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When he arrived, it was to find his host away from home and not due back until all hours.

Barak was to dine alone with a reproachful setter for a companion and not wait up.

His bedroom on the ground floor was beautifully panelled from footboard to ceiling,

but some misguided housekeeper under the

fourth George had fallen upon the lovely woodwork with a can of black varnish. The dowry, brought

by a Casillet bride of the mauve decade, had been invested in a few vintage bathrooms, and one of

these had replaced a prayer closet that once opened

into his bedroom. There was only a candle to read by, but the light of a full moon came

waveringly through the vines that half-curtained the mullioned windows. In this museum, Barak dropped off to sleep. He did not know how long he had

slept when he found himself awake again and conscious that something was a stir in the room.

It took him a moment to place the movement, but at last in a patch of moonlight,

he made out a hunched figure that seemed to be sitting with bent engrossed head in the chair

by the door. It was the hand, or rather the whole arm, that was moving, tracing a recurrent, if irregular

...