H.M. — though cheered by three good-sized picnic hampers from Fortnum & Mason, their wickerwork lids bulging with a feast — did not seem happy. Nobody in that car was happy, with the possible exception of Miss Adams herself.
Vicky, unlike Eve, was small and dark and vivacious. Her large light-brown eyes, with very black lashes, could be arch and coy; or they could be dreamily intense. The late Sir James Barrie might have called her a sprite. Those of more sober views would have recognized a different quality: she had an inordinate sex-appeal, which was as palpable as a physical touch to any male within yards. And despite her smallness, Vicky had a full voice like Eve’s. All these qualities she used even in so simple a matter as giving traffic directions.
“First right,” she would say, leaning forward to put her hands on Bill Sage’s shoulders. “Then straight on until the next traffic light. Ah, clever boy!”
“Not at all, not at all!” Bill would disclaim, with red ears and rather an erratic style of driving.
“Oh, yes, you are!” And Vicky would twist the lobe of his ear, playfully, before sitting back again.
(Eve Drayton did not say anything. She did not even turn round. Yet the atmosphere, even of that quiet English picnic-party, had already become a trifle hysterical.)
“Dear Sir Henry!” murmured Vicky, as they turned down into the deep lane between the hedgerows. “I do wish you wouldn’t be so materialistic! I do, really. Haven’t you the tiniest bit of spirituality in your nature?”
“Me?” said H.M. in astonishment. “I got a very lofty spiritual nature. But what I want just now, my wench, is grub. — Oi!”
Bill Sage glanced round.
“By that speedometer,” H.M. pointed, “we’ve now come forty-six miles and a bit. We didn’t even leave town until people of decency and sanity were having their tea. Where are we going?”
“But didn’t you know?” asked Vicky, with wide-open eyes. “We’re going to the cottage where I had such a dreadful experience when I was a child.”
“Was it such a dreadful experience, Vicky dear?” inquired Eve.
Vicky’s eyes seemed far away.
“I don’t remember, really. I was only a child, you see. I didn’t understand. I hadn’t developed the power for myself then.”
“What power?” H.M. asked sharply.
“To dematerialize,” said Vicky. “Of course.”
In that warm sun-dusted lane, between the hawthorn hedges, the car jolted over a rut. Crockery rattled.
“Uh-huh. I see,” observed H.M. without inflection. “And where do you go, my wench, when you dematerialize?”
“Into a strange country. Through a little door. You wouldn’t understand. Oh, you are such Philistines!” moaned Vicky. Then, with a sudden change of mood, she leaned forward and her whole physical allurement flowed again towards Bill Sage. “You wouldn’t like me to disappear, would you, Bill?”
(Easy! Easy!)
“Only,” said Bill, with a sort of wild gallantry, “if you promised to reappear again straightaway.”
“Oh, I should have to do that.” Vicky sat back. She was trembling. “The power wouldn’t be strong enough. But even a poor little thing like me might be able to teach you a lesson. Look there!”
And she pointed ahead.
On their left, as the lane widened, stretched the ten-acre gloom of what is fancifully known as Goblin Wood. On their right lay a small lake, on private property and therefore deserted.
The cottage — set well back into a clearing of the wood so as to face the road, screened from it by a line of beeches — was in fact a bungalow of rough-hewn stone, with a slate roof. Across the front of it ran a wooden porch. It had a seedy air, like the long yellow-green grass of its front lawn. Bill parked the car at the side of the road, since there was no driveway.
“It’s a bit lonely, ain’t it?” demanded H.M. His voice boomed out against that utter stillness, under the hot sun.
“Oh, yes!” breathed Vicky. She jumped out of the car in a whirl of skirts. “That’s why they were able to come and take me. When I was a child.”
“They?”
“Dear Sir Henry! Do I need to explain?”
Then Vicky looked at Bill.
“I must apologize,” she said, “for the state the house is in. I haven’t been out here for months and months. There’s a modern bathroom, I’m glad to say. Only paraffin lamps, of course. But then,” a dreamy smile flashed across her face, “you won’t need lamps, will you? Unless...”
“You mean,” said Bill, who was taking a black case out of the car, “unless you disappear again?”
“Yes, Bill. And promise me you won’t be frightened when I do.”
The young man uttered a ringing oath which was shushed by Sir Henry Merrivale, who austerely said he disapproved of profanity. Eve Drayton was very quiet.
“But in the meantime,” Vicky said wistfully, “let’s forget it all, shall we? Let’s laugh and dance and sing and pretend we’re children! And surely our guest must be even more hungry by this time?”
It was in this emotional state that they sat down to their picnic.
H.M., if the truth must be told, did not fare too badly. Instead of sitting on some hummock of ground, they dragged a table and chairs to the shaded porch. All spoke in strained voices. But no word of controversy was said. It was only afterwards, when the cloth was cleared, the furniture and hampers pushed indoors, the empty bottles flung away, that danger tapped a warning.
From under the porch Vicky fished out two half-rotted deck-chairs, which she set up in the long grass of the lawn. These were to be occupied by Eve and H.M., while Vicky took Bill Sage to inspect a plum tree of some remarkable quality she did not specify.
Eve sat down without comment. H.M., who was smoking a black cigar opposite her, waited some time before he spoke.
“Y’ know,” he said, taking the cigar out of his mouth, “you’re behaving remarkably well.”
“Yes.” Eve laughed. “Aren’t I?”
“Are you pretty well acquainted with this Adams gal?”
“I’m her first cousin,” Eve answered simply. “Now that her parents are dead, I’m the only relative she’s got. I know all about her.”
From far across the lawn floated two voices saying something about wild strawberries. Eve, her fair hair and fair complexion vivid against the dark line of Goblin Wood, clenched her hands on her knees.
“You see,” she hesitated, “there was another reason why I invited you here. I... I don’t quite know how to approach it.”
“I’m the old man,” said H.M., tapping himself impressively on the chest. “You tell me.”
“Eve, darling!” interposed Vicky’s voice, crying across the ragged lawn. “Coo-ee! Eve!”
“Yes, dear?”
“I’ve just remembered,” cried Vicky, “that I haven’t shown Bill over the cottage! You don’t mind if I steal him away from you for a little while?”
“No, dear! Of course not!”
It was H.M., sitting so as to face the bungalow, who saw Vicky and Bill go in. He saw Vicky’s wistful smile as she closed the door after them. Eve did not even look round. The sun was declining, making fiery chinks through the thickness of Goblin Wood behind the cottage.
“I won’t let her have him,” Eve suddenly cried. “I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!”
“Does she want him, my wench? Or, which is more to the point, does he want her?”
“He never has,” Eve said with emphasis. “Not really. And he never will.”