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presently adorning Ann’s lover; one bill from a garage in Henley for her petrol (what, pray, were they doing in Henley, broke, on the ninth of October?); one letter from the bank regarding a local cashing facility in favour of the Lady Ann Smiley at a branch of the Midland Bank in Immingham.
    And what the devil, he demanded of this document, are they doing in Immingham? Who ever had a love affair in Immingham, for goodness’ sake? Where was Immingham?
    He was still pondering the question when his gaze fell upon an unfamiliar umbrella in the stand, a silk one with a stitched leather handle and a gold ring with no initial. And it passed through his mind with a speed which has no place in time that since the umbrella was dry it must have arrived there before six-fifteen when the rain began, for there was no moisture in the stand either. Also that it was an elegant umbrella and the ferrule was barely scratched, though it was not new. And that therefore the umbrella belonged to someone agile—even young, like Ann’s latest swain. But that since its owner had known about the wedges and known how to put them back once he was inside the house, and had the wit to lay the mail against the door after disturbing and no doubt reading it, then most likely he knew Smiley, too; and was not a lover but a professional like himself, who had at some time worked closely with him and knew his handwriting, as it is called in the jargon.
    The drawing-room door was ajar. Softly he pushed it further open.
    “Peter?” he said.
    Through the gap he saw by the light of the street two suède shoes, lazily folded, protruding from one end of the sofa.
    “I’d leave that coat on if I were you, George, old boy,” said an amiable voice. “We’ve got a long way to go.”
    Five minutes later, dressed in a vast brown travelling coat, a gift from Ann and the only one he had that was dry, George Smiley was sitting crossly in the passenger seat of Peter Guillam’s extremely draughty sports car, which he had parked in an adjoining square. Their destination was Ascot, a place famous for women and horses. And less famous, perhaps, as the residence of Mr. Oliver Lacon, of the Cabinet Office, a senior adviser to various mixed committees and a watchdog of intelligence affairs. Or, as Guillam had it less reverentially, Whitehall’s head prefect.
     
    While, at Thursgood’s school, wakefully in bed, Bill Roach was contemplating the latest wonders that had befallen him in the course of his daily vigil over Jim’s welfare. Yesterday Jim had amazed Latzy. Thursday he had stolen Miss Aaronson’s mail. Miss Aaronson taught violin and scripture; Roach courted her for her tenderness. Latzy, the assistant gardener, was a D.P., said Matron, and D.P.s spoke no English, or very little. D.P. meant Different Person, said Matron, or anyway, foreign from the war. But yesterday Jim had spoken to Latzy, seeking his assistance with the car club, and he had spoken to him in D.P., or whatever D.P.s speak, and Latzy had grown a foot taller on the spot.
    The matter of Miss Aaronson’s mail was more complex. There were two envelopes on the staffroom sideboard Thursday morning after chapel when Roach called for his form’s exercise books, one addressed to Jim and one to Miss Aaronson. Jim’s was typewritten. Miss Aaronson’s was handwritten, in a hand not unlike Jim’s own. The staffroom, while Roach made these observations, was empty. He helped himself to the exercise books and was quietly taking his leave when Jim walked in by the other door, red and blowing from his early walk.
    “On your way, Jumbo, bell’s gone,” stooping over the sideboard.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Foxy weather, eh, Jumbo?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “On your way, then.”
    At the door, Roach looked round. Jim was standing again, leaning back to open the morning’s Daily Telegraph. The sideboard was empty. Both envelopes had gone.
    Had Jim written to Miss Aaronson and changed his mind? Proposing marriage,