He pushed out of the steamy box into the street. The bitter cold could not neutralise the café-emanations of fish and chips and vinegar, in which the road seemed steeped; but it served to enhance the seasonable contents of the shops—tangerines, nuts, fir trees, boxes of frilly crackers, row on row of trussed turkeys lit by a ghastly glare of fluorescence. Nature, in awe to Him, Had doffed her gaudy trim. Human nature was more than making up for climate deficiencies, and preparing to commemorate the event with its customary wallowing. Brett looked along a chain of windows, gaudy with red and silver, dabs of cotton wool, strings of fairy lights. His mind dwelt on the sombre browns of the Karukhins’ room. What, if any, incredible fairy lights had sparkled in that trunk? He began to imagine a Christmas tree in a platinum tub, its emerald branches festooned with diamonds; gold ikons piled at its foot were the presents.

Presents. He still had nothing for Christina, and with only two shopping days left he was beginning to feel frantic; especially as each thing he thought of seemed on reflection trite, trivial, or dully utilitarian. But the sight of a bus, stationary at the stop, put the matter out of his head. He ran to join himself to the end of the queue.

* * *

“You know him well by sight?” he said into his office ’phone, sometime later. “You’re sure? He’s at the Haymarket. He’s bound to be in a decent seat and it’s a good exit to watch anyway. You might catch the last interval, but don’t bother if not. See him home—he’ll be in a taxi—and the minute he’s indoors let me know. Mind what you’re doing, now. I’ve just come from his house and I think it’s watched—or I am. Either way it’s bad. If you don’t see him at all, let me know that too, as soon as you’re sure. Yes, I’ll be here. Thank you.”

He rang off. On the whole, he felt it was he who had been the object of someone’s curiosity. He’d not been aware that he was followed until he’d rung the bell at Majendie’s own door; but then the sensation had come on him very strongly. A glance up and down the street had shown him several people on both sides, all walking purposefully and appearing in no way suspicious. That apparent innocence meant less than nothing to him. He knew by instinct that one or even some of the passersby had marked the visitor awaiting admission. What helped him to conclude that he was, or had been, of greater significance to them than the house was that when he’d left, a few minutes later, there was no one near enough for observation. They might have hidden, but he doubted it. He’d walked into Marylebone Road, taken a taxi, and had ordered it first, as an evasive precaution, to Baker Street, then back to the Place, which had been remarkably empty. So he had returned to the office, not in the least flattered to have roused such interest.