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Mr. Paravicini’s face was cleverly but decidedly “made up.”
    So the old idiot tried to make himself look younger than he was, did he? Well, he didn’t succeed. He looked all his age and more. Only the youthful walk was incongruous. Perhaps that, too, had been carefully counterfeited.
    She was brought back from speculation to the disagreeable realities by the brisk entrance of Major Metcalf.
    “Mrs. Davis. I’m afraid the pipes of the—er—” he lowered his voice modestly, “downstairs cloakroom are frozen.”
    “Oh, dear,” groaned Molly. “What an awful day. First the police and then the pipes.”
    Mr. Paravicini dropped the poker into the grate with a clatter. Mrs. Boyle stopped knitting. Molly, looking at Major Metcalf, was puzzled by his sudden stiff immobility and by the indescribable expression on his face. It was an expression she could not place. It was as though all emotion had been drained out of it, leaving something carved out of wood behind.
    He said in a short, staccato voice, “ Police, did you say?”
    She was conscious that behind the stiff immobility of his demeanor, some violent emotion was at work. It might have been fear or alertness or excitement—but there was something. This man, she said to herself, could be dangerous.
    He said again, and this time his voice was just mildly curious, “What’s that about the police?”
    “They rang up,” said Molly. “Just now. To say they’re sending a sergeant out here.” She looked toward the window. “But I shouldn’t think he’ll ever get here,” she said hopefully.
    “Why are they sending the police here?” He took a step nearer to her, but before she could reply the door opened, and Giles came in.
    “This ruddy coke’s more than half stones,” he said angrily. Then he added sharply, “Is anything the matter?”
    Major Metcalf turned to him. “I hear the police are coming out here,” he said. “Why?”
    “Oh, that’s all right,” said Giles. “No one can ever get through in this. Why, the drifts are five feet deep. The road’s all banked up. Nobody will get here today.”
    And at that moment there came distinctly three loud taps on the window.
    It startled them all. For a moment or two they did not locate the sound. It came with the emphasis and menace of a ghostly warning. And then, with a cry, Molly pointed to the French window. A man was standing there tapping on the pane, and the mystery of his arrival was explained by the fact that he wore skis.
    With an exclamation, Giles crossed the room, fumbled with the catch, and threw open the French window.
    “Thank you, sir,” said the new arrival. He had a slightly common, cheerful voice and a well-bronzed face.
    “Detective Sergeant Trotter,” he announced himself.
    Mrs. Boyle peered at him over her knitting with disfavor.
    “You can’t be a sergeant,” she said disapprovingly.
    “You’re too young.”
    The young man, who was indeed very young, looked affronted at this criticism and said in a slightly annoyed tone, “I’m not quite as young as I look, madam.”
    His eye roved over the group and picked out Giles.
    “Are you Mr. Davis? Can I get these skis off and stow them somewhere?”
    “Of course, come with me.”
    Mrs. Boyle said acidly as the door to the hall closed behind them, “I suppose that’s what we pay our police force for, nowadays, to go round enjoying themselves at winter sports.”
    Paravicini had come close to Molly. There was quite a hiss in his voice as he said in a quick, low voice, “Why did you send for the police, Mrs. Davis?”
    She recoiled a little before the steady malignity of his glance. This was a new Mr. Paravicini. For a moment she felt afraid. She said helplessly, “But I didn’t. I didn’t.”
    And then Christopher Wren came excitedly through the door, saying in a high penetrating whisper, “Who’s that man in the hall? Where did he come from? So terribly hearty and all over snow.”
    Mrs. Boyle’s voice boomed out