The sister in charge of the Treatment Room brought a Mrs Twitchett into the office. She was one of those fat women whose greatly over-powdered faces look like plasticine, and whose bosoms, if pricked, would surely subside with a loud bang and a gust of air. The sister introduced her to Sophia, saying that she had already been taken on at the local A.R.P. head-quarters as a part-time worker for St Anne’s; Sophia’s business was to note down all particulars on the card index.
‘Emma Twitchett,’ she wrote, ‘144 The Boltons. Qualifications, First Aid, Home Nursing and Gas Certificates. Next of kin, Bishop of the Antarctic. Religion, The Countess of Huntingdon’s Connexion.’
Here Sophia looked up sharply and saw, what in her preoccupation had not hitherto dawned on her, that Emma Twitchett was none other than Rudolph. For the first moment of crazy relief she thought that he must know everything and have come to rescue her, Milly and Sir Ivor. Then she realized that this could not be the case. He was merely bored and lonely without her, and was hoping that he would get back into favour by means of an elaborate joke. It was absolutely important to prevent him from giving himself away in the office, while under the impression that they were alone. Sophia was only too conscious of the eye in the hessian. As soon as she had scribbled down Mrs Twitchett’s particulars, she hurried him out into the Post.
Although it could not be said that Sophia had hitherto proved herself to be a very clever or successful counter-spy, she now made up for all her former mistakes by perfectly sensible behaviour. The luck, of which she had been so hopeful, had come her way at last and she did not allow it to slip through her fingers. She conducted Mrs Twitchett, as she always did new people, round the Post, chatting most amicably. She was careful to omit nothing, neither the rest room upstairs, the canteen, the ladies’ cloakroom nor the room with the nurses’ lockers. She hoped that Rudolph would notice, and remember afterwards, how Winthrop, without giving himself the trouble to dissimulate his movements, was following them closely during this perambulation. Sophia was only too thankful that it was Winthrop who, she estimated, was about half as intelligent as Heatherley. At last she took Mrs Twitchett to the exit and showed her out, saying ‘Very well then, that will be splendid; tomorrow at twelve. Oh yes, of course,’ she said rather hesitatingly and shyly, ‘Yes, naturally, Mrs Twitchett, I’ll lend you mine.’ She took out her handkerchief and offered it to Rudolph with a smile. ‘No, of course, bring it back any time. I have another in my bag; it’s quite all right. Good, then, see you tomorrow; that will be very nice. So glad you are coming; we are rather short-handed, you know.’
She went back without even glancing at Winthrop who was hovering about inside the Post, and who followed her to the office. Then she sat for a while at her table trembling very much and expecting that any moment she would be summoned to the drain, but as time went on and nothing had happened, she took up her knitting. If she had a certain feeling of relief that, at any rate, she had been able to take a step towards communication with the outside world, she was also tortured with doubts as to whether Rudolph would ever see what was written on the handkerchief and whether, if he did, he would not merely say that women were bores in wars. Olga had certainly queered the pitch for her rivals in the world of espionage as far as Rudolph was concerned. Also, if he did have the luck to read and the sense to follow her directions, would he be in time? He must hurry; she felt sure that after tomorrow any action which might be taken would be too late to save Milly and the old gentleman, certainly too late to catch Florence. Tomorrow was what the posters call zero hour. The rest of that day dragged by even more horribly slowly than the preceding one, and there was no sign from Rudolph. She could not help half expecting that he would have got some kind of a message through to her; when seven o’clock arrived and there was nothing, she was bitterly disappointed. Heatherley conducted her home in a taxi, dined with her and never let her out of his sight until Florence was ready to take charge of her. Sophia did not sleep a single wink; she lay strenuously willing Rudolph to read her handkerchief.
On the morning of the third and last day, Sophia would have been ready to construe anything which seemed at all mysterious into a code message from Rudolph. But nothing of the sort
