Astley Priors was a pleasant red-brick edifice, surrounded by well-wooded grounds which effectually shielded the house from observation from the road.

On the first evening Tommy, accompanied by Albert, explored the grounds.  Owing to Albert’s insistence they dragged themselves along painfully on their stomachs, thereby producing a great deal more noise than if they had stood upright.  In any case, these precautions were totally unnecessary.  The grounds, like those of any other private house after nightfall, seemed untenanted.  Tommy had imagined a possible fierce watchdog.  Albert’s fancy ran to a puma, or a tame cobra.  But they reached a shrubbery near the house quite unmolested.

The blinds of the dining-room window were up.  There was a large company assembled round the table.  The port was passing from hand to hand.  It seemed a normal, pleasant company.  Through the open window scraps of conversation floated out disjointedly on the night air.  It was a heated discussion on county cricket!

Again Tommy felt that cold chill of uncertainty.  It seemed impossible to believe that these people were other than they seemed.  Had he been fooled once more?  The fair-bearded, spectacled gentleman who sat at the head of the table looked singularly honest and normal.

Tommy slept badly that night.  The following morning the indefatigable Albert, having cemented an alliance with the greengrocer’s boy, took the latter’s place and ingratiated himself with the cook at Malthouse.  He returned with the information that she was undoubtedly “one of the crooks,” but Tommy mistrusted the vividness of his imagination.  Questioned, he could adduce nothing in support of his statement except his own opinion that she wasn’t the usual kind.  You could see that at a glance.

The substitution being repeated (much to the pecuniary advantage of the real greengrocer’s boy) on the following day, Albert brought back the first piece of hopeful news.  There was a French young lady staying in the house.  Tommy put his doubts aside.  Here was confirmation of his theory.  But time pressed.  To-day was the 27th.  The 29th was the much-talked-of “Labour Day,” about which all sorts of rumours were running riot.  Newspapers were getting agitated.  Sensational hints of a Labour coup d’etat were freely reported.  The Government said nothing.  It knew and was prepared.  There were rumours of dissension among the Labour leaders.  They were not of one mind.  The more far-seeing among them realized that what they proposed might well be a death-blow to the England that at heart they loved.  They shrank from the starvation and misery a general strike would entail, and were willing to meet the Government half-way.  But behind them were subtle, insistent forces at work, urging the memories of old wrongs, deprecating the weakness of half-and-half measures, fomenting misunderstandings.