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door, saying: Hello?
    Phone for Monsieur Callet, a girl’s voice said.
    I’ll probably see you later. Thanks for the tea.
    You’re welcome, Sorme said.
    He poured himself a second cup of tea, and switched on the record player again. The heat was making him drowsy. To wake himself up, he began to rearrange his books in the bookcase behind the door. He flattened the three cardboard cartons that the books had been packed in, and heaved them on top of the wardrobe. They met some obstruction and slid down again. He climbed on to a chair, and looked on the wardrobe. There was a pile of books there, pushed to the back against the wall. There were four tattered copies of P. G. Wodehouse, and three volumes in the Notable British Trials Series. One of these had a label inside: Erith Public Libraries. The date stamped inside seemed to be several years earlier.
    He lifted them down, blowing the dust off them, then sat down at the table to examine them. A quarter of an hour later he was still reading the first volume he had opened, The Trial of Burke and Hare. It made him feel slightly sick.
    Someone knocked on the door. He called: Hello.
    The Frenchman looked round the door.
    Hello. Lotte asked me to give you a message. Someone phoned for you this morning.
    Oh? Did he leave a message?
    Yes. She didn’t get his name, but he left a telephone number. Here it is.
    Sorme took the torn envelope flap. He said:
    Thanks. I’ll ring him now. Where’s the phone?
    Unfortunately, he left a message asking you to ring him before three. He said he was leaving London at three.
    Sorme looked at his watch. It said half past four.
    Oh. . . thanks anyway.
    The Frenchman asked conversationally: What are you reading?
    Oh, a book on murders.
    Did you read about that murder last night?
    No.
    In Whitechapel. Another girl found beaten to death. It was in the midday paper. Do you want to see it?
    Sorme said, chuckling: Don’t bother. I intend to eat a meal today. This stuff makes me feel sick.
    When the door closed again he tossed The Trial of Burke and Hare on to the bed, and opened one of the Wodehouse volumes.
     
    *    *    *
     
    In the night, he woke up and remembered Nunne’s aunt. Until then he had completely forgotten about her. He reached for his trousers, and felt in the dark for the back pocket. The sheet of notepaper was still there. He struck a match, and read: Gertrude Quincey, The Laurels, Vale of Health, followed by her phone number. He propped it on the chair beside the bed to remind him to phone her in the morning, and lay down again, in the night that now smelt of burnt sulphur, and thought about her. Her figure was slim and attractive; there was something demure about her manner that he found exciting. She was probably fifteen years his senior; perhaps less; perhaps only ten. He speculated idly on the advantages of persuading her to become his mistress, even of marrying her. It would be pleasant to be looked after. But in ten years’ time, in fifteen? There was also this business of her being a Jehovah’s Witness. Somehow, that did not fit in. He thought of Jehovah’s Witnesses as rather slovenly-dressed working-class women.
    It would be interesting to find out how serious she was about the Bible classes. Or if her convictions made chastity obligatory.
    He knew, with sudden certainty, that there could never be any question of wanting to marry her. It would be a sell-out. There was an intuition of certainty in him that told him that a sell-out for security could never be necessary. He thought instead of making love to her. The idea carried him into sleep.
    The following evening he tried phoning her; there was no reply. He depressed the receiver-rest and rang Austin’s number; a girl on the switchboard told him that Mr Nunne had gone away for a few days. He returned to his room, feeling curiously disappointed.
    Half an hour later he was reading when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs to the old man’s room. Someone knocked on