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believe in being corrupted – simply because it made life impossible – as when a man or woman cannot tell the truth about anything. It wasn’t so much a question of morality as a question of simply existing.
    A signpost said 40 miles.
    But was L. simply here to stop the purchase – or did the other side need the coal as badly ? They had possession of the mines in the mountains, but suppose the rumour was true that the workmen had refused to go down the pits? He became aware of a headlamp behind him – he put out his hand and waved the car on. It drew level – a Daimler; then he saw the driver. It was the chauffeur who had tried to rob him in the lavatory.
    D. stepped on his accelerator; the other car refused to give way: they raced side by side recklessly through the thin fog. He didn’t know what it was all about: were they trying to kill him? It seemed improbable in England, but for two years now he had been used to the improbable; you couldn’t be buried in a bombed house for fifty-six hours and emerge incredulous of violence.
    The race only lasted two minutes. His needle went up to sixty: he strained the engine on to sixty-two, sixty-three, for a moment he hit sixty-five, but the old Packard was no match for the Daimler – the other car hesitated, for the fraction of a minute allowing him to edge ahead; then, as it were, it laid back its ears and raced on at eighty miles an hour. It was in front of him; it went ahead into the edge of the fog and slid across the road, blocking his way. He drew up. It wasn’t probable, but it seemed to be true – they were going to kill him. He thought carefully, sitting in his seat, waiting for them, trying to find some way of fixing responsibility – the publicity would be appalling for the other side; his death might be far more valuable than his life had ever been. He had once brought out a scholarly edition of an old Romance poem – this would certainly be more worth while.
    A voice said, ‘Here’s the bugger.’ To his surprise it was neither L. nor his chauffeur who stood at the door, it was the manager. But L. was there – he saw his thin celery shape wavering at the edge of the fog. Could the manager be in league? . . . the situation was crazy. He said, ‘What do you want?’
    â€˜What do I want? This is Miss Cullen’s car.’
    No; after all, this was England – no violence: he was safe. Just an unpleasant explanation. What did L. expect to get out of this? Or did they mean to take him to the police? Surely she wouldn’t charge him. At the worst it meant a few hours’ delay. He said gently, ‘I left a message for Miss Cullen – that I’d leave the car at her father’s.’
    â€˜You bloody dago,’ the manager said. ‘Did you really think you would walk off with a girl’s bags just like that? A fine girl like Miss Cullen. And her jewellery.’
    â€˜I forgot about the bags.’
    â€˜I bet you didn’t forget about the jewellery. Come on. Get out of there.’
    There was nothing to be done. He got out. Two or three cars were hooting furiously somewhere behind. The manager shouted, ‘I say, old man, do you mind clearing the road now? I’ve got the bugger.’ He grasped D. by the lapel of his coat.
    â€˜That isn’t necessary,’ D. said. ‘I’m quite ready to explain to Miss Cullen – or to the police.’
    The other cars went by. The chauffeur loomed up a few yards away. L. stood by the Daimler talking to somebody through the window.
    â€˜You think you’re damned smart,’ the manager said. ‘You know Miss Cullen’s a fine girl – wouldn’t charge you.’
    His monocle swung furiously; he thrust his face close to D.’s and said, ‘Don’t think you can take advantage of her.’ One eye was a curious dead blue: it was like a fish’s eye: it recorded none of the