Chapter One

There it was: the same sound again. And this time she knew she was not mistaken. Sharp metal on soft wood: the furtive, splintering sound of the intrusion she had long foreseen. This, then, was the end she had prepared for. And also the beginning.

She turned her head on the pillow, squinting to decipher the luminous dial of the clock. Eight minutes to two. Darker-and deader-than midnight.

A muffled thump from below. He was in. He was here. She could no longer delay. She must meet him head-on. And at the thought-at the blurred and beaming clock-face before her-she smiled. If she had chosen-as in a sense she had-this would, after all, have been the way. No mewling, flickering fade from life. Instead, whatever was about to follow.

She threw back the covers, lowered her feet to the floor and sat upright. The drawing-room door had been opened-cautiously, but not cautiously enough to escape her. He would be in the hall now. Yes, there was the creak of the board near the cupboard under the stairs, abruptly cut short as he stepped back in alarm. "No need to worry," she felt like calling. "I am ready for you. I will never be readier."

She slid her feet into their waiting slippers and stood up, letting the night-dress recover its folds about her, letting the frantic pace of her heart slacken. There was probably still time to pick up the telephone and call the police. They would arrive too late, of course, but perhaps . . . No. It was better to let them believe she had been taken completely by surprise.

He was on the stairs now, climbing gingerly, keeping to the edges of the treads. An old trick. She had used it herself in times gone