“Not much,” said Henry.

“Well, anyway, I bet something’s up,” Mike persisted. “I bet Uncle G.’s in a stink about something. He looks absolutely fed-up and he and Daddy have been yelling blue murder. I say, do you know Giggle’s fixed up my Hornby train? He’s absolutely wizard with trains. I bet he could—”

“Mike,” said Henry. “Did Mummy tell you to give the pot to Uncle Gabriel?”

“What? Oh. Well, no. You see Giggle and I were trying my Hornby in the passage and it goes absolutely whizzer now because—”

“The pot,” said Stephen.

“What? Well, I saw it through Mummy’s door so I just—”

A distant voice yelled “Violet!”

“Who’s that?” asked Frid.

“It’s Uncle G.,” explained Mike. “He’s in the lift. Giggle had his coat off because he says—”

“I’d better go to Mummy,” said Frid. “She may be in difficulties with the aunts. Come on, Patch.” They went out.

“What is the matter with Uncle G.?” asked Mike with casual insistence.

Stephen looked at him. “If you must know,” he said violently, “Uncle Gabriel is—”

“Never mind that,” said Colin. “Come on out of this, Step. We need air.”

“I think we had better go and talk to Father,” said Henry. “It’s beastly to leave him alone in there. Come on you two.”

The three boys went out together. Roberta was left in the dining-room with Mike.

“I suppose you’re not interested in Hornby trains,” said Mike with an unconvincing air of casualness.

“I’d like to see yours,” said Roberta.

“We could play with it now, of course. It’s in the passage in 26. That’s if you’d like it.”

“Aren’t there rather a lot of people about?” hedged Roberta lamely. “I mean aunts and people.”

“Well, of course I could bring it here. I’m allowed. Shall I, Robin? Shall I bring my Hornby in here?”

“Yes, do.”

Mike ran to the door but there he hesitated. He looked rather a solemn, pale little boy. “I say,” he said, “as a matter of fact I think Uncle Gabriel’s pretty ghastly.”

“Do you?” said Roberta helplessly.

A tall figure in chauffeur’s uniform appeared in the passage behind Mike.

“Oh, hullo Giggle,” cried Mike.

“Beg pardon, Miss,” said Giggle. “Beg pardon, Master Michael, but I’ve got to go. There’s that coupling—I’ve got it fixed. His lordship’s in a hurry, so if you—”

“I’ll come with you, Giggle,” said Mike warmly.

They disappeared together. Roberta heard Mike’s eager voice die away. “Violet!” yelled the distant voice again. She heard the groan of the lift. Roberta waited.

The tick of the carriage-clock came up again. In a distant part of the flat a door banged. The lift groaned once more. Outside, far beneath the windows and reaching away for miles and miles, surged the ocean of sound which is the voice of London. People were talking, now, in the room next door: A low murmur of voices.

Roberta felt lonely and irresolute and, for the moment, isolated from the calamity that had befallen her friends. She felt that wherever she went she would be hideously in their way. Perhaps if she played trains with Mike it would be a help. Mike was taking a long time. Roberta took a cigarette from a box on the sideboard and hunted about the room for matches. At last she found some. She lit her cigarette and leant over the window sill. She became aware of a new sound. It came up through her conscious thoughts, gaining definition and edge. It was a thin blade of sound, sharp and insistent. It grew louder. It was inside the building, an intermittent, horridly shrill noise that came closer. A hand closed round Roberta’s heart. Someone was screaming.