The hotel sign swam out of the fog to meet them and they went through the entrance and mounted the rickety stairs. His room was at the end of the corridor and he opened the door, switched on the light and motioned her inside.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

The room had that strange, rather dead, atmosphere typical of cheap hotels the world over. There was a strip of worn carpet on the floor, an iron bed, a cheap wardrobe and locker. The one touch of luxury was the washbasin in the corner by the window and she hobbled across to it.

Surprisingly, there was plenty of hot water and she washed her face and hands, then examined herself in the mirror that was screwed to the wall above the basin. The scratch on her cheek was only superficial, but her suit was ruined. Otherwise she seemed to have sustained no real damage. She was sitting on the edge of the bed examining her ankle when he returned.

He placed a half-bottle of brandy and two glasses on top of the bedside locker and dropped to one knee beside her. “Any damage?”

She shook her head. “A nasty graze, that’s all.”

He pulled a battered fibre suitcase from under the bed and took out a heavy fisherman’s sweater which he dropped into her lap. “You’d better put that on. You’re wet through.”

When she had pulled it over her head and rolled up the long sleeves, he rested her right foot on his knee and bandaged the damaged ankle expertly with a folded handkerchief. She watched quietly.

He was of medium height, with broad shoulders, and wore the sort of clothes common to sailors. A cheap blue-flannel shirt and heavy working trousers in some dark material, held up by a broad leather belt with a brass buckle. But this was no ordinary man. He had a strange, hard enigmatic face, the face of a man few would care to trifle with. The skin was clear and bloodless; black, crisp hair in a point to the forehead. The eyes were the strangest feature, so dark that all light died in them.

On the wharf he had been terrible in his anger, competent and deadly, and when he looked up suddenly his dark eyes stared through her like glass. For the first time that night genuine fear moved inside her and then his whole face creased into a smile of quite devastating charm, so great, that he seemed to undergo a complete personality change.,

“You look about ten years old in that sweater.”

She smiled warmly and held out her hand. “My name is Anne Grant and I’m very grateful to you.”

“Mallory,” he said. “Neil Mallory.”

He touched her hand briefly, opened the brandy, poured a generous measure into one of the glasses and passed it to her. “I got the barman to phone for a taxi. It might be some time before it gets here.

“I’d like to know why the driver who brought me didn’t wait,” she said. “I asked him to.”

“They’re not too keen on hanging around the dock area at night. It’sa rough place and taxi-drivers are obvious targets.” He grinned. “That goes double for good-looking young women, by the way.”

She smiled ruefully. “Don’t rub it in. I’d no idea what I was letting myself in for, but I was getting desperate. I’d been waiting in Lulworth for someone for most of the day. When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to show up I decided to come looking for him.”

“Van Sondergard?” Mallory said. “I heard you ask the barman about him.”

“Did you know him?”

“He had a room along the corridor from here. I had a drink with him once when he came in the bar. Nothing more than that. Where did you meet him?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “The whole thing was arranged through the seamen’s pool. I told them I need someone to take a motor-cruiser across to the Channel Islands for me and captain her for a month or so until my sister-in-law and I were capable of looking after her ourselves. I also told them we’d prefer someone who’d done a little skin-diving. They put me in touch with Sondergard.” She sighed. “He seemed rather keen on the idea. I’d love to know what changed his mind.”

“It was very simple really. He was sitting in the bar half drunk, feeling rather sorry for himself, when one of his old captains walked in, due out on the morning tide for Suez and short of a quartermaster. Three drinks was all it took for Sondergard to pack his duffel and go off with him. Sailors have a habit of doing things like that.”

He swallowed his brandy, took out an old leather cigarette case and offered her one. “Are you a sailor, Mr. Mallory,” she asked as he struck a match and held it forward in cupped hands.

He shrugged. “Amongst other things. Why?”

“I wasn’t sure. If I’d been asked I’d have said you were a soldier.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I think you could say I know the breed. My father was one and so was my husband. He was killed in Korea.”

There didn’t seem anything to say and Mallory lit a cigarette and walked to the window. He peered outside, then turned.

“The motor-cruiser you mentioned, what kind is it?”

“A thirty-footer by Akerboon. Twin screw, steel hull.”

“Only the best?” He looked suitably impressed. “How’s she powered?”

“Penta petrol engine. She’ll do about twenty-two knots at full stretch.

“Depth-sounder, automatic steering, every latest refinement?” He grinned. “I’d say she must have cost you all of seven thousand pounds.”

“Not me,” she said. “My father-in-law. All I did was obey orders. He told me exactly what he wanted.”

“Sounds like a man who’s used to getting his own way.”

She smiled. “A habit he finds hard to break. He’s a major-general.”

“Grant?” Mallory frowned. “Are you talking about Iron Grant? The Western Desert man?”

She nodded. “That’s right. He’s been living in the Channel Islands since he left the army. I keep house for him.”

“What does the old boy do with himself these days?”

“He’s almost blind now,” she said, “but he’s still amazingly active and he’s made quite a reputation for himself as a war historian. He uses a tape-recorder and his daughter Fiona and I type up his notes for him.”

“You said you wanted Sondergard to have had some experience as skin-diver? Why was that?” “It wasn’t essential, but he could have been useful. In the fifteenth century a small fishing village and fortress on lie de Roc were inundated. The ruins are now about eight fathoms down a few hundred yards off-shore. We’re making a survey. Fiona and I have been doing most of the diving so far.”

“Sounds interesting,” he said. “You shouldn’t find any difficulty in getting another man from the pool to take on a job like that.”

As he looked out of the window and down into the yellow fog she said quietly, “I was wondering whether you might be interested?”

He turned slowly, a slight frown on his face. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“What is there to know? You told me yourself you were a sailor.”

“From necessity,” he said. “Not choice.”

"You couldn’t handle Foxhunter, you mean?”

“Is that her name? Oh, yes, I’ve handled boats like that before. I’ve even done a little skin-diving.”

“Eighty pounds a month and all found,” she said. “Does that tempt you?”

He grinned reluctantly. “It does indeed, Mrs. Grant.”

She held out her hand in a strangely boyish gesture. “I’m glad.”

He held it for a moment, looking into her eyes gravely. Her smile faded, and, again she was conscious of that vague irrational fear. Something must have shown on her face. Mallory’s hand tightened on hers and he smiled gently. In that single moment her fear disappeared and an inexplicable tenderness flooded through her. A horn sounded outside in the street and he helped her to her feet.

“Time to go. Where are you staying?”

“An hotel in the town centre.”

“You should cause quite a sensation going through the foyer,” he told her as he took her arm and helped her across to the door.