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objective.'
    She glanced at him curiously as the car shot back on to the road. His profile was set and stern. Had he also felt the urge that had risen in her when he stood by the car door, as if there were some physical affinity between them? If he had he had firmly repressed it, but she decided it was unlikely. He probably kissed girls casually and carelessly when the opportunity presented itself, and only her lack of response had checked him. His only real love was Silver Arrow, and that was what he meant by his objective.
    The voyage back was without incident, and Gray was taciturn. He seemed to have withdrawn from her entirely. Frances watched the sky flame over the sea as the sun began to sink, aware of a pleasant melancholy.
    'I always feel a little sad when the sun goes down,' she said.
    ‘The death of each day's life,' he quoted, and she was surprised, for she had not thought Gray would read the classics, ‘but that referred to sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care, and after all that fresh air you should be ready for your bed, or do you lie awake yearning for the boy in Kent?’
    ‘Of course not,’ she said crossly, needled by his tone. ‘I’m a practical girl.’
    Whereat he laughed and she wondered why he was amused.
    Lesley was waiting for them on the jetty wearing a light sweater and jeans.
    ‘You’re very late,’ she greeted them, as she caught the painter. ‘We began to fear you'd had an accident.’
    ‘In this old tub?’ Gray asked scornfully, leaping out of the boat, and holding out his hand to assist Frances. ‘I’ve been showing Fran some of the beauties of Scotland.’
    ‘How nice for her!’ Lesley’s deep voice grated. ‘Ian will come down to collect the stores, and I hope you’ve remembered Mrs Ferguson’s commissions, Miss Desmond.’
    ‘Yes, I think I’ve got everything,’ Frances told her, feeling guilty. A day off did not include the evening, and she was too late to help with supper. Gray reached out and took her shopping bag from her.
    ‘I’ll bring this up to the house for you.’
    ‘Surely Miss Desmond is capable of carrying it herself,’ Lesley said sharply.
    ‘I don’t doubt it, but I prefer to carry it for her.’
    Frances was on the edge of the quay as they moved away, with Lesley between her and Gray. She was never able to recall exactly what happened. It seemed Lesley tripped and stumbled against her.
    She knew she was falling, clutched at nothingness, and then the waters of the loch closed over her head.
     

CHAPTER THREE
    ‘She’s breathing regularly now.’
    Frances heard the words as she drifted back to consciousness. She found she was lying on her back on the floor in front of an electric stove in Gray’s office, wrapped in a travelling rug. There were pools of water all around her which Lesley was swabbing up. Someone—Gray, she saw with surprise—was kneeling beside her. When she opened her eyes, he turned her on to her side, facing the fire, and in answer to a query from Lesley said solemnly:
    ‘The textbooks say the subject should assume a coma position after administering artificial respiration. She’s not warm enough, get that coat of mine that’s hanging up on the door.’ He turned back the rug and began to rub her feet.
    A sheepskin coat was thrown over her, and Frances caught a glimpse of Lesley’s face as she bent above her. It was white and strained, and she wondered vaguely why she was looking so upset. She went away and returned with a glass which she held to Frances' lips, raising her head with her other hand. It was whisky mixed with hot water, and Frances spluttered as she swallowed some of it. It ran like fire through her veins, warming, reviving. Gray covered her feet and stood up.
    ‘Nip up to the house,’ he ordered tersely. ‘Bring her some dry clothes. Find Murdoch and tell him to bring me some too. Tell Morag to warm Frances' bed—hurry!’
    Lesley hesitated. ‘You go, you need a hot bath. I can look after