We stood on the doorstep with our backs to the muffled traffic,and Lockwood’s gloved right hand clasped upon the bellpull. Deep inthe house, the echoes faded. I gazed at the door, at the small sunblisters on the varnish and the scuffs on the letter box, at the fourdiamond panes of frosted glass that showed nothing beyond exceptfor darkness. The porch had a forlorn and unused air, its cornerschoked with the same sodden beech leaves that littered the pathand lawn.