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London - he actually has a couple of el Grecos there now - and who is the most knowledgeable private eye who ever winked at Scotland Yard. Fact. I could tell you some stories about Mannering . . .”
    “Simon, please go and talk to those girls.”
    “Conditionally,” Simon said. “That I may be the last to leave.”
    He had been the last to leave. After the Mannerings, after all the youngsters, even after red-haired Susan Pengelly of the balloon front, who was hardly able to stand upright when the evening was over, and wanted to stay all night. In fact, Simon sent Joy on with a boy-friend, and did not leave until nearly ten o’clock. They got on to painting, of course, he was a dabbler too. They went to the studio, and became so absorbed that several times and for minutes on end Francesca forgot her father.
    When Simon had gone, she couldn’t forget for a minute. The maid and the hired staff had cleared the flat, but it still looked forlorn, untidy, empty. She felt empty, too. She couldn’t believe that her father would have let her down like this deliberately, and was beginning to feel frightened. Really frightened.
    When the telephone bell rang, she flew to it.
    “Hallo!”
    “Franky, listen,” said her father, and she went weak with relief. “I hate myself for what happened, but it was unavoidable. And I can’t explain now. I want you to do something for me. It is extremely important.”
    Relief fought with fresh fears which the tone of his voice brought on.
    “Are you there, Franky?”
    “Yes. Yes, I’m here, what . . .?”
    “Listen very carefully, Franky, please. Go into my bedroom, and pull up the carpet in the corner by the wardrobe. You needn’t pull it back far. You’ll see a loose floorboard. Prise that up, and take out the wash-leather bag you’ll find inside. Understand, Franky?”
    She felt like choking.
    “Yes. Yes, I understand. Then what shall I do?”
    “Bring the bag to me,” her father said. “I’m at Waterloo Station, I have to catch the late train to Southampton. I’ll be by the main bookstall - you know it well. Come as soon as you can, Franky.”
    “I - yes, I will.”
    “I’ll explain when you get here,” her father said, “goodbye for now, my darling.”
    He rang off.
    Francesca hesitated - and then began to act with frenzied haste. She was ready, with the wash-leather bag, when Cissie came in, guiltily: “Oh, Miss, there was this letter, it came during the party.” She had a typewritten envelope in her hand, marked “Special delivery”. “I expect it’s someone who couldn’t come . . .”
    “Yes,” Francesca said, huskily. She thrust the letter in her pocket. “Cissie, I want you to wait until I get back, sleep here the night if necessary.” She took agreement for granted, and hurried out.

 
3:   THE STATION AND THE RIVER
    Francesca sat in a corner of a taxi; still frightened. The wash-leather bag was in her handbag, clutched tightly in her hand. She had found it where her father had said she would, and hadn’t put it down while telephoning for the taxi, or when slipping into a three-quarter-length sealskin coat and hurrying downstairs.
    She had waited in a frenzy of impatience for the taxi.
    The telephone call, the mystery and the new fears, added to the ordeal of waiting for him and the shock of disappointment, had affected her nerves much more than she realised. She was actually clenching her teeth and trembling when the taxi drew up. Yet she had noticed the car which moved after her, seeing its twin lights in the driver’s mirror and feeling a sudden flare of hope that it was her father. She had jumped round, staring - and then remembered that she was going to meet him at Waterloo Station.
    The car was still behind her.
    They were passing the Houses of Parliament on one side, and an entrance to the Abbey on the other. The lighted streets were nearly empty, statues of dead famous men watched, the face of Big Ben was lighted, like the round, yellow