“You’ll be sorry afterwards,” I warned her, “when it turns out to be nothing more than that he has had his hair cut.”

“But even if it is, I don’t see why I shouldn’t be excited at seeing my only brother again—­not to mention sister-in-law.”

“Then let’s move,” I said.  “They’ll be here directly.”

Archie and Dahlia came first.  We besieged them with questions as soon as they appeared.

“Haven’t an idea,” said Archie, “I wanted to bring a revolver in case it was anything really desperate, but Dahlia wouldn’t let me.”

“It would have been useful too,” I said, “if it turned out to be something merely futile.”

“You’re not going to hurt my Samuel, however futile it is,” said Myra.  “Dahlia, how’s Peter, and will you have some coffee?”

“Peter’s lovely.  You’ve had coffee, haven’t you, Archie?”

“Better have some more,” I suggested, “in case Simpson is merely soporific.  We anticipate a slumbering audience, and Samuel explaining a new kind of googlie he’s invented.”

Entered Thomas lazily.

“Hallo,” he said in his slow voice.  “What’s it all about?”

“It’s a raid on the Begum’s palace,” explained Archie rapidly.  “Dahlia decoys the Chief Mucilage; you, Thomas, drive the submarine; Myra has charge of the clockwork mouse, and we others hang about and sing.  To say more at this stage would be to bring about a European conflict.”

“Coffee, Thomas?” said Myra.

“I bet he’s having us on,” said Thomas gloomily, as he stirred his coffee.

There was a hurricane in the hall.  Chairs were swept over; coats and hats fell to the ground; a high voice offered continuous apologies—­and Simpson came in.

“Hallo, Myra!” he said eagerly.  “Hallo, old chap!  Hallo, Dahlia!  Hallo, Archie!  Hallo, Thomas, old boy!” He fixed his spectacles firmly on his nose and beamed round the room.

“We’re all here—­thanking you very much for inviting us,” I said.  “Have a cigar—­if you’ve brought any with you.”

Fortunately he had brought several with him.

“Now then, I’ll give any of you three guesses what it’s all about.”

“No, you don’t.  We’re all waiting, and you can begin your apology right away.”

Simpson took a deep breath and began.

“I’ve been lent a villa,” he said.

There was a moment’s silence ... and then Archie got up.

“Good-bye,” he said to Myra, holding out his hand.  “Thanks for a very jolly evening.  Come along Dahlia.”

“But I say, old chap,” protested Simpson.

“I’m sorry, Simpson, but the fact that you’re moving from the Temple to Cricklewood, or wherever it is, and that somebody else is paying the thirty pounds a year, is jolly interesting, but it wasn’t good enough to drag us up from the country to tell us about it.  You could have written.  However, thank you for the cigar.”

“My dear fellow, it isn’t Cricklewood.  It’s the Riviera!”