Before long, I note my surroundings. Somehow I already passed through the second intersection, a joining of five roads, where I should have gone northeast to reach the estate entrance. Instead I took a soft right and will now have to double back. I curse my distractedness as much as the scarcity of signposts. Throughout England, many markers were removed to confuse any German troops that might parachute in. The sheer prospect encourages me to hurry back to my route.

But the sound of low voices stops me.

From my right, murmurings drift from a side street shielded by trees. I extinguish my flashlight. It’s outlandish to think the area has been invaded. Still, curiosity and imagination lure me to peek, just to be sure.

My vision strains through the moonlit air. Past a thick tangle of branches, I make out two shadowed men in fedoras and long coats. One of the fellows holds a blue-tinted flashlight, which he suddenly aims in my direction. I go still as stone, save for my racing pulse. Does he see me, sense that I’m here?

After a moment, he twists back and passes along a package. Everything about this feels questionable, covert. More garbled conversation follows. Then he picks up the handled bag at his feet and the other man climbs into his motorcar and starts the engine. The headlamps, fitted with slotted masks, softly shine.

I duck deeper into the greenery. Nerves prickle my skin as the vehicle rolls up. It barely pauses before turning right and rumbling off. The motor wanes, but footsteps grow closer. I hold my breath and peer through squinted eyes. Just a few yards from me, the fellow walks by with his flashlight directed at the ground. He’s proceeding the way I came.

It’s then that I glimpse his face. I know that nose, those specs. That stature and gait.

Hutton’s.

A small burst of relief sweeps through me. I’m tempted to jump up and share my foolishness, but then I reassess.

What was he doing out here?

It’s no secret he works seven days a week, eighteen hours a day. To the point of obsession. But why meet on a side street in the dark of night, and this close to headquarters, just to hand over…what? The size and wrappings—light paper with twine, from what I could see—have all the makings of a box I know. The parcel from the station. In fact, I’ve brought him several just like it though have yet to witness a single one opened.

I rise with caution. Ensuring a furtive gap, I trail him toward the intersection, where he veers in the direction of Wilton Park. But as I come around the corner, it seems he up and vanished. I continue toward the entrance and still he’s not there.

Not on the street. Not at the gate.

When I arrive at his office, I discover it vacant.