‘I don’t suppose it matters,’ said Marion Grey. And then, ‘What did she want to know?’

‘About you – how you were – whether you were all right – and – and about Geoff – ’ She hesitated. ‘ Marion, she did say one awfully queer thing. I don’t know whether I ought – ’

‘Yes – tell me.’

Hilary looked at her doubtfully. That was the worst of getting into a wrong train, you never knew where it was going to take you.

‘Well, I expect she’s balmy really. She said she’d tried to see you whilst the Case was going on. She said she gave him the slip and went round to where you were staying, but of course they didn’t let her in. But she said something like “If they had” under her breath – I didn’t quite catch it, because she was all choky and shaky, but that’s what it sounded like. No, it was, “I didn’t see her,” and then, “If I had,” or something like that. She was so worked up that I can’t be sure.’

Hilary’s voice became uncertain and faded away. Something had happened to the atmosphere. It had become strange, and the strangeness came from Marion, who had not moved and who did not speak. She sat there with her hand over her eyes, and the strangeness flowed from her and filled the room.

Hilary bore it as long as she could. Then she unlocked her hands and scrambled up on to her knees, and at the same moment Marion got up and went over to the window. There was an oak chest which made a window-seat, the deeply panelled front towards the room, the top littered with green and blue cushions. Marion swept them to the floor, opened the lid, and came back with a photograph-album in her hand. She did not speak, but sat down and began to turn the leaves.

Presently she found what she was looking for, and held the page for Hilary to see. It was a snapshot taken in a garden. A rose arch, a bed of lilies with sharply recurved petals, a tea-table; people having tea. Marion smiling out of the picture – an elderly man with a heavy moustache.