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back of the house."
    Right again, he thought. He summoned up his sweetest, most self-deprecating smile. "I don't suppose you could hear me if I happened to call you?"
    "It's too far away," she said, her doubt immediately replaced by concern. "Do you think you might need help in the night?"
    He shrugged with just the right amount of rueful unconcern. "I'm certain the attacks have passed. During the past few months I sometimes got a breathing spasm, and I wouldn't be able to get to my respirator. But I haven't had one in quite some time, and I'm sure I'd be able to manage."
    "What's quite some time?"
    "Five days," he said blithely. "What about an intercom system? A telephone…?"
    "There are three bedrooms on that side. I'll move down," she said firmly.
    He almost batted his eyes at her, but decided that would be carrying it too far. "I couldn't ask you to do that."
    "You haven't. I've offered. And I insist. Let me get you some warm milk and a touch more whiskey, and then we'll get you settled for the night."
    He came up with a wan smile. She was a very motherly soul, was Frances Neeley. He didn't like to be mothered.
    If she wasn't involved in this mess, except as a victim, he had the sudden fantasy of finding her once he'd regained his full strength and showing her just how little he needed a mother. Except that he knew he couldn't do that. Couldn't jeopardize his cover. She'd swallowed it completely, and he would be a fool to let his ego shatter that.
    An hour later she had him tucked up in bed, wearing a pair of Daniel Travers's silk pajamas. He hated pajamas. The glass of warm milk was beside his bed, and he wondered if she would have the nerve to give him a maternal kiss on the brow before leaving him.
    She didn't. "I'll leave my door open a crack in case you need me," she said, looking down at him with an anxious, doting expression. The problem was, she looked even worse than he did by now. The night's activities had taken their toll—she was pale, limp and swaying slightly, and the sooner she fell into bed, the better off they'd all be.
    "You'll hear me if I need you," he promised. "I've got good lungs."
    "I thought you had respiratory problems?" she asked, with that sudden unnerving astuteness.
    "They don't keep me from screaming bloody loud. Good night, Francey. Thanks for taking such good care of me."
    "My pleasure," she said.
    He waited a good ten minutes before leaving the bed. She would be asleep by then—she'd been almost asleep on her feet as she stood over his bed. Stripping off Daniel's silk pajamas, he lay down on the rush matting and began his sit-ups.
    He couldn't do more than forty-five. Which was better than the twenty-five he'd managed last week. The push-ups were up to forty, but by the time he was finished he was sweating, trembling with the effort, almost ready to throw up. He collapsed on the matting, breathing heavily, and wondered how damned long it was going to take to get his body back in working shape.
    Too long. It would be solid months before he was back to his normal weight, back to full strength. Francey Neeley's part in tracking down Patrick Dugan's confederates would be long over by then. He would never see her again, and she'd remember him as a skinny, frail, slightly effete British schoolmaster. Mr. Chips meets James Bond.
    Maybe he'd better cut back on the slightly effete part. There were times when the only amusing aspect of a grim job was his playacting, but he had the feeling that Francey's clear brown eyes would see through anything less than subtle. He'd been able to convince people he was gay when it was a necessary part of his cover, but somehow he didn't think he would be able to convince Francey.
    Perhaps it was because of his inexplicable reaction to her. She hadn't been at all what he'd expected. He'd seen the photographs—clandestine photos of her and Dugan, family snapshots provided by Travers. She'd looked rather ordinary. Shoulder-length brownish hair, plain brown eyes,