As it swung to, he realised that the corridor was a cul de sac. He must either return foolishly in front of the assistant, so foolishly as to appear suspicious, or plunge into one of the offices and concoct a fable to account for his presence. The latter would be embarrassing especially if he burst in on Guzmann and whoever had invited him—the hypothetical Mr. Kellett. Altogether he was walking as slowly as he dared, the need to make up his mind was pressing. He had already passed one door. He would, he decided, go to the window which ended the corridor, look through for a minute, then return to the shop and get out at full speed. If challenged by an assistant, he would imply that he was a surveyor. If someone came out of the offices, he would trust to his powers of extempore invention. But suddenly he saw that they would not be tested. The door frame at the far end of the right wall held no door; it opened not on a room but on a downward flight of steps. Plainly a conversion had at some time been made in the building.

He was relieved; but in case the assistant should be watching him through the glass of the swing doors he paused for a moment at the window before turning down the stairs, in order to avoid giving an impression of nervous haste. He found himself looking down on the ‘back alley’, as Stephanie called it. And as he stood there, a sound began faintly. It came, he judged from the room on the right, which had been truncated to make way for the stairs. Someone in there was playing a record of O Paradiso.

Brett moved down to the second stair, temporarily hidden from anyone. The record was an old one. Even allowing for the muffling effect of a wall, he could detect the flat background, so different from the vaulted resonance beloved of modern electrical engineers. He was puzzled that he was able to hear it at all. The new wall was, no doubt, for structural reasons, comparatively thin. He studied it; and saw, near the top and near where he stood, a ventilating grille, through which the sound issued.

He held his breath and strained his ears, just discerning a piano accompaniment, a tinny oscillation well at the back of the vocal line. As usual, the voice had suffered less from the deficiencies of the infant science. It did not sound as if it were being squeezed out of the skylight of some physical attic, as is often the way with tenors. It was open, virile, even in tone, effortlessly smooth, and of an unforced power which indicated reserves on which the singer had never needed to draw. Yet strength was combined with taste and expressiveness. This man, thought Brett, was a tenor and a half.