When Alleyn left he passed Father Denys, who came as near to tipping him a wink as lay within the dignity of his office.

III

Sophy Jason and Barnaby Grant met for breakfast on the roof-garden. The morning sparkled freshly and was not yet too hot for comfort. From the direction of Navona there came vague sounds of singing, a discordant band and the rumour of a crowd. A detachment of police marched down their street. The waiter was full of confused chatter about riots. It seemed unreal to Sophy and Barnaby.

They talked of the blameless pleasures of the previous evening when they had walked about Roman streets until they tired and had then taken a carriage-drive fraught with the inescapable romanticism of such exercise. Finally, after a glass of wine in Navona, they had strolled home. When they said goodnight Grant had kissed Sophy for the first time. She had taken this thoughtfully with a nod as if to say ‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ had blushed unexpectedly and left him in a hurry. If they could have read each other’s thoughts they would been surprised to find that they were so nearly identical. Each, in fact, speculated upon immediate as opposed to past emotions under like circumstances and each, with a kind of apprehensive delight, recognized an essential difference.

Sophy had arrived first for breakfast and had sat down determined to sort herself out in a big way but instead had idly dreamed until Grant’s arrival set up a commotion under her ribs. This was quickly replaced by a renewed sense of companionship unfolding like a flower in the morning air. ‘How happy I am,’ each of them thought. ‘I am delighted.’

In this frame of mind they discussed the coming day and speculated about the outcome of the Violetta affair and the probability of Mr Mailer being a murderer.

‘I suppose it’s awful,’ Sophy said, ‘not to be madly horrified but truth to tell I’m not much more appalled than I would be if I’d read it in the papers.’

‘I’ll go one worse than you. In a way I’m rather obliged to him.’

‘Honestly! What can you mean?’

‘You’re still hanging about in Rome instead of flouncing off to Assisi or Florence or wherever.’

‘That,’ Sophy said, ‘is probably a remark in execrable taste although I must say I relished it.’

‘Sophy,’ said Grant, ‘you’re a sweetie. Blow me down flat if you’re not.’

He reached out his hand and at that moment the waiter came out on the roof-garden.

Now it was Grant who experienced a jolt under the diaphragm. Here he had sat, and so, precisely here, had the waiter appeared, on that morning over a year ago when Sebastian Mailer was announced.

‘What’s the matter?’ Sophy asked.

‘Nothing. Why?’

‘You looked—odd.’

‘Did I? What is it?’ he asked the waiter.