She didn’t know how white she had turned, or how her eyes blazed, but the woman unlocked those twisting hands and held them up as if to ward a blow.

‘Oh, miss – don’t! Oh, for God’s sake don’t look at me like that!’

Hilary got up. She would have to find another carriage. If the woman wasn’t mad, she was hysterical. She didn’t much like the idea of passing her, but anything was better than having a scene.

As she put her hand on the sliding door, the woman caught at the skirt of her coat and held it.

‘Oh, miss, it was Mrs. Grey I wanted to ask about. I thought you’d know.’

Hilary looked down at her. The light colourless eyes stared back straining. The hand on her coat shook so that she could feel it. She wanted most dreadfully to get away. But this was something more than curiosity. Though she was only twenty-two, she knew what people looked like when they were in trouble – Geoffrey Grey’s trial had taught her that. This woman was in trouble. She let her hand drop from the door and said,

‘What do you want to know about Mrs. Grey?’

At once the woman released her and sat back. She made a great effort and contrived a calmer, more conventional tone.

‘It was just to know how she is – how she’s keeping. It’s not curiosity, miss. She’d remember me, and I’ve thought about her – oh, my God, many’s the time I’ve waked in the night and thought about her!’

The moment of self-control was over. With a shuddering sob, she leaned forward again.

‘Oh, miss – if you only knew!’

Hilary sat down. If the poor thing wanted news of Marion, she must have it. She looked frightfully ill. There was no doubt that the distress was real. She said in her kindest voice,