“Oh, that fella?” The barman nodded. “Left yesterday.”

He ran a cloth over the surface of the bar and Anne Grant said blankly: “But that isn’t possible. I only hired him last week through the seamen’s pool. I’ve a new motor-cruiser waiting at Lulworth now. He’s supposed to run her over to the Channel Islands tomorrow.”

"You’ll have a job catching him,” the Irishman cut in. “He shipped out as quartermaster on the Ben Alpin this morning.

Suez and all points east.” He got to his feet and crossed the room slowly. “Anything I can do?”

Before she could reply a voice cut in harshly: “How about some service this end for a change?”

She turned in surprise, realising for the first time that a man stood in the shadows at the far end of the bar. The collar of his reefer jacket was turned up and a peaked cap shaded a face that was strangely white, the eyes like dark holes.

The barman moved towards him and the Irishman leaned against the bar and grinned at Anne. “How about a drink?”

She shook her head gently, turned and walked to the door. She went out into the corridor and paused at the top of the steps. The taxi had gone and the fog was much thicker now, rolling in across the harbour, swirling round the street-lamps like some living thing.

She went down the steps and started along the pavement. When she reached the first lamp she paused and looked back. The Irishman and his friend were standing in the doorway. As she turned to move on, they came down the steps and moved after her.

Neil Mallory lit another cigarette, raised his whisky up to the light, then set it down. "This glass is dirty.”

The barman walked forward, a truculent frown on his face. “And what do you expect me to do about it?”

“Get me another one,” Mallory said calmly.

It was some indefinable quality in the voice, a look in the dark eyes, that made the barman swallow his angry retort and force a smile. He filled a fresh glass and pushed it across.