That was all Roger realized at first;—darkness and pain that was little more than discomfort at his chest, and a smarting soreness at his face. He didn’t know what had happened until he heard a sound—a moan. Then everything flashed back.

He was lying on the floor.

He couldn’t see where, but the moan was so near that he knew he was in the room.

There was a dull pain in his groin, and when he tried to get up, the pain became sharp and he collapsed, grunting. The moaning went on—a steady trickle of sound. He turned gently on to his right side, and began to get up. His head swam, but he managed to stand. He put out his right hand and touched the wall, swayed towards it and then leaned against it; his lungs still felt tight and locked.

Outside, the wind was howling.

He heard a different sound, neither the wind nor the woman—rather that of a car on the road. It faded. He bent down, and the blood rushed to his ears as he groped for his torch, found it, and switched it on. The light was so bright that it hurt his eyes. He didn’t switch off, but swivelled the light round slowly until at last it fell upon the woman.

She lay on a single bed, two yards away from him, one arm hanging over the side—a slim white hand. Her body was flat, and she lay on her back. Her clothes were dishevelled, her long legs, sheathed in nylon, were nice legs. As the light travelled up, he saw enough to judge that she was young and comely; not her face, the light didn’t touch her face yet—just her body. Her white blouse was open at the neck. The light fell upon the point of her chin, and it might be Janet’s. Then it travelled to her face and her head——

He dropped the torch.

It crashed on to the floor and went out, plunging the room into darkness.

When the worst of the shock was over and his mind began to work, one thought came absurdly into it: how could she be alive? How could anyone so injured be alive?