It was she. His Diana. Diana of the beach. It was incredible, impossible-yet there she was smiling out of the page. It was a posed studio shot, a still. The caption beneath it said: Lady Diana as she appeared in her most recent film, «No More Camelots.»

Of course. That was where he had seen her. In the flicks. In scores of magazines and papers.

As he rejoined J on the curb the old man said, «You must be very curious indeed, Richard. Risking traffic like this for a thruppenny paper.»

Blade grinned at his chief. «I get these spells, sir. Worse than any cat.» He affected a Cockney accent. «Cor, mate, it comes over me all sudden, it does. If I don't know who David is I'll blow me flipping lid.»

J missed hailing an empty taxi and muttered a genteel curse. «I could have told you that, my boy. Sir David Throckmorton-Pell. The lady's husband.»

Blade kept an impassive face. He glanced again at the picture of Diana. Lady Dianal The minx. She had used her right name.

«I've heard of Sir David, of course. The judge. The one who sits in the Old Bailey? A pretty savage old boy, from all I've read.»

J had his own sense of humor. He said, «That's the one. They call him `The Rope,' I hear, and I hardly suppose it is because he likes to tie knots-unless they are hangman's knots.»

Blade hardly heard him. He was staring at the picture and remembering. The blue sea. Green eyes. Sinking down and down until…

«Richard-Richardl Good grief, man. Are you in a trance?»

Blade glanced up. J had snared a taxi and was already ensconced, the door open and waiting, the driver looking impatient. Blade folded the paper and thrust it into his jacket pocket. «Sorry, sir. Wool-gathering again.»

J directed the taximan to the Tower and then gave Blade a sharp glance. Blade avoided his eyes and stared out at the traffic. It was clotted like stale jam. They would be a time getting to the Tower.