These were the formal oddments that people looked for, and they were not disappointed. But there was nothing more serious, nothing out of line, nothing crucial – however much Esther, forlorn and hopeless, might have prayed for disaster to overtake her. She did not dare to fail on purpose: that was a conviction ever present, looming above her every hour of every day … Though there were many times – after the Johannesburg visit was one of them – when the whole thing seemed to have become too wicked for her, too dangerous, too disgusting, and she begged to be allowed to give it up, yet her prayers died always on the margin of her lips, unacknowledged, ignored, falling into defeated silence, like faint torture-cries lost behind walls of monstrous thickness, unplumbable depth.

Mrs Bannister would not hear a word on the subject, and, meeting those level, competent, masterful eyes, Esther knew that she could never make a move of her own accord.

She remained, to the end, a prisoner isolated at the core of a huge swindle: alone, dishonoured, beyond hope of rescue or redemption. When Harry Grant had entered her room, and spoken to her in the knowledge that she could hear him, it had meant to Esther something more than the overturning of the heart in love. It was her first honest contact with the world she had mourned and coveted, for more than ten years.

Chapter Fifteen

It was very late when Esther finished – so late that for the last hour Harry Grant had had his ear cocked for the sound of the outer door, the return of Mrs Bannister. But they were left alone, in their uneasy, magical peace … It was very late, and Esther was tired and overwrought; when Harry said to her, at the end: “Come away with me now,” he did not really think that she should agree. There was nowhere for them to go; most of the hotels would be full, and he did not like the idea of their wandering about for half the night in search of shelter, with Esther near the limit of exhaustion, and likely to be recognized by a hotel clerk or a taxi driver, with all the complications that might follow.

She sat now on the edge of her bed, staring at him with shadowed, enormous eyes: even in tiredness, she was lovely, but it was a loveliness so frail and vulnerable that he knew he must not tax it further. She had cried once during her story, when she had told him of the last plea she made for deliverance, to Mrs Bannister; he had lent her a handkerchief, and quickly she had mastered her tears, and gone on with what she was telling him. But there must be no more tears that night, no more strain upon her.

When he said, again: “Come away, Esther,” she had nodded.

“Of course, Harry. You must take me away from all this. You’ll look after me well, I know … But tomorrow, not tonight.”