Froulish dragged himself to his feet; his figure could be dimly made out through the fog. ‘This way!’ shouted Charles. They had become characters in a film trying to escape from a jungle fire, or convicts breaking away in a Dartmoor fog. Clawing the air in front of him, his face green and soaked in perspiration, Froulish emerged; and Charles, swiftly catching his swaying figure, seized him by the arm and dragged him out into the clear air.

It seemed natural, though Froulish uttered no word of invita­tion, for Charles to accompany him to his dwelling; once he had recovered from the fumes, the novelist slouched rapidly away down a side street with the air of one who expected to be accom­panied. Neither spoke as they moved through the tangle of little streets at the edge of the town, where amid the drabness of backyards and terrace houses the countryside made small incursions, thrusting a green tendril here and there, a bank of nettles, a hedge, a tall tree. Presently they drew near a long wooden shed with an empty yard in front of it. As Froulish led the way across this yard, they heard the sound of female voices raised in angry dispute. There were two of them talking at once, so that it was difficult to gather what they were saying, but after a moment it became clearer that the shriller of the two was repeating over and over again, ‘Not another hour! Not another hour!’

‘Hell fire!’ exclaimed Froulish, stopping dead. ‘It’s her! We’d better not go in.’

Evidently the burdens which Betty had shouldered on behalf of Literature included facing the enraged landlady single-handed; for Charles felt no doubt that it was the landlady; the passion in that voice told him plainly that the subject under discussion was money. Froulish had turned away and was beginning to scurry back across the yard, when a window flew open above their heads and a seamed malicious face, the face of a witch, surmounted by thin grey hair drawn back into a bun, was thrust out.

‘Mr. Froulish!’ screamed the widow, ‘Don’t you think you can get away! I’ve seen yer—come up here!’

Twitching hideously, the man of letters hesitated. Flight seemed so easy, surrender so repellent.

‘It’s yer only chance,’ shouted the harridan in triumph. ‘Either yer do business with me or there won’t be anywhere for yer to come back to—you and yer WIFE,’ she scoffed, packing a world of incredulity, hatred, and envy into the last word.

At that, another head appeared at the window, several inches above the widow’s vibrating bun. It was a long, haggard face, with high cheekbones, a scarlet mouth, and one eye just visible through cascading hair. It spoke with a voice as far below the other’s as its position in space was higher.