 Striding Folly. Three Lord Peter Wimsey Mysteries. By Dorothy L. Sayers. Narrated by Ian Carmichael. Striding Folly. Shall I expect true next Wednesday for our game as usual? Asked Mr. Melillo. Of course, of course, replied Mr. Creach. Very glad there's no ill-feeling, Melillo. Next Wednesday, as usual. Unless... His heavy face darkened for a moment as though at some disagreeable recollection. There may be a man coming to see me. If I'm not here by nine, don't expect me. In that case, I'll come on Thursday. Mr. Melillo let his visitor out through the French window and watched him cross the lawn to the wicket gate leading to the hall grounds. It was a clear October night with a gibberish moon going down the sky. Mr. Melillo slipped on his galoshes, for he was careful of his health and the grass was wet, and himself went down past the sundial and the fish pond and through the sunk garden, till he came to the fence that bounded his tiny freehold on the southern side. He leaned his arms on the rail and gazed across the little valley at the tumbling river and the wide slope beyond, which was crowned at a miles distance by the ridiculous stone tower known as the Folly. The valley, the slope, and the tower all belonged to Striding Hall. They lay there peaceful and lovely in the moonlight, as though nothing could ever disturb their fantastic solitude. But Mr. Melillo knew better. He'd bought the cottage to end his days in, thinking that here was a corner of England, the same yesterday, today, and forever. It was strange that he, a chess player, should not have been able to see three moves ahead. The first move had been the death of the old squire. The second had been the purchase by Creech of the whole Striding property. Even then he'd not been able to see why a rich businessman, unmarried and with no rural interests, should have come to live in a spot so remote. True, there were three considerable towns at a few miles distance, but the village itself was on the road to nowhere. Fool! He'd forgotten the grid. It had come like a great ugly chessrook, swooping from an unconsidered corner, marching over the country, straddling four, six, eight parishes at a time, planting hideous pylons to mark its progress, and squatting now at Mr. Melillo's very door. Creech had just calmly announced that he was selling the valley to the electrical company. And there would be a huge power plant on the river and workmen's bungalows on the slope, and then development. Creech to Mr. Melillo was another name for the devil. It was ironical that Mr. Melillo... Sample complete. Ready to continue?