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walk right up to her, if I was you, and just ask her straight out what she's playing at and what she wants."
    "All right," I said, "I will."
    But I wasn't there next afternoon to watch for her coming. I gave my notice in that night.

CHAPTER III
    Go fetch me some of your father's gold,
    And some of your mother's fee, And I'll carry you into the north land,
    And there I'll marry thee.

    Ballad: May Colvin.

    WHEN the knock came at my bedroom door I knew who it was even before I looked up from my packing. My landlady, Mrs. Smithson, was out: I had been to look for her as soon as I came in, only to remember that Wednesday was her regular evening for the cinema and late supper with a friend. Even without this knowledge I could never have mistaken the tentative, even nervous quality of this knock for Mrs. Smithson's forthright rapping. As clearly as if the thick, shiningly varnished door were made of glass, I could see who stood there; the toffee-brown eyes under the brown, undistinguished hat, and the drawn-down corners of the soft, obstinate-looking mouth.
    I hadn't heard anyone come upstairs, though the bare and echoing linoleum of the two flights to my room was a more than sufficient herald of approach. She must have come up very softly. I hesitated. She must know I was here. I had seen no reason for silence, and the light would be showing under my door.
    As the soft, insistent rapping came again, I threw a swift look round the room. The ash-tray by the bed, almost full . . . the bed itself, disordered . . . evidence of the hours spent smoking, thinking, counting the stains on the fly-spotted ceiling, before I had finally risen to drag out and pack die cases that stood—proof of a more tangible kind of disturbance—in the middle of the floor. Well, it was too late to do anything about them now. But there, on the table near the window, was a more cogent witness still—the telephone directory, borrowed from downstairs, and open at the page headed:
    "Wilson—Winthorpe . . ."
    I went silently across the room, and shut it. Then I turned back to the dressing-chest and pulled open a drawer.
    I said, on a note of inquiry: "Yes? Come in."
    When the door opened, I had my back to it, lifting clothes out of the drawer. "Oh, Mrs. Smithson," I began, as I turned, then stopped short, my brows lifted, my face registering, I hoped, nothing but surprise. She said, standing squarely in the doorway: "Miss Grey?"
    "Yes? I'm afraid—" I paused, and let recognition dawn, and with it puzzlement. "Wait a moment. I think—don't I know your face? You were in the Kasbah this afternoon, the cafe where I work, weren't you? I remember noticing you in the corner."
    "That's right. My name's Dermott, Lisa Dermott." She pronounced the name Continental-fashion, 'Leeza. She paused to let it register, then added: "From Whitescar."
    I said, still on that puzzled note: "How do you do, Miss-Mrs.?—Dermott. Is there something I can do for you?"
    She came into the room unasked, her eyes watchful on my face. She shut the door behind her, and began to pull off her plain, good hogskin gloves. I stood there without moving, my hands full of clothes, plainly intending, I hoped, not to invite her to sit down.
    She sat down. She said flatly: "My brother met you up on the Roman Wall beyond Housesteads on Sunday."
    "On the Ro—oh, yes, of course I remember. A man spoke to me. Winslow, he was called, from somewhere near Bellingham." {Careful now, Mary Grey; don't overplay it; she'll know you'd not be likely to forget a thing like that) I added slowly: "Whitescar. Yes. That's where he said he came from. We had a rather —odd conversation."
    I put the things I was holding back into the drawer, and then turned to face her. There was a packet of Players in my handbag lying beside me on the dressing-chest. I shook one loose. "Do you smoke?"
    "No, thank you."
    "Do you mind if I do?"
    "It's your own room."
    "Yes." If she noticed the irony she gave no sign of it. She sat there