He had seen nobody and heard nothing. Feeling like a man in a dream, he had walked out through the doors on to a flagged terrace.

The place was enormous. A rambling two-storied house covered with creeper; stables and coach-houses; a servants' wing with kitchen gardens attached; rose gardens, sunken gardens, topiaries. Beyond one lawn fringed with cedar trees he came to a sweep of parkland. At the far side of this was a high wall marking the boundary of the property. And about ten yards inside the wall was a six-foot wire fence beaded here and there with green glass insulators.

Between the fence and the wall the ground had been cleared and two giant dogs—Doberman Pinschers, Solo thought—halted their promenade to stare coldly at him with huge yellow eyes.

Nearer to the electrified fence, he had come abruptly upon a man in a sharp brown suit and pointed shoes leaning against the bole of a tree. There was a matchstick between his teeth and cradled negligently in his arms was the unmistakable outline of a Belgian FN machine pistol.

"Good afternoon," the agent said. "My name is Solo. I appear to be your prisoner. Could I perhaps know why?"

The gunman shifted the weapon to a more comfortable position in the crook of his right arm, removed the match with his other hand, and spat. He neither looked at Solo nor replied to his question.

The man from U.N.C.L.E. tried again. "Look," he said "Obviously I'm not going to try and make a break for it—not with a fence that's electrified, killer dogs on patrol, and a professional torpedo about a foot away! You lose nothing by just talking... or if you won't talk, maybe you could tell me when will somebody show up who can talk?"

The expressionless eyes had swept incuriously over him, but again the guard said nothing and finally had resumed the contemplation of the middle distance that Solo had interrupted. The agent had shrugged and turned back towards the house. Making a wide circle round the place, he had caught sight of several pairs of dogs between the fence and the wall. Also, he had come across three other men similarly armed. But they would not talk either.

Now, upstairs in the bedroom again, he pondered the situation. He had been kidnapped in a quick and exceedingly well-planned raid. He had been brought to this place—and obviously whoever had arranged the visit meant to keep him there. For he was under no illusions that despite the unlocked bedroom door, the lack of direct surveillance, the relaxed atmosphere of monied ease which pervaded the property, any attempt to escape would mean his death as surely as if he had stepped into a bath holding an electric fire. The dogs, the fence, the gunmen, all proved that; despite the fact that he was apparently free to come and go as he pleased within the grounds. And they proved, too, that whoever arranged this was a very big-time operator indeed....

The only thing was why should such a person want him here? No doubt he would find out soon enough, when the crunch came. For this was a prison even though it had no bars. In the meantime—where was the place?

Once more he looked out of the window. The sun was sinking. Beyond the wall, lush, silvery meadows stretched into a distance barred at intervals with ranked hedgerows and trees. Here and there in the hollows, he could see patches of osiers, and there were two farms, groups of long, low buildings in mellow, rose-colored brick surrounded by poplars. Far away, a range of hills smudged an uneven line against the pale sky.

It was a scene familiar and yet somehow entirely alien.

Where could they have brought him? Solo thought again. Presumably, if they had really flown, it must be some distance from New York. Could it be Vermont? Southern Ohio? Wisconsin?

He shook his head. It could have been, but somehow he was sure it wasn't. Yet it was certainly not a landscape from the West Coast or even the South. He gazed out over the pastoral scene yet again, seeking some clue among the trees which drowsed in the approaching dusk.

"Do you prefer places to people, Mr. Solo?" a voice asked softly behind him.

Solo swung round. The girl was leaning against the wall just inside the bedroom door. She was wearing jodhpurs and a blazing yellow shirt. Beneath jet black hair, the even tan of her face glowed against the crimson damask. Her lips were full and sensuous, and the figure swelling from below the open neck of her shirt was as ripe as a cherry.

The agent smiled. "I'm afraid you have the advantage of me," he said.

"Eriksson, Lala Eriksson," the girl replied. "I hope you are comfortable. Please consider yourself perfectly free to come and go as you like within the house and grounds—though perhaps I should say there are... reasons... why a perfect guest should not decide to stray beyond the boundaries of his host's—er—hospitality."

"I have seen the dogs and the fence and the professional killers."

"So. You have already been out. Good. You will perhaps then—"

"What I want to know is why I'm here," Solo interrupted brusquely.

Lala Eriksson was carrying a plaited leather riding crop. She tapped it impatiently against the whipcord curve of her calf.

"All in good time, Mr. Solo," she said. "All in good time. In the meantime, I am sure you must agree that your confinement is hardly... oppressive. So far as motives and reasons go, no doubt Mr. Carlsen will enlighten you in due course."

"Mr. Carlsen?"

"Your host. He will be back later. Unfortunately, he had to go into the city ."

"What city?"

The girl smiled. "The nearest city," she said. "Perhaps Mr. Carlsen will be able to explain more than I can. For the moment, I am sure he would wish me to emphasize that the main reason you are here is because we want to enjoy your company and your conversation."

"If Carlsen were here," Solo said grimly, "there's a couple of words—just two—which express completely my reactions to that remark!"

The girl laughed aloud. "It should be a stimulating evening," she said, "for all three of us."

"How do you fit in? Are you a stimulator, too?—or do you just look after the prisoners?"

"Something of each, perhaps," Lala Eriksson said. "And in the latter role, I must warn you of one thing: you will find all manner of things about the house that could conceivably be used as weapons. Cutlery, golf clubs, tyre levers, billiard cues, wrenches, even African spears (though not firearms) in the gunroom. I need hardly add that they have been left freely about simply because Mr. Carlsen is absolutely certain—and I do mean certain—that there would be no point in anyone trying to use them. The guards are everywhere and they never miss."

"I'm more interested in knowing where I am and why I'm here."

Once again the girl smiled. "Dinner is at eight-thirty," she said. "We usually take a cocktail at eight, in the library, and we should be happy if you would join us. You'll find the door at the inner end of the hall, below the gallery. If there is anything you want before then, just ring."

She raised the riding crop in a mock salute and left him.

Solo's pockets had been completely emptied, but in the bathroom adjoining his own room he found toilet things laid out and a white silk shirt with a selection of ties on the bed. A dark suit that fitted him tolerably well was hanging in the closet. He shaved, showered and dressed. At ten past eights he went downstairs.

The library was immense: three walls of shelves filled with books from floor to ceiling, the fourth wall a network of carved panelling surrounding a recessed cheminee housing a log fire. The books looked as though they had all been read.