He was never one to ask questions, but he found himself wondering now about the man who was fast slipping into unconsciousness in his hold; this young, level-eyed, unobtrusive man with the very quiet voice—not much past thirty—who without even writing C.I.D. after his name was understood to have brought off some of the most ticklish jobs in the United Kingdom—well, yes, a secret agent if you put it that way—very highly thought of at the Home Office—knew dialects—knew natives—always knew, they said at Peshawur, where the corpse was hidden. Pearson was crazy, letting him start out alone this time. Well, Pearson had found that out, a bit late, and sent after him—sent one fairly good wing-commander in a small pursuit plane, instead of an army transport with a few good fellows carrying rifles. Less conspicuous, said Pearson. Quite so. But of course there was shooting and this irreplaceable man was hit. And then there was a spot of crawling among the rocks after dark to get back to the plane. And then the plane had been tampered with. Well, it must have been, there was no one to guard it while he went into the village, and the engine came over all queer after an hour’s flying. Anyway it had got them out of the neighborhood, they weren’t being shot at any more —not yet, that is. Younger son, was he — and George sat soft at home and inherited. Well, that was the way it went. About the Honorable Alice, now — where did she come in....

“Bill, am I out of my head?”

“No, of course not. No more than I am.”

“The date, Bill — I’ve lost track of things — it is the fifth of June, 1936?”

“1938, old boy.”

“’38, yes, of course — what did I say?”

“We both had a bit of a jolt, you know—”

“1938,” repeated Hilary. “Certainly. For a minute I wasn’t quite sure—it was a nasty feeling, suddenly not to be sure of the date—as if I was floating in time— things have begun to slip, Bill—”

“You’re making sense, all right. You’re telling me about that house of yours in the Mendips. How did it get its funny name?”

“Nobody knows. It’s on the foundations of a nunnery, of course— Bill, are you much good at praying?”

“Not very much, I’m afraid.”

“Those nuns, Bill—they’d know how—they weren’t ashamed of anything they’d done—well, neither am I—” His voice caught sharply in his throat and struggled on again. “It’s hard to know how to say it—but——oh, God, if I’ve earned heaven when I die, let me have England first—let me have England instead—”

CHAPTER THREE

SABRINA closed the blotter and moved on slowly, away from the desk and into the bedroom end, where she had never ventured before.