Jacob fired that last question at her again.

“Did you think it opened somewhere else? Where did you think it opened?”

The champagne was still in her head. She didn’t mean to speak, but before she knew that she was going to she had said,

“Upstairs-”

His bright, twinkling eyes were much too near. He had his elbows on the table, leaning across it. She didn’t like anyone to be so near her.

He said, “Why?”

“I don’t know-”

“Come along-you must know why you thought it was upstairs. What made you think so?”

It was like being pushed into a corner. His eyes twinkled at her and made her feel giddy. It was like being pushed. She hadn’t any resistance left.

“My grandfather said so.”

“Matthew? What did he say?”

“It was when he was very old-he liked talking. He said he woke up in the night and heard something. It was all in the dark and he was frightened-he was only a little boy. Then he saw a light coming from a hole in the wall. He was dreadfully frightened, and he ran away back to his bed and pulled the clothes over his head.”

“And where did he see this hole in the wall?”

She shook her head.

“He didn’t say.”

“Didn’t you ask him?”

She shook her head again.

“That’s what Geoffrey said, but I didn’t think about it. It was when I was helping to nurse him before he died. Geoffrey was angry, but I didn’t think about it at all-not like that. I thought he’d been dreaming. I didn’t think there was a passage. But when you said there was-then I thought perhaps it really happened. Only I didn’t think he could have gone all the way down to the cellars-not a little boy like that, in the dark. And that’s why I said, ‘But I thought-’ ”

The twinkling eyes fixed hers.

“That was all?”

She nodded.

“It wasn’t anything really.”

He took his elbows off the table and sat up. Such a relief to have him farther away.

“No, it wasn’t anything,” he said. “You were right about what you thought the first time. He’d been dreaming. And whether he dreamed what he told you when he was a kid or when he was in his second childhood doesn’t make a ha’porth of difference. The passage has always opened out of the cellar just the same as you saw it tonight. Seeing’s believing. And first to last what Matthew told you would be just something he’d dreamt.”

He began to get up out of his chair. “Not that it matters anyway,” he said, and went over to the group beside the coffee-tray with her empty cup in his hand.

Florence Duke was standing there. She had been standing there ever since they came back from the cellars-not talking to anyone, just standing there drinking coffee, sip after sip, quite slowly until the cup was empty, and then sip after sip again after it had been filled up. She had the look of a woman among her thoughts, listening intently. It was plain that she was taking no part in what was going on around her-Geoffrey Taverner’s conversation with Marian Thorpe-Ennington, Al Miller’s noisy talk and laughter, or the sometimes angry, sometimes tactfully intended remarks of Fogarty Castell. Not even when he turned to her with one of his foreign gestures and said in a passionate undertone, “This Al Miller, we are going to have a scene with him, I tell you. Why can’t he take his drink quiet and go to sleep on it like the other one?”-not even then did she really come back. Her eyes looked past him as she said in that slow way she had,

“He’s all right. Let him alone.”

She reached for the coffee-pot and filled her cup again. Fogarty wondered if she was drunk. She wasn’t flushed. As much of her colour as she could lose was gone. Now and again the drink would take someone that way. Her hand was steady and she stood like the figurehead of a ship, a big, bold woman, solid and firm. But there was something…He shrugged, and went back to Al Miller, who hadn’t stopped talking.

“Where’s Eily? I want Eily. Got something I want to tell her.”

Fogarty threw up his hands.

“Didn’t I tell you she’s busy? You wait a bit and you’ll see her fast enough. Do you think my wife has three pairs of hands? You leave Eily be till she’s finished her work!”

Al hitched a leg over the corner of the table and sat there swaying. He began to sing in a weak falsetto.

“ ‘Eileen alannah, Eileen asthore-’ That’s the song for her! Irish song for Irish girl. We’ve got an Irishman up at the station, he sings it-name of Paddy O’Halloran. He says I can’t sing.” He caught Castell by the lapel and swayed. “Who says I can’t sing?” He lifted his voice again, “ ‘Eileen allannah-’ ” then as suddenly broke off. “I say I want Eily-something to tell her-”

“She’s busy like I said. You have another drink. What is it you’re wanting to tell her?”

Al let go of the lapel, fumbled for a handkerchief, and mopped his face. He said, “I don’t mind if I do,” and tilted the proffered glass. He took a deep draught and blinked. He said,

“I’m not drunk.”

Fogarty said nothing. He hoped this drink would do the trick, but of course you never could tell.

Al finished the tumbler and set it down just over the edge of the table. When it fell and smashed he laughed unsteadily and repeated his former remark.

“I’m not-drunk.”

“No one said you were.”

“Better not-thass what I told them. Nobody’s going to say I’m drunk. Give me the sack, will they-say I’m drunk and gimme the sack?” He put a hand on Fogarty’s arm. “I’ll-tell- you who’s get’n the sack. They are. I’m-get’n-out. No one’s goin’ to say-I’m drunk.” His voice rang loud.

“No one’s saying it.”

Al stared.

“If I was drunk-I’d talk. Not drunk-not talking-only to Eily. If there’s anything there-we’ll get it. If there ishn’t- no harm done-we’ll get married allersame-married on prosheeds.”

Fogarty said, “You come along with me, and I’ll get Eily. Another little drink, and then I’ll get her.”

Al shook his head.

“All right here.” Then he suddenly advanced his lips to Fogarty’s ear and said in a penetrating whisper, “Like to know- what I-wouldn’t you? Well, I’m-not tell’n.” He let go suddenly, lost his balance, and slumped down, half off a chair.

All this time Luke White had stood behind the table, his face expressionless, his manner unconcerned. He might have been listening to Marian Thorpe-Ennington telling Geoffrey Taverner the story of her three marriages. He might have been watching Jacob talking to Mildred Taverner. Or he might have been watching Jane and Miss Silver and Jeremy, or Florence Duke. He might have been listening to Al Miller. When Jacob came across and put down Mildred Taverner’s cup he lifted the tray and went out by the service door at the end of the room.

Castell had got Al Miller on to the chair. He wouldn’t talk any more for a bit. Luke looked back, holding the door with his shoulder, and then let it fall to again.

Florence Duke straightened up, felt at her sleeve in a vague, abstracted manner, and said slowly,

“I haven’t got a handkerchief.”

It was not said to anyone, and nobody took any notice. She walked round the table and out at the service door.

Back in the room Jane was saying,

“I expect you think it’s a very odd kind of party. We’re all cousins, descended from old Jeremiah Taverner who used to keep this inn. It belongs to Jacob Taverner now. That’s him over there by the table. He’s giving the party. He’s a grandson, and the rest of us are great-grandchildren. Most of us haven’t ever seen each other before. Jeremy and I have of course, but that’s all. Because of family rows. Cousin Jacob advertised for his grandfather’s descendants, and here we are.”

Jeremy said, “A job lot!” and Jane gave her pretty laugh.

“Would it amuse you to be told who’s who?”

Miss Silver coughed and said with perfect truth,