down to her correspondence, but was disturbed by another, louder peal.

‘Oh dear, must I go?’ she asked herself, for she was more tired than she knew.

A third peal, and then silence, silence for what seemed quite a long time.

Nerina was licking the last envelope, and preparing to go out to see how the dogs were getting on, when Hilda came in.

‘Excuse me, Miss Nerina,’ she said, ‘but something has happened.’

‘Oh, what?’ asked Nerina. She was not specially observant, and was obsessed by the thought of what might be happening in the kennels, but she saw that Hilda had a white face.

‘It’s the clock, Miss Nerina, your little clock.’

‘What about it?’

‘It’s disappeared.’

Nerina got up from her desk. How many times, during the day, had her thoughts been violently switched from one subject to another.

‘Disappeared?’

‘Yes, Miss Nerina, I had it on the tray, ready to clean, and the doorbell rang, twice, no three times, when I was having my elevenses, and a boy was at the front door with a parcel. I told him where to put the parcel—groceries or something—in the pantry, and went back to the kitchen, to finish my cup of tea, and when I went back to the pantry, it was gone.’

‘The clock, you mean?’

‘Yes, Miss Nerina. None of us would have taken it, as you well know.’ Nerina did know. For a few minutes the loss of the clock, that symbol of an ancient friendship, which had faithfully told her the time of day in many places, and for many years, brought tears to her eyes.

‘Never mind, Hilda,’ she said, ‘We shall get over it. Worse things happen at sea,’ and she went out to look at the dogs, who were ill—which the clock, whatever might have been its fate, was not.

The next morning the dogs were clearly on the mend. Nerina and the kennel-maid, who was now recovered, between them cleaned out the grosser relics of the dogs’ indisposition. Nerina was not usually time-conscious, but when she went back, after washing, to her sitting-room—a spy-hole on the dogs—the clock wasn’t there, and the claims of human, as distinct from canine friendship, began to assert themselves.

When she had looked round for the tenth time, to see what hour it was, Hilda appeared.

‘There’s a young gentleman to see you, Miss Nerina.’

‘A young gentleman? Who is he?’

‘I couldn’t catch his name, Miss Nerina. He speaks that rough.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In the hall, the outer hall. I didn’t want him to come any nearer, because I think he’s the same young man as came in yesterday, when you lost your clock.’

Nerina got up and went through another room into the hall.

There was a young man, who looked so like the other members of the group of youths who had (so to speak) dogged her footsteps yesterday, that she couldn’t tell whether he was one of them or not.

‘What do you want?’ she asked him, rather curtly.

‘It’s like this, madam,’ he said, and produced from his pocket her little silver clock. ‘I found this on the drive leading to your house, and as it has your name on it, and your birthday,’ he added, giving it another look, ‘I thought you might value it, so I brought it back.’

She took the clock from his outstretched palm, which remained outstretched, as though for a reward; and slightly shook her head.

‘I’m glad you brought it back,’ she said. ‘It makes things better for everyone, doesn’t it?’

He didn’t answer, and at once took his leave.

FALL IN AT THE DOUBLE

Philip Osgood had bought his house in the West Country soon after the Second World War, in the year 1946 to be exact. It had the great merit, for him, of being on the river—a usually slow-flowing stream, but deep, and liable to sudden sensational rises in height, eight feet in as many hours, which flooded the garden but could not reach the house. The house was fairly large, mainly Regency, with earlier and later additions; it had encountered the floods of many years without being washed away; so when he saw the water invading the garden, submerging the garden wall and even overflowing the lawn (on which swans sometimes floated), he didn’t feel unduly worried, for the house stood on a hillock which was outside flood-range.

Philip had always liked the house, chiefly because of its situation, its long view over the meadows, and because it had, in one corner of the garden, a boat-house, and rowing was his favourite pastime. He sometimes asked his visitors, who were not many (for who can entertain guests nowadays?) to go out with him in the boat, a cockly affair, known technically as a ‘sculling gig’, with a sliding seat. It could take one passenger, but this passenger had to sit absolutely still—not a foot this way or that, hardly a headshake—or the boat would tip over.

Moreover, besides its natural instability, it took in water at an alarming rate, so that the passenger—he or she—found himself ankle-deep in water, though doing his best to look as if he were enjoying it. The landscape through which the river ambled, or flowed, or hastened, was perfectly beautiful, and this was Philip’s excuse (besides mere selfishness) for beguiling his friends into the boat.

The day came when this treacherous vessel (happily with no other occupant in it) overturned, and Philip found himself in the water. Being a practised, though not a good swimmer, he was not unduly disturbed. Although it was March and the water was cold—and he was wearing his leather jacket and the rest of his polar outfit—he thought: ‘I will get hold of the boat and tow it back to the boat-house.’