The snow was falling much less heavily. No sooner had he observed this than it was suddenly quite suspended, in a pocket or air lock like the one he had experienced on the main road. Quickly he took advantage of it to flood the beam of his torch and see the state of the road and the sides. All shapes were swollen by the snow and their edges blurred; but he could discern on the right the deceptively shallow depression which marked the course of the ditch, banked by a blobby hedge. A couple of yards away there was a gap in the hedge, and the ditch appeared to be bridged or filled; for the line of the depression was broken by level snow which led from the lane to what seemed a field. He could strike no trees with the long beam of his torch.

He walked as far as the gap in the hedge; and there, for no accountable reason, he stopped, and listened. Nothing broke the silence of the muffled countryside. Yet he switched off the torch and waited.

Some seconds passed. He was about to dismiss his urge to pause as a silly fancy, when he heard something; or rather, since he could hardly define a sound, he was aware that movement rippled through the stillness and was approaching him. Rapidly the movement became distinct, identifiable sounds; someone was running, floundering through the snow, gasping for breath. They were coming up behind him and to his right; therefore beyond the hedge. They were very close. When they reached the gap they would surely see him, whether they came through or not. They were level.

Brett saw the runner vaguely; alone, smaller than himself, not seeing him, staggering past the gap which led to the easier surface of the road. In a second, he realised that the runner was frightened. At the same time he recognised a certain quality in those sharp, heaved-in breaths. The runner was a woman.

He darted through the gap and flooded his torch along the inside of the hedge.

She stopped dead, and seemed to shrink together, standing paralysed like a rabbit trapped in the terror of headlights.

“Stephanie!” he cried, and leaped towards her. “Stephanie, it’s all right, don’t be afraid.”

She turned, slowly, perhaps at the sound of her name. He halted, and in an access of self-possession held out the torch and directed it back on his own face. A cry rushed out of her, uncontrolled as a gust of wind. She stumbled forward, one hand outstretched.

“It’s you,” she cried, “oh, it’s you, it’s you!”

He clasped the hand, but said nothing. He was astonished; then alarmed; and then doubtful. Was she a decoy flung out by Majendie? It was possible. Even that would not settle her complicity. Majendie could have spun the yarn, no doubt. But she was badly shaken by something. She was clinging to his arm as if she would never let it go. What then? Experience gave priority to one explanation; reprehensible conduct on the part of a man; in this case, Majendie. Brett felt that he only now fully appreciated the services of women police; to whom, had he been on duty, he would promptly have handed any girl who confronted him with such a display of emotion.