The corridors through which Nunn and Goldwasser walked on their way to Nunn’s office were completely deserted. They were haunted by a distant murmur like the ghostly sea inside a shell. It came from the foyer, and it was composed of the rustling of a hundred silk dresses, the clearing of two hundred throats, the scraping of four hundred feet against the floor, the whispering of four thousand little nervous jokes.

‘It’s ten to three,’ said Goldwasser, clearing his throat as they strode along.

‘This will only take two minutes,’ said Nunn.

‘But wouldn’t it be better to leave it till afterwards?’

‘My dear old chap, it’ll be too late afterwards.’

Goldwasser stopped uncertainly. He could not imagine what it could be that had to be done so urgently, and there was something unreal, almost nightmarish, about Nunn’s complete calm.

‘We could discuss it here, couldn’t we?’ he said. ‘There’s no need to go all the way up to your office, is there?’

‘It’s rather a ticklish subject,’ said Nunn.

‘What is it, then?’

They faced each other across the empty corridor. Nunn slowly rubbed the side of his nose.

‘To be quite blunt,’ he said, ‘it’s a matter of security.’

‘Security?’

‘I’m afraid there’s a weak link in the chain. It’s imperative that we deal with him before the Queen arrives.’

‘Who is it?’

Nunn looked Goldwasser straight in the eye.

‘Chiddingfold,’ he said.

Goldwasser was stunned. Without another word they resumed their way towards Nunn’s office. Goldwasser’s mind reeled from interrogative to interrogative. What? How? Why? When? Chiddingfold? Chiddingfold? Part of his mind saw the whole idea as clearly preposterous. But another part saw that it was an explanation which began to make many strange things about Chiddingfold’s behaviour seem clearer. His taciturnity – his remoteness – his coldness – his sense of being different from the other men – as if in a film of a breaking vase run backwards the pieces flew miraculously together and formed the clear and unmistakable image of a man whose security is suspect.

‘I can’t handle it on my own,’ said Nunn. ‘I had to have help. I picked you out from all the rest because I was pretty sure you were a sound man to have around in a tight corner.’

‘Well, I . . . well . . . I don’t quite see . . . I mean . . .’

‘All I want you to do is simply to obey my instructions. All right? Without question.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose . . .’

‘Jolly good. Here we are, then.’

They swept through Nunn’s outer office. It was empty; Miss Fram had long since gone down to take her place in the foyer. In the inner office Nunn shifted a ski-stick off the easy-chair.

‘Sit down,’ he commanded. ‘I’m going to fetch you my file on Chiddingfold. And a gun.’