Terriford village, a peaceful, exquisite corner of old England. Houses, cottages, and great raftered barns spread over a rising stretch of what was once primeval woodland. No dwelling-place is less than fifty years old and many are of much older date. At the apex of the broad, well-kept village street stands the pre-Reformation gray stone church. It rises from what appears to be a well-tended and fragrant garden, though here and there lichened stones and crosses show it to be what old-fashioned folk still call a graveyard. But at the time my story opens sudden death, and all the evils the most normal death implies in our strange, transitory existence, seem very far from the inhabitants of Terriford. All the more remote because the group of people who are soon to be concerned with a mysterious and terrible drama of death are now one and all happy, cheerful, and full of life and excitement. For they are present as privileged spectators at the first appearance of the great Australian cricket team.