It jutted out into the garden and had windows on three sides of it – casement windows, each with a cushioned window-seat. The rest of the house was very much older. Some part of it must have been standing before the old Priory had fallen or been battered into a heap of ruins. The house fetched its name from those far off days. It was, and always had been, Prior’s End. The lane that served it served no other house, and ended there, just beyond the gate.

Michael Harsch came through the house, stooping his head where the low beam crossed a crooked passage, turned the handle of the sitting-room door, and came in with something of the air of a man who comes home. Janice was in the window-seat, curled up like a mouse, with a book held close to the glass to catch the light. She always reminded him of a mouse – a little brown thing with bright eyes. She jumped up as she saw him. ‘Oh, Mr Harsch – I’ll make you some tea.’ He lay back in a long chair and watched her. All her movements were quick, light, and decided. The water was hot in the kettle; it needed very little to bring it to the boil again over the blue spreading flame of the spirit-lamp. He took a biscuit and sipped gratefully from a cup brewed just as he liked it, very strong, with plenty of milk. Glancing up, he saw that she was looking at him, her eyes bright with questions. She would not ask them in any other way – he knew that – but for the life of her she could not keep them out of her eyes. His answering smile made a younger, happier man of him.

‘Yes, it has gone well. That is what you want to know, is it not?’ His voice was deep and pleasant, with a marked foreign accent. He reached forward to put down his cup. ‘It has gone so well, my dear, that I think my work is done.’

‘Oh, Mr Harsch!’

The smile was gone again. He nodded gravely.

‘Yes, I think it is finished. I do not mean altogether of course. It is, I think, a good deal like bringing a child into the world.