The lamps shine down on tables covered with papers. John is tapping on a machine, and in a recess in the wall Peter is sitting with earphones round his neck, writing eagerly on a pad.

They are so absorbed that they scarcely look up when Stig unlocks the door and lets himself in. Stig goes across to read what Peter is writing on his pad. Then he starts on his own work: secret reports that have come in, to be decoded and put into the right hands; orders that come from other deep cellars, and from more powerful persons than himself. He corrects the material to be sent out: the fresh proofs that John keeps on taking out of his press, reports received by Peter. It all has to be sent out to people who are impatiently waiting for it. Hurry as fast as you can; that’s how it always is here. Soon someone will be knocking on the door to collect the papers.

After a while the door opens silently and young Henry comes in. He is strained and sweating. He tosses Stig a letter. Stig sits reading it closely. Henry cannot spare any time to relax but must start in on the papers on the table. In the meantime he tells John at his side in a low voice, ‘Christopher has been taken’.

‘Christopher!’ repeats John, shocked.

‘Yes, quite near here. They took him in the middle of the corridor.’

‘So this is crucial,’ says John.

Henry does not answer. A shiver goes down his spine. He knows what the capture of Christopher means. How close it has come.

So this is crucial. That’s what they think of first. It’s crucial whether Christopher will manage to keep silent during his ordeal; if not, several more of them will be killed immediately. Perhaps it will touch them in here as well. That is why young Henry shivers a little. So this is crucial. Someone has been struck down in the silent struggle raging in the bewitched house.

They carry on with their tasks.

Peter’s face is white and still. There is dedication in it, a dedication that never retracts by a hair’s breadth from what must be done, and which lends weight and seriousness to whatever is undertaken. He is tired and needs sleep, like the others. He has finished inside his recess and comes over to ask Henry urgently, ‘What is it?’

‘It’s Christopher.’

‘Have they found him?’

‘Yes.’

Stig has come over to them too. He knows all about it from the paper Henry gave him.

‘Yes. It must have been someone who broke down,’ he tells them. ‘Christopher and three others have had to pay for it.’

They are silent. No condemnation of the frantic wretch who gave names away when he should not have done so. No one knows one’s own limitations there; you may be doing the same thing soon. But they are silent. New clues extend from Christopher. Now he is there, in the centre. Inside the wall.