I

       Castle sat over what he meant to be his final report. Davis being dead the information from the African section must obviously cease. If the leaks continued there could be no doubt whose was the responsibility, but if the leaks stopped the guilt would be attributed with certainty to the dead man. Davis was beyond suffering; his personal file would be closed and sent to some central store of records, where no one would bother to examine it. What if it contained a story of treachery? Like a Cabinet secret it would be well guarded for thirty years. In a sad way it had been a providential death.

       Castle could hear Sarah reading aloud to Sam before packing him off for the night. It was half an hour after his usual bedtime, but tonight he had needed that extra childish comfort for the first week of school had passed unhappily.

       What a long slow business it was transcribing a report into book code. He would never now get to an end of War and Peace. The next day he would burn his copy for security in a bonfire of autumn leaves without waiting for the Trollope to arrive. He felt relief and regret relief because he had repaid as far as he could his debt of gratitude to Carson, and regret that he would never be able to close the dossier on Uncle Remus and complete his revenge on Cornelius Muller.

       When he had finished his report he went downstairs to wait for Sarah. Tomorrow was Sunday. He would have to leave the report in the drop, that third drop which would never be used again; he had signalled its presence there from a call box in Piccadilly Circus before he caught his train at Euston. It was an inordinately slow business, this way of making his last communication, but a quicker and more dangerous route had been reserved for use only in a final emergency. He poured himself a triple J. & B. and the murmur of voices upstairs began to give him a temporary sense of peace. A door was closed softly, footsteps passed along the corridor above; the stairs always creaked on the way down he thought how to some people this would seem a dull and domestic, even an intolerable routine. To him it represented a security he had been afraid every hour he might lose. He knew exactly what Sarah would say when she came into the sitting-room, and he knew what he would answer. Familiarity was a protection against the darkness of King's Road outside and the lighted lamp of the police station at the corner. He had always pictured a uniformed policeman, whom he would probably know well by sight, accompanying the man from the Special Branch when the hour struck.

       'You've taken your whisky?'

       'Can I give you one?'

       'A small one, darling.'

       'Sam all right?'

       'He was asleep before I tucked him in.'

       As in an unmutilated cable, there was not one numeral wrongly transcribed.

       He handed her the glass: he hadn't been able to speak until now of what had happened.

       'How was the wedding, darling?'

       'Pretty awful. I was sorry for poor Daintry.'

       'Why poor?'

       'He was losing a daughter and I doubt if he has got any friends.'

       'There seem to be such a lot of lonely people in your office.'

       'Yes. All those that don't pair off for company. Drink up, Sarah.'

       'What's the hurry?'

       'I want to get both of us another glass.'

       'Why?'

       'I've got bad news, Sarah. I couldn't tell you in front of Sam. It's about Davis. Davis is dead.'

       'Dead? Davis?'

       'Yes.'

       'How?'

       'Doctor Percival talks of his liver.'

       'But a liver doesn't go like that—from one day to another.'

       'It's what Doctor Percival says.'

       'You don't believe him?'

       'No. Not altogether. I don't think Daintry does either.' She gave herself two fingers of whisky he had never seen her do that before. 'Poor, poor Davis.'

       Daintry wants an independent post mortem. Percival was quite ready for that. He's obviously quite sure his diagnosis will be confirmed.'

       If he's sure, then it must be true?'

       'I don't know. I really don't know. They can arrange so many things in our firm. Perhaps even a post mortem.’

       ‘What are we going to tell Sam?

       'The truth. It's no good keeping deaths from a child. They happen all the time.'

       'But he loved Davis so much. Darling, let me say nothing for a week or two. Until he finds his feet at school.'

       'You know best.'

       'I wish to God you could get away from all those people.'

       'I shall in a few years.'

       'I mean now. This minute. We'd take Sam out of bed and go abroad. The first plane to anywhere.'

       'Wait till I've got my pension.'

       'I could work, Maurice. We could go to France. It would be easier there. They're used to my colour.'

       'It isn't possible, Sarah. Not yet.'

       'Why? Give me one good reason...'

       'He tried to speak lightly. 'Well, you know a man has to give proper notice.'

       'Do they bother about things like notice?'

       'He was scared by the quickness of her perception when she said, 'Did they give Davis notice?'

       'He said, 'If it was his liver...'

       'You don't believe that, do you? Don't forget that I worked for you once—for them. I was your agent. Don't think I haven't noticed the last month how anxious you've been—even about the meter man. There's been a leak, is that it? In your section?'

       'I think they think so.'

       'And they pinned it on Davis. Do you believe Davis was guilty?'

       'It may not have been a deliberate leak. He was very careless.'

       'You think they may have killed him because he was careless?

       'I suppose that in our outfit there's such a thing as criminal carelessness.'

       'It might have been you they suspected, not Davis. And then you'd have died. From too much J. & B.'

       'Oh, I've always been very careful,' and he added as a sad joke, Except when I fell in love with you.'

       'Where are you going?'

       'I want a breath of air and so does Buller.'