The telephone, coin-operated, was a black metal box bolted to the wall above the hall table. When she lifted the heavy receiver to her ear she was convinced a whiff of the fat young man’s carious breath came up out of the mouthpiece.

“Yes?” she said, softly, eagerly. “Yes?”

She had been hoping, of course, hoping against hope that it would be April, but it was not, and her heart that had been beating so expectantly fell back into its accustomed rhythm.

“Hello, Pheeb, it’s Jimmy.”

“Oh. Hello.” He had not written a story about April- she had checked the Mail- and now she felt guilty, and foolish, too, for having suspected that he would.

“I forgot to ask you yesterday- did you see if April’s key was there, when you called round?”

“What?” she said. “What key?”

“The one she leaves under the broken flagstone at the front door, if she’s out and expecting someone to call.” Phoebe said nothing. How did Jimmy know about this arrangement with the key when she did not? Why had April never told her about it? “I’ll go over now and see if it’s there,” Jimmy was saying. “Want to come and meet me?”

She walked quickly up towards the bridge with her scarf wrapped round her face and covering her mouth. The fog had lightened, but a thin, cold mist persisted. Herbert Place was only one street over, on the other side of the canal. When she got to the house there was no sign of Jimmy. She climbed the steps, and pressed the bell in case he had arrived before her and had let himself in, but evidently he had not. She peered at the granite flagstones, trying to spot the one that was loose. Some minutes passed; she felt self-conscious and exposed, thinking someone might come up to her demanding to know why she was still there when obviously the person whose bell she had been ringing was not at home. She was relieved when she saw Jimmy hurrying along the towpath. He came up through the gap in the black railings and sprinted across the road, ignoring a motorcar that had to swerve to avoid him, bleating indignantly.