He let himself into his house as quietly as possible, and contrary
to taste and custom, went into the dining-room, switched on the
electric light and helped himself to a stiff glass of brandy and soda
at the sideboard. When the mixture was duly prepared, he forgot to
drink it. He stood by the sideboard, the glass in his hand, his eyes
staring at vacancy. Nor did he move when a very light foot stole down
the stairs, and Miss Penkridge, in wraps and curl-papers, looked
round the side of the door.

"Heavens above, Richard!" she exclaimed, "What is the matter! I wondered
if you were burglars! Half-past twelve!"

Viner suddenly became aware of the glass which he was unconsciously
holding. He lifted it to his lips, wondering whatever it was that made
his mouth feel so dry. And when he had taken a big gulp, and then
spoke, his voice--to himself--sounded just as queer as his tongue had
been feeling.

"You were right!" he said suddenly. "There are queerer, stranger affairs
in life than one fancies! And I--I've been pitchforked--thrown--clean
into the middle of things! I!"

Miss Penkridge came closer to him, staring. She looked from him to the
glass, from the glass to him.

"No--I haven't been drinking," said Viner with a harsh laugh. "I'm
drinking now, and I'm going to have another, too. Listen!"

He pushed her gently into a chair, and seating himself on the edge of the
table, told her the adventure. And Miss Penkridge, who was an admirable