“Mrs.—Alien—speaking.”

“Okay,” the man said. “Your husband’s been delayed. Might not be home until late.”

“Is that the B.B.C.?” she asked, but there was no answer, and she heard the receiver go down at the other end. She held hers in her hand for some seconds, then slowly put it back. Bob delayed, might not be home until late. But—that voice, it hadn’t been a B.B.C. voice! In a sudden frenzy she picked up the directory. Her fingers trembled, she kept fumbling for the “B’s”, found them at last and after a frantic search, found: “British Broadcasting Corporation.” She didn’t want Broadcasting House—Aeolian Hall, there it was.

She dialled.

“B.B.C.,” said a girl crisply.

“May I—may I speak to Mr. Hedley?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you very well. Mr. Who?”

“Mr. Hedley!” She shouted this time, her voice suddenly strong, and the operator said: “I’ll see if he’s in his office.” She held on for a long time, and began to think that she had been forgotten, when the girl spoke again. “I’m sorry, he’s left the building.”

“Are you—sure?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Bless that girl, she wasn’t curt, she was helpful.

Barbara said: “I’m sorry to be a nuisance, but my husband had an appointment with Mr. Hedley this afternoon and—and I want to know whether he’s left.”

“What name is it, please?”

“Allen—Robert Allen.”

“I might be able to find out,” said the girl. “Hold on, please.”

There was another long wait Barbara hooked a chair with her foot, drew it close to the table and sat down. She felt so weak. It was half-past six now.

“Hallo,” said the girl.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Allen left just after four o’clock,” the operator reported. “I’ve spoken to someone who was in the office at the time. I’m sorry.”

“That’s—all right,” said Barbara. Thank you very much.”

She replaced the receiver and stared blankly in front of her. If Bob hadn’t been detained at the B.B.C., who had telephoned to say that he would be late? Where was he? The mystery which created his fear and her unhappiness closed down upon her.