“No, no one was there,” Eileen said, frowning. “I had to slide the map under the door. Did Mike ring up?”

“No, not yet. His train was likely delayed by a troop train or something.”

But she must not have succeeded in hiding her anxiety, because Eileen asked, “No trains were bombed today, were they?”

“No.” Not in London.

“Was Bletchley bombed?”

“I don’t know, but there were never any casualties at Bletchley Park. Come along, it’s time for supper. One of Mrs. Rickett’s Sunday-night ‘cold collations.’ ”

Tonight it consisted of sliced tongue and nettle salad. “I’m sorry I ever got my ration card,” Eileen said when she saw it. “I can’t wait till Mike finds Gerald and we can go home. Perhaps that’s why he hasn’t rung us, because someone on the train knew where Gerald was, and he’s gone off to find him.”

But when Mike finally rang up, moments before Polly had to leave for Notting Hill Gate for rehearsal, it was only to say he’d arrived. He hadn’t even left the station yet. And he was in a hurry. He told them he’d phone them again when he knew where he was staying and rang off before Polly could warn him to be careful.

But if the problem’s an increase in slippage, then it would have prevented him from going to Bletchley Park if he could affect events. There’s nothing to worry about, she told herself, and forced herself to concentrate on the problems of the admirable Crichton and Lady Mary.

The troupe was in their final week of rehearsals, and Sir Godfrey was in a foul mood. “No, no, no!” he shouted at Viv. “You say, ‘Here comes Ernest,’ before Ernest makes his entrance! Again. From ‘Father, we thought we should never see you again.’ ”

They started through the scene again.

“No, no, no!” Sir Godfrey thundered at Mr. Dorming. “Why can’t you remember? This is a comedy, not a tragedy. At the end of Act Three you are rescued from this island.”

“By a prince?” Mrs. Brightford’s little girl Trot asked.

“No, by a ship. Or, considering the rate at which this production is progressing, by the end of the war.”

“I think it should be by a prince,” Trot said.

“Take it up with the author,” Sir Godfrey growled. “Try it again. From ‘Here comes Ern—’ ”

“Sir Godfrey,” Lila interrupted. “You keep saying it’s a comedy, but how can it be when Lady Mary and Crichton are separated at the end?”

“Yes,” Viv said, “and why can’t they be together?”

“Because he is a butler and she is a lady. You and Mary,” he said, glaring at Polly as though this was her fault, “are far too young to ever have loved someone whom, for reasons of social class or age or circumstance, you could not be with, but I assure you lovers do sometimes face insurmountable obstacles.”

“But if they didn’t have to part,” Viv said, “it would make the ending so much more romantic.”