‘I’ve seen it, of course,’ said Mildred. ‘I know the rest of the house much better.’

Voices could be heard in the hall.

‘Well, what I wanted to say,’ said Joanna hastily, ‘before the immigrants break in, was, that in case you should be nervous in that long, rather lonely passage, I’ve put Count Olmütz in the room next yours, to keep you company, so to speak.’

‘Oh,’ said Mildred smiling, ‘then I ought to lock my door?’

‘Oh no,’ said her hostess, apparently shocked. ‘He’s not at all that kind of man. I put him there well, as a sort of background, background music. He doesn’t sing, but I’m afraid he might snore.’

‘I remember the passage,’ said Mildred, drawing her wrap round her, for the house, like many country houses, wasn’t overwarm. ‘You never asked me to do it up—perhaps you didn’t want it done up?’

‘Oh, I think it must look after itself,’ said Joanna carelessly. ‘A house is a hungry beast, and the more its appetite can be kept at bay the better. But there was something I wanted to say to you—can you remember what it was?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Oh, now it comes back to me. This old friend of mine, Count Olmütz, is—what shall I say?—a man of irregular habits. Now, don’t look alarmed, Mildred—not irregular in that sense, or I shouldn’t dream of putting him within . . . within striking distance of you. No; I mean he’s irregular in relation to the time-factor. I never quite know when he is coming, and I don’t think he knows himself.’ She heard a sound and looked round. ‘Could that be a car driving up? Well, it might be him, coming back from one of his errands, his missions as he calls them. I hope he will be here for dinner because he’s so amusing and will make our numbers even, but if he isn’t, tant pis! He drives himself and may arrive at any time. We have that arrangement—c’est entendu—and the front door is always left open for him.’

‘What, always, every night?’ asked Mildred. ‘Aren’t you afraid of burglars?’

‘Oh no, just at weekends, when he’s able to get away. But he never knows when he can, and sometimes he arrives in the small hours. He’s not in the least like a burglar. But if you happen to hear a noise in the night it will just be him, turning in, so to speak.’

Mildred thought this over.

‘By turning in, you mean—’

‘Oh, just dossing down for the night.’

‘But won’t he be rather disappointed,’ asked Mildred, faintly malicious and slightly apprehensive, ‘to find himself relegated, exiled to the eastern side? I mean,’ she said boldly, for in these days one could say anything, ‘wouldn’t he rather be nearer you than act as the preux chevalier of an unknown female, in a remote quarter of the house?’

‘No,’ said her hostess, ‘decidedly not. There are a good many reasons why not. I needn’t go into them, but I can assure you that for everyone concerned, for everyone concerned,’ she repeated firmly, ‘it is the best arrangement. Listen,’ she added suddenly, ‘didn’t you hear something?’

‘You asked me that before,’ said Mildred. ‘There are so many sounds.’

At that moment the door opened and the butler said,

‘Mr. and Mrs. Matewell, Madam,’

Joanna hastened towards them.

‘Oh, darlings, I hope you didn’t have too bad a journey?’

‘Oh not bad at all,’ said Mr. Matewell, a burly figure with a roundish squarish head to match, and dark hair growing sparser. ‘Not bad at all except for a slight incident on the M4 which I’ll tell you about.’

‘Thank goodness it was no worse,’ said Joanna, fatuously. ‘Now here is Mildred, you all know each other.’

‘Of course, of course. The maker of the home beautiful!’ Mildred smiled at this pleasantry as best she could.

‘And before we have drinks,’ said Joanna, ‘which I’m sure you must both be pining for’—and she led them towards the drink-tray—’shall I tell you who else is coming?’

‘Please do!’

‘The MacArthurs, that makes us six, Peter Pearson, such an invaluable man, seven, and . . . and—’

‘Who is the eighth?’ asked Mrs. Matewell, noting her hostess’s hesitation.

‘Oh, an old and great friend of mine, Count Olmütz. I don’t think you know him.’

‘No, but we’ve heard of him, haven’t we, George?’ said Mrs. Matewell, appealing to her husband, who seemed slightly at a loss. ‘And we’re longing to meet him, aren’t we? He sounds such a romantic character. Didn’t he own the house before you had it, Joanna?’

‘No, he didn’t own it,’ said Joanna, shaking her head vigorously, ‘he didn’t own it, but he had something to do with it, I don’t quite know what. I’ve sometimes asked him, but he’s rather reticent. He may be here any minute and then perhaps he’ll tell us. Ah, that may be him.’

It turned out, however, to be the MacArthurs, with the invaluable Peter Pearson. ‘Weren’t we lucky?’ Mrs. MacArthur said. ‘Peter phoned us this afternoon and asked us if we were coming to you. I don’t know now he guessed, but Peter knows everything.’ Peter looked somewhat abashed but Mrs. MacArthur said ‘We were only too glad to give Peter a lift.’

They settled down to their drinks and Peter turned out to be the life and soul of the party. ‘I wish I could be two men,’ he said, ‘instead of half a man (this shameless admission only evoked a giggle), ‘because you’re expecting another man, aren’t you, Joanna, a real tough man.’ He shuddered, albeit selfconsciously.

‘I don’t think we’ll wait for Franz,’ said Joanna. ‘He’s so unpredictable.’ She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. ‘Don’t change unless you want to, but let’s have our baths—if we want to. Dinner about eight.’

Dinner was a pleasant meal and no one worried unduly about the absent Franz—indeed, none of them except Joanna knew who he was. They had only heard tell of him, and if Joanna worried about him she didn’t show it. Once, when his name came up, ‘He’s a law unto himself,’ she said. About eleven o’clock they all retired for the night. ‘You know your way?’ said Joanna to Mildred.

‘Oh yes, it’s along the main passage, and then to the left.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Joanna. ‘Your name’s on the door—I keep that old-fashioned custom—but you might not see it in this poor light. I hope your room won’t be too uncomfortable—the bathroom is just opposite.’

They stopped where a sort of visiting card stuck to the door, ‘Miss Mildred Fanshawe’, made clear whose bedroom it was. ‘And Franz is next to you,’ she added, indicating his name-card, ‘Count Olmütz’. ‘Don’t worry if you hear noises in the night. He sometimes comes in late. I’ll leave the light on in the passage to guide him on his way—if it’s turned out, you’ll know he’s arrived. Here is the switch if you want it, but I hope you won’t. Goodnight.’ and Mildred found herself alone in her bedroom.

It was a comfortable room, with a wash-basin and mid-Victorian water-colours on the walls, but to Mildred’s expert eye it sadly needed doing up—it was ‘tatty’. Suddenly she had an almost irresistible impulse to look at the room of Count Olmütz, her next-door neighbour.

She would know if he had materialized because if he had, the passage would be in darkness. But would it be? Might he not have forgotten to turn the light off? So unpredictable. . . . Just one little peep behind the scenes . . .

But not now. It could wait. She must get ready for bed, a long ritual which included a bath. She always took a bath last thing, because it was said to be good for insomnia, and she had her face to do up. All this made bedtime a moment of crisis, a culmination of instead of a calm from the day’s worries, which good sleepers have never known.

When she opened her door the darkness was almost blinding. She switched on the passage light and saw, outside her stablemate’s door, a pair of large muddy suede shoes. So the Count had arrived and she must restrain her curiosity. In English houses, thought Mildred, visitors don’t leave their shoes outside the door, as they do in hotels—it’s a sort of nuance that a foreigner might not know. The shoes were so muddy they needed cleaning, and no doubt the butler—the temporary butler—would see to that.