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of the previous night. He made no objection to George leaving early and made it clear that if he needed a few days to recover from his experiences, that would also be no problem.
    Mansfield was a portly man who wheezed when he had to move, which was infrequently. ‘You are quite happy with our Department?’ he asked George, a bead of sweat running down from his hairline. It was the first time he had ever seemed concerned for George’s feelings. ‘I would hate to think you might be consideringmoving on, my boy.’ He wiped distractedly at his cheek with a red, meaty hand.
    Significantly, Mansfield still made no mention of any job offer from another Department, or of Sir William Protheroe. So George assured Mansfield that he had been given no reason to consider moving on just at the moment – which was strictly speaking true. His superior smiled broadly and continued quickly: ‘I know you work hard, my boy,’ he said. He always called George ‘my boy’ even though he could not be much more than ten years older than George himself. ‘And your efforts are always of the most diligent and highest quality. You’re not a skiver like some I could mention. Take as long as you need, my boy. Within reason of course.’
    George thanked him, glad not to have to explain why and where he was going. He did not understand Lorimore’s reasons for wanting to keep the meeting secret, but he respected them nonetheless. Perhaps all would become clear when they met.
    Lorimore’s house was not far from Gloucester Road station, so George returned to the underground to make his journey. Coming out of the station, he paused for a minute to get his bearings. It was not a part of London that he knew, and as he stood on the pavement looking round for street names, someone bumped into him, making him take several steps backwards.
    It was a lad of about fourteen, dressed rather scruffily.His coat was scuffed and torn and his grubby cap was pulled down so low over his eyes that George was not surprised he could not see where he was going. The boy’s trousers seemed to be held up with string in place of a belt, and what George could see of his face was a cheeky grin. A curl of black hair hung over the shadowed eyes, as if trying to escape from the cap.
    â€˜Sorry, guv,’ the boy said, before continuing quickly down the street. George watched him for only a moment, then returned his attention to working out which way he needed to go.
    In the end he asked for directions. The newspaper seller outside the station was happy to help, until he realised that George was not about to buy a paper as well. Then his attitude cooled, and George quickly bade him goodbye.
    He now had no trouble finding Lorimore’s house. It was set back from the road behind huge iron gates, which stood open as if expecting him. There was a man standing just inside the gates, and he certainly was not expecting George. But once George had explained his business, and shown the man his letter from Lorimore, he was allowed to pass.
    A gravel driveway wound its way from the gates up through extensive grounds. As he made his way along it George began to wonder if he had not come to some public park instead of a private house. But then the drive looped again, and before him was an enormousfour-storey house built of imposing red brick and pale stone.
    The man who opened the door to George had been shoehorned into his dark suit. His neck bulged out over the stiff collar of his white shirt, though his face was in shadow and George could see almost nothing of his features. ‘Yes?’ His voice was a low rasp of disapproval.
    â€˜George Archer,’ George said, trying to sound confident and unperturbed. ‘Mr Lorimore asked me to call.’
    The man stared back at him for several moments as if he had not spoken. Then he stepped back inside and gestured for George to enter the wide hallway.
    â€˜You’d better wait