“Rather. The ideal place. You’ll see.”

They came out of the front door and followed the drive to the left. Coming from Woodham, Antony had approached the house that afternoon from the other side. The way they were going now would take them out at the opposite end of the park, on the high road to Stanton, a country town some three miles away. They passed by a gate and a gardener’s lodge, which marked the limit of what auctioneers like to call “the ornamental grounds of the estate,” and then the open park was before them.

“Sure we haven’t missed it?” said Antony. The park lay quietly in the moonlight on either side of the drive, wearing a little way ahead of them a deceptive air of smoothness which retreated always as they advanced.

“Rum, isn’t it?” said Bill. “An absurd place for a bowling green, but I suppose it was always here.”

“Yes, but always where? It’s short enough for golf, perhaps, but⁠—Hallo!”