To Nigel’s amusement Inspector Alleyn turned red in the face, and for the first time in their acquaintance seemed at a loss for an answer.

“Has no one ever told you you are handsome, inspector?” pursued Angela innocently.

“Fox raves over me,” said Alleyn. “What are you standing there for Bathgate, with that silly grin on your face? Have you ordered the taxi? Have you had a drink?”

Nigel had done neither of these things. However, this was soon remedied and in a couple of minutes they were in a taxi, heading for the Embankment.

“We’ll walk the last part of the way,” said Alleyn. “Here are your tickets. We got these three with a good deal of difficulty. The brethren are becoming rather exclusive. Now do be careful. Remember The Times criticised me for employing Bright Young People in the Frantock case. Repeat your lesson.”

They did this, interrupting each other a good deal, but giving the gist of his instructions.

“Right. Now it’s only eleven-twenty. We’re early, but there will be plenty of people there already. With any luck I’ll spot Banks and you may get near her. If not, drift in her direction afterwards. I’ll be near the door. As you come out brush up against me, and if you’ve been shown the Sage, point him out to each other so that I can hear you. See? Good. Here’s where we get out, for fear of seeming proud.”

He stopped the taxi. They were still down by the river. The air felt chilly and dank, but exciting. The river, busy with its night traffic, had an air of being apart and profoundly absorbed. There were the wet black shadows, broken lights, and the dark, hurried flow of the Thames towards the sea. London’s water-world was about its nightly business. The roar of the streets became unimportant and remote down here, within sound of shipping sirens and the cold lap of deep water against stone.

Alleyn hurried them along the Embankment for a short way and then turned off somewhere near Blackfriars Underground Station. They went up a little dark street that resembled a perspective in a woodcut. A single street lamp, haloed in mist, gave accent to shadows as black as printer’s ink. Beyond the lamp a flight of stone steps led dramatically downwards. They followed these steps, came out in a narrow alley, took several more turns and fetched up at last by an iron stairway.

“Up you go,” said Alleyn. “We’ve arrived.”

The stairs ended in an iron landing which rang coldly under their feet. Here, by a closed door, stood a solitary man, who struck his hands together and blew on his fingers. Alleyn showed him his ticket, which he inspected by the light of an electric torch. Nigel and Angela followed. The man flashed his torch on their faces, a disconcerting business.

“New, aren’t you?” he said to Nigel.

“Yes,” said Angela quickly, “and terribly excited. Will it be a good meeting?”

“Should be,” he answered, and opened the door behind him. They went through and found themselves in a narrow passage lit by a solitary globe at the far end. Under this lamp stood another man, who watched them steadily as they came towards him. Angela took Nigel’s arm.

“ ‘Evening,” said Alleyn.

“ ‘Evening, comrade,” said the man self-consciously. “You’re early to-night.”

“That’s right. Many here?”

“Not many yet. Show your tickets, please.” He turned to the others. “You newcomers?”

“Yes,” said Nigel.

“I’ll have to take your names, comrades.”

“That’s new,” remarked Alleyn.

“Instructions from headquarters. We’ve got to be more careful.”

“Just as well. I’m bringing Miss Northgate and Mr. Batherston. Friends of Comrade Marcus Barker.” He spelt the names while the man wrote them down. “They come from Clearminster-Storton, Dorset, and are both right-minded.”

“Anything doing in your part of the world?” asked the man.

“Gosh, no!” said Nigel. “All landed gentry, bourgeoisie and wage-slaves.”

“Bone from the eyes up,” added Angela perkily.

The man laughed loudly.

“You’ve said it! Just sign these cards, will you?”

With an effort they remembered their new names and wrote them at the foot of two pieces of pasteboard that seemed to be inscribed with some sort of profession of secrecy. Angela felt rather guilty. While they did this someone came in at the outside door and walked along the passage. The man took their cards, pulled open the door and turned to the newcomer. Led by Alleyn, they all walked through the door, which immediately was shut behind them.

They found themselves in a large room that still looked like a warehouse. Six office lamps with china shades hung from the ceiling. The walls were unpapered plaster in bad condition. A few Soviet propagandist posters, excellent in design, had been pasted on the walls. The Russian characters looked strange and out of place. At the far end a rough platform had been run up. On the wall behind it was an enlarged photograph of Lenin draped in a grubby festoon of scarlet muslin. There were some thirty people in the room. They stood about in small groups, talking quietly together. One or two had seated themselves among the chairs and benches that faced the platform. Nigel, who prided himself on this sort of thing, tried to place some of them. He thought he detected a possible newsagent, two undergraduates, three Government school teachers, compositors, shopkeepers, a writing bloke or two, and several nondescripts who might be anything from artists to itinerant hawkers. There were one or two women of the student type, but as Alleyn made no sign, Nigel concluded that none of these was Nurse Banks. Evidently the inspector had been to former meetings. He went up to a middle-aged, vehement-looking man with no teeth, who greeted him gloomily and in a little while began to talk very excitedly about the shortcomings of someone called Sage. “He’s got no guts,” he repeated angrily, “no guts at all.”

More people came in at intervals; a few looked like manual labourers, but the majority seemed to belong to that class abhorred of Communists, the bourgeoisie. Nigel and Angela saw Alleyn point them both out to his gloomy friend, who stared morosely at them for a moment and then burst into an offensive guffaw. Presently Alleyn rejoined them.

“My friend has just come in,” he said quietly. “She’s that tall woman in a red hat.”

They looked towards the door and saw the tall woman. Her face, as well as her hat, was red, and was garnished with pince-nez and an expression of general truculence. Banks was a formidable out of uniform as she was in it, Alleyn reflected. She glanced round the room and then marched firmly towards the second row of chairs.

“Off you go,” murmured Alleyn. “Remember, you come from O’Callaghan’s county, but are not of it.”

They walked down the centre aisle and seated themselves alongside Nurse Banks.

She produced an uncompromising mass of wool, grey in colour, and began to knit.

“Don’t you feel ever so excited, Claude?” asked Angela loudly in a very second-rate voice.

Nigel suppressed a slight start and checked an indignant glance.

“It’s a wonderful experience, Pippin,” he replied.

He felt Angela quiver.

“I wish I knew who everyone was,” she said. “We’re so out of touch. These are the people who are really getting things done and we don’t know their names. If only Mr. Barker had been here.”

“Ye gods, it makes me wild!” apostrophised Nigel. “And they call this a free country. Free!”

Angela, who was next to Banks, dared not look at her. Banks’s needles clicked resolutely.

“Do you think,” ventured Angela after a pause, “do you think we could ever make any headway down in the dear old village?”

“The dear old village, so quaint and old-world,” gibed Nigel. “So typically English, don’t you know. No, I don’t. The only headway you could make there would be with a charge of dynamite. God, I’d like to see it done!”