“Ye gods, it makes me wild!” apostrophised Nigel. “And they call this a free country. Free!”

Angela, who was next to Banks, dared not look at her. Banks’s needles clicked resolutely.

“Do you think,” ventured Angela after a pause, “do you think we could ever make any headway down in the dear old village?”

“The dear old village, so quaint and old-world,” gibed Nigel. “So typically English, don’t you know. No, I don’t. The only headway you could make there would be with a charge of dynamite. God, I’d like to see it done!”

“They’ll all be in heavy mourning now, of course.”

“Yes—for Sir Derek Bloody O’Callaghan.”

They both laughed uproariously and then Angela said: “Ssh—be careful,” and glanced apprehensively at Banks. She was smiling.

“I wonder if he’s here yet?” whispered Angela.

“Who?”

“Kakaroff.”

“There’s someone going on to the platform now.”

“Claude! Can it be he?”

This exclamation sounded so incredible that she instantly regretted it and was infinitely relieved to hear Miss Banks remark in a firm baritone:

“Comrade Kakaroff isn’t here yet. That’s Comrade Robinson.”

“Thanks ever so,” said Angela brightly. “We’re strangers ourselves and don’t know anybody, but we’re terribly keen.”

Banks smiled.

“You see,” continued Angela, “we come from the backwoods of Dorset, where everything died about the time Anne did.”

“The counties,” said Banks, “are moribund, but in the North there are signs of rebirth.”

“That’s right!” ejaculated Nigel fervently. “I believe it will come from the North.”

“I hope you were not very shocked at what my gentleman-friend said just now about O’Callaghan?” Angela ventured.

“Shocked!” said Banks. “Scarcely!” She laughed shortly.

“Because, you see we come from the same place as his family and we’re about fed to the back teeth with the mere name. It’s absolutely feudal—you can’t imagine.”

“And every election time,” said Nigel, “they all trot along like good little kids and vote for dear Sir Derek once again.”

“They won’t do that any more.”

The other seats in their row filled up with a party of people engaged in an earnest and rather blood-thirsty conversation. They paid no attention to anyone but themselves. Nigel continued the approach of Banks.

“What did you think about the inquest?” he asked blandly.

She turned her head slowly and looked at him.

“I don’t know,” she said. “What did you?”

“I thought it was rather peculiar myself. Looks as if the police know something. Whoever had the guts to fix O’Callaghan I reckon was a national hero. I don’t care who knows it, either,” said Nigel defiantly.