‘Die Freundin.’

‘And male friend?’

‘Der Freund.’

‘Freundin and Freund,’ he repeated. He wrote them in his book.

‘They can mean boyfriend and girlfriend, too,’ Maggie added.

When he concentrated hard like this, frowning and grimacing, his handsome face was quite spoiled. He opened his mouth again. Any second now … he was going to …

‘Miss—’

‘Nein!’ Maggie snapped. It came out rather louder than she’d intended. She mouthed, ‘Sorry!’ The banking hall wasn’t far away; someone might have heard.

‘Nein,’ she repeated, more quietly. ‘Wir müssen Deutsch reden.’

‘Deutsch?’ he repeated. ‘German?’ He’d understood that much at least.

‘Wir,’ Maggie said, pointing to herself and then to him. Wasn’t it obvious that she was saying ‘we’? But his face was blank.

She had to look away so he didn’t see her smiling. This was going to be another of those lessons when his Lordship was too distracted to take anything in.

Suddenly, he stood up, unlocked a drawer in his desk, took out an envelope and handed it to her.

‘I hadn’t been planning on asking you this, Miss Corbett. Or, at least, not yet. But time is of the essence. Would you mind? There’s a letter in there. In German. Would you mind? Could you read it and tell me what it says?’

* * *

As she left his Lordship’s office an hour later, Maggie felt happier than she’d felt for ages, since she’d come to Snowden, in fact.

She almost skipped the few yards back to the banking hall.

She was of use, at last! She understood now, why, all those weeks ago, Mrs Leibervich had told her this would be ‘essential work’. Her old teacher was a friend of the family; she must have had an idea of what Lord Ashford was trying to do. He was bringing endangered people – adult Jews – out of Nazi Germany and smuggling them into Britain.

* * *

No one looked up when she entered the Long Gallery. It was oddly silent, as though everyone were holding their breath. Miss Sharp was concentrating, head down. Pam’s desk at the front – and Nancy’s too – were empty. Something didn’t feel right.

Maggie slid into her seat. ‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered to Elsie.

Elsie’s back stiffened. She half turned in her seat. Her eyes were red. She whispered back, ‘Jim’s in the drink. Pam’s had a letter from his mother.’

In the drink! Gosh, that was bad news. He must have been shot down, over the Channel or the North Sea. She wanted to ask more but Elsie had already turned back to her work and the room was as quiet as a church. No telephones rang, no typewriters clattered, no drawers squeaked or slammed. Everyone was working or, at least, they were pretending to.