Friday, the day before the concert, marked the beginning of a crescendo in the affairs of Wai-ata-tapu. It began at breakfast. The London news bulletin was more than usually ominous and the pall of depression that was in the background of all New Zealanders’ minds at that time seemed to drag a little nearer. Colonel Claire, looking miserable, ate his breakfast in silence. Questing and Simon were both late for this meal, and one glance at Simon’s face convinced Dikon that something had happened to disturb him. He had black marks under his eyes and an air of angry satisfaction. Mr Questing, too, looked as if he had not slept well. He spared them his customary sallies of matutinal playfulness. Since their drive to Harpoon two days ago, Dikon had tried to adjust his ideas of Mr Questing to that of a paid enemy agent. He had even kept awake for an hour or two beyond his usual time watching the face of Rangi’s Peak. But, although Mr Questing announced his intention each night of dining at the hotel in Harpoon and had not returned when the rest of the party went to bed, the Peak changed from wine to purple and from purple to black outside Dikon’s window and no points of light had pricked its velvet surface. At last he lost patience with watching and fell asleep. On both mornings he awoke with a dim recollection of hearing a car come round the house to the garages. Simon, he knew, had watched each night and he felt sure that the second vigil had been fruitful. Dikon fancied that Questing had delivered a final notice to the Claires, as at Friday’s breakfast they bore an elderly resemblance to the Babes in the Wood. They ate nothing and he caught them looking at each other with an air of bewilderment and despair.

Smith, who seemed to be really shaken by his jump from the bridge, breakfasted early, a habit that kept up the tradition that he worked for his keep.

The general atmosphere of discomfort and suspense was aggravated by the behaviour of Huia, who, after placing a plate of porridge before Dr Ackrington, burst into tears and ran howling from the room.

‘What the devil’s the matter with the girl?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve said nothing.’

‘It’s Eru Saul,’ said Barbara. ‘He’s been waiting for her again when she goes home, Mummy.’

‘Yes, dear. Ssh!’ Mrs Claire leant towards her husband and said in her special voice: ‘I think, dear, that you should speak to young Saul. He’s not the desirable type.’

‘Oh, damn!’ muttered the Colonel.

Mr Questing pushed his chair back and walked quickly from the room.

‘That’s the joker you ought to speak to, Dad,’ said Simon, jerking his head at the door. ‘You’ve only got to look at the way he carries on with—’

‘Please, dear!’ said Mrs Claire, and the party relapsed into silence.