As it happened, Corrival was not in bed at four p.m. He was, however, in his dressing gown, with his feet up and a stiff whiskey in his hand, enjoying the evening crossword puzzle. There was a fire dancing happily in the grate, even though it wasn't strictly cold enough for one. One had to enjoy the simple pleasures when one could. War had taught Corrival you didn't know when they'd disappear.

"Blast it," he grumbled when the doorbell chimed pleasantly through the house. Corrival didn't intend for his doorbell to be used, but at least when it was, unexpectedly so, it had a nice sound to it.

"Five down, trout basket," he muttered to himself as he hauled himself up, padding to the door in his slippers and still carrying his glass. "Five down, trout basket. Five down, trout basket." He paused a moment to glance through the spy-glass and then flung open the door with a flourish. "Five down, trout basket. I'm not a damned fisherman," he said to Ghastly. "What the hell's a trout basket?"

Then he stopped short, frowning and looking Ghastly up and down. "What the hell happened to your face, Bespoke?"