CHAPTER I


The telephone bell rang sharply in the sunlit and charming, if shabby,
hall of Old Place.

To John Tosswill there was always something incongruous, and recurringly
strange, in this queer link between a little country parish mentioned in
Domesday Book and the big bustling modern world.

The bell tinkled on and on insistently, perhaps because it was now no
one's special duty to attend to it. But at last the mistress of the house
came running from the garden and, stripping off her gardening gloves,
took up the receiver.

Janet Tosswill was John Tosswill's second wife, and, though over forty,
a still young and alert looking woman, more Irish than Scotch in
appearance, with her dark hair and blue eyes. But she came of good
Highland stock and was proud of it.

"London wants you," came the tired, cross voice she knew all too well.

"I think there must be some mistake. This is Old Place, Beechfield,
Surrey. I don't think anyone can be ringing us from London."

She waited a moment impatiently. Of course it was a mistake! Not a soul
in London knew their telephone number. It had never been put on their
notepaper. Still, she went on listening with the receiver held to her
ear, and growing more and more annoyed at the futile interruption and