The torch-light illuminated a pile of clothes draped over a packing-case.

“This should be enough for you,” said the voice from the darkness. “Laundry's rather a problem here, so we grabbed a couple of your suits and half a dozen shirts.”

“That,” said Stormgren without humour, “was very considerate of you.”

“We're sorry about the absence of furniture and electric Light. This place is convenient in some ways, but it rather lacks amenities.”

“Convenient for what?” asked Stormgren as he climbed into a shirt. The feel of the familiar cloth beneath his fingers was strangely reassuring.

“Just—convenient,” said the voice. “And by the way, since we're likely to spend a good deal of time together, you'd better call me Joe.

“Despite your nationality,” retorted Stormgren, “—you're Polish, aren't you? — I think I could pronounce your real name. It won't be worse than many Finnish ones.”

There was a slight pause and the light flickered for an distant.

'Well, I should have expected it,” said Joe resignedly. “You must have plenty of practice at this sort of thing.”

“It's a useful hobby for a man in my position. At a guess I should say you were brought up in the United States but didn't leave Poland until—”

“That,” said Joe firmly, “is quite enough. As you seem to save finished dressing—thank you.”

The door opened as Stormgren walked towards it, feeling mildly elated by his small victory. As Joe stood aside to let aim pass, he wondered if his captor was armed. Almost certainly he would be, and in any case he would have friends around.

The corridor was dimly lit by oil lamps at intervals, and for the first time Stormgren could see Joe clearly. He was a man of about fifty, and must have weighed well over two hundred pounds.