“Where is he?” demanded Tim sharply, ignoring Ivan and addressing himself to Brett and Majendie.

“Slipped out,” said Brett coldly.

“Where? When?”

“Some time ago. How should I know where?”

There was a pause.

“No guts, these people,” said Tim at length, with something of the chill of an upper civil servant condemning a lapse into humanity. “Why the devil didn’t you keep an eye on him?” he reproached the driver.

“Got them in the back of my head, have I? How could I know he was going to jump?”

The driver was furious. He leaned forward, seized Ivan’s arm, pulled him out of the car and shoved him into a sitting position on the footboard. “Why didn’t you shout, jelly boy?” he said, whacking the back of his hand so savagely across Ivan’s face that Brett was only just quick enough in shooting out his bound legs to break Ivan’s backward fall.

“All right, all right,” said Tim. “Don’t waste time. It can’t be helped. His loss, anyway. Come on, Bright Eyes. You’re going to change places.”

He hooked his arm under Ivan’s and pulled him to his feet. Still supporting him, he walked away, followed resentfully by the driver.

“A Karukhin!” Majendie sounded appalled.

Brett said nothing. He stared out of the window, trying to pierce the distance, to discover a shack, a clump of bushes, anything that might give cover. But were they, in fact, at Richborough? Majendie could be wrong; and he hadn’t named a place, only the river, and the Stour marsh was wide. Brett was turning to question him, when his eyes were caught by something between the cars.

Three figures, slightly foreshortened in the deceitful snow-light, were coming towards them, the two outside holding between them a third, much smaller, whose legs trailed like a helpless drunk’s. Who now? thought Brett. A name flashed through his head. It was absurd, impossible. But he looked hard at the approaching trio. It was true. He let out an exclamation, not knowing what.

“What is it?” cried Majendie.

“Stephanie,” said Brett.

The door was pulled open. Tim came first, backwards, carrying her shoulders. Duster held her feet. They set her down quickly on the floor, and went without a word, Tim making his way out by Majendie’s door and slamming it.

“Mr. Majendie!” she cried. “Oh, Mr. Majendie!”

“My dear, dear girl, thank God! I thought you might be hurt—you’re not?”

“No, no, I’m just tied up. Oh, Mr. Majendie—” She burst into tears.

Brett was amazed by his detachment, so cool that it verged on boredom. He saw that he had been wrong, and Majendie right, about Stephanie; yet the understanding brought him no relief nor remorse. All his anxiety, all the events of the afternoon, seemed thin dreams. He heard Majendie uttering sounds such as emanate from a hen house on a sunny afternoon, quite well calculated to soothe. He saw and felt that Duster having gone back to the wheel, had started the engine and was driving them slowly out to the open space on the right. From their lurching, lopsided progress, Brett gathered that the snow covered no longer so much as a track, only rough grassland. With an effort he brought his attention to bear on the inside of the cabin.