“Madam . . . safe as the Bank of England.” Where Miss Rebecca Maxwell-Smith’s voice had a more nervous ring to it than Benedikt remembered from their first meeting, Kelly’s was cheerfully deferential. “Out of Number Two in the spinney. And

‘tis that German gentleman from this afternoon— Herr Wiesehofer . . . So Dr Audley was right, would you believe it?”

Damnation! Audley suspicious was one thing. But Audley right

Audley certaindamnation!

The chain rattled again, and the door opened wide.

“Was he alone—” She stopped as she stared at him.

“That I can’t say, Madam. Until we know how he got in ... But there’s a full alert, an‘ everyone’s posted—”

“What have you done to him?” She cut Kelly off angrily.

“Done to him? We haven’t laid a finger on him, Madam,”

protested Kelly. “Not a finger!”

“Then why is there blood on his face?” Her voice shook.

“Blood on his face?” Kelly paused. “Oh, sure—so he fell into Number Two, didn’t he? An‘ that’s twelve foot if it’s an inch—”

She gestured to silence him. “Herr Wiesehofer—are you all right?”

Benedikt put his hand to his face. Now ... if there was blood, it would have dried by now . . . but in this fierce light he would look worse than he felt, and that might be to his advantage.

“Madam—” began Kelly. “Madam—”

“Be quiet, Michael!” The strain in her voice confirmed his thought: dummy1

for all that she was the mistress of Duntisbury Chase she was still only twenty years old, and blood spilt in her service was something new to her.

“Madam!” said Kelly sharply, in his turn. “No—”

“Hush, Michael! Herr Wiesehofer—”

“No, Madam—I will not hush, begging your pardon!” The sharp note vanished into the calmness of obstinacy. “We are standin‘ in the light, with all the dark hill above us—an’ I have this old itch between my shoulder-blades . . . So, I would most respectfully urge you to go inside—for my sake, if not for yours, if you please.”

“Oh, Michael—” As he had spoken she had switched from Benedikt to Kelly, and then from Kelly to the great darkness out of which they had come, and then back to Kelly again “—I’m sorry!

How stupid of me!” Finally she came back to Benedikt. “If you would kindly come into the house, Herr Wiesehofer—at once.”

Neither Benedikt nor Herr Wiesehofer required any further order: they felt the same itch in that instant, of the crossed wires in the night-sight, telescopically enlarging each of them out of the dark, shifting from one to the other, looking for a target, making their flesh crawl: that was a memory shared by both of them from the past!

Only at the last moment, when Miss Becky seemed to want him to enter first, did Herr Wiesehofer assert himself, who had no reason for being frightened of such nightmares, more than he was already terrified: he must let ladies go first, or betray himself.

“Go on, Miss Becky—lead the way!” Kelly resolved the impasse dummy1

quickly. “And now you, Herr Wiesehofer—get on with you!”

Benedikt followed her thankfully from unsafe light to safety: stone staircase, with worn steps, on his left— arched doorway, low door closed—cellar door?—ahead . . . open door and passage on his right, leading into the house.

He followed her down the passage. The house was cold now—cold because they were into the chill hours beyond midnight, and with no fires lit these thick walls had repelled the inadequate warmth of yesterday’s sunshine all too efficiently; but cold also because he was tired and frightened, Benedikt equally with Thomas.

“Hold on, there,” commanded Kelly from behind him. “The door by you—you can see the wash-basin, and there’s a hand-towel beside it... So you just make yourself presentable for the young lady, then—okay mein Herr?”

It wasn’t solicitude for him, thought Benedikt: the sight of blood had been questioned by Miss Becky, so that blood was better washed off, that was all.

He moved to close the door without thinking, but Kelly kicked out with his foot to hold it open. “Uh-uh! Easy now . . . Just the water and the towel, where I can see you.”

Benedikt studied himself in the small mirror above the wash-basin.

He had not really bled very much—the cut was small, and not very deep—but he had spread what there had been quite artistically, to good effect.

“Michael!”

“Coming, Madam!” But in replying to her Kelly didn’t take his eye dummy1

off his prisoner. A careful man, was Gunner Kelly. A careful man . . .

He wiped his face slowly, taking his time to get his first proper view of the Irishman, and was repaid with similar scrutiny.

“Sure, and that’s nothin‘ then, is it? I cut meself worse than that shavin’ many a morning.” Kelly shook his

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