'In here, please.'

The woman walked into the inner office, again with no sign that its shabbiness had made any impression on her. She turned to Cordelia.

'I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself. My name is Elizabeth Learning and my employer is Sir Ronald Callender.' 'The conservationist?'

'I shouldn't let him hear you call him that. He prefers to be called a microbiologist, which is what he is. Please excuse me.'

She shut the door firmly. Cordelia, feeling suddenly weak, sat down at the typewriter. The keys, oddly familiar symbols encircled in black medallions, shifted their pattern before her tired eyes, then at a blink clicked back to normality. She grasped the sides of the machine, cold and clammy to the touch, and talked herself back to calmness. Her heart was thudding.

'I must be calm, must show her that I am tough. This silliness is only the strain of Bernie's funeral and too much standing in the hot sun.'

But hope was traumatic; she was angry with herself for caring so much.

The telephone call took only a couple of minutes. The door of the inner office opened; Miss Learning was drawing on her gloves.

'Sir Ronald has asked to see you. Can you come now?' Come where, thought Cordelia, but she didn't ask. 'Yes, shall I need my gear?'

The gear was Bernie's carefully designed and fitted-out scene-of-crime case with its tweezers, scissors, fingerprinting equipment, jars to collect specimens; Cordelia had never yet had occasion to use it.

'It depends upon what you mean by your gear, but I shouldn't think so. Sir Ronald wants to see you before deciding whether to offer you the job. It means a train journey to Cambridge but you should get back tonight. Is there anyone you ought to tell?' 'No; there's only me.'

'Perhaps I ought to identify myself.' She opened her handbag. 'Here is an addressed envelope. I'm not a white slaver in case they exist and in case you're frightened.'