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was going to telephone his brother. When they had gone, Big Logan turned to the landlord. ‘Do you know who lives at Carillon now, Joe? It must be over two years since Mrs Bloy died.’
    â€˜Nearer three,’ replied the landlord. ‘Old man of the name of Cutner has owned it ever since. Retired bank manager, I think. What do you want to know for?’
    Big Logan hesitated, and then said, ‘Oh, nothing—this gentleman wanted to know, that’s all.’ He caught me looking at him in some surprise and glanced hurriedly away. ‘Know whether he has many visitors?’
    â€˜How should I know?’ The landlord was looking at him curiously.
    â€˜No, of course you wouldn’t. I was only——’ He stopped short. The three of us glanced round the room uneasily, aware of a sudden change. I think we all realized what it was at the same moment, for we turned and stared at the radio set at the far end of the bar. The current was still on and we could hear it crackling, but the air had gone dead. At the same moment the visitor who had gone out to phone his brother came in with an anxious look on his face to say that the local exchange could get no answer from London.
    He and I were the only ones who leaped immediately to the obvious conclusion. I thought of Bloomsbury with its old houses. They would be absolute death traps. And the trees and the Georgian houses in Mecklenburg Square—should I see those again as I had known them? ‘If it is a raid,’ I said, ‘it’s quick work.’
    â€˜Perhaps it’s only a test,’ he said.
    â€˜Or just a coincidence,’ I murmured. ‘The B.B.C. is working under emergency conditions and London is probably inundated with calls.’
    â€˜Yes, that’s probably it.’ His voice did not carry much conviction. Later, of course, we heard that an air raid warning had been sounded, but the possibility of both radio and telephone systems having broken down at the same time enabled us to continue our conversation while the visitor went back to the phone to try again.
    Big Logan steered off the subject of the owner of Carillon without any explanation as to why he had been interested in the man. We had a drink on the house and, after discussing the war for a while, we left the pub.
    Outside, Big Logan said, ‘We’d best go up and have a talk with Ted Morgan.’ Morgan was one of the coastguards and it was plain that my companion was not feeling too sure of himself. He had not told the landlord about his suspicions, and had thus prevented the story from circulating throughout the village. Clearly he now wanted confirmation of the conclusion he had arrived at. The coastguard was the sort of father of all wisdom in the village.
    But when I was introduced to him in the Board of Trade hut on the cliffs, I doubted whether he was as shrewd as Big Logan. In their relations with the Government, however, the fishermen of the village always turned to Morgan, since he understood the regulations and knew all about the forms they had to fill in. The habit had stuck.
    Big Logan told him the whole story. With his feet thrust slightly apart and his thumbs in his leather waistbelt, he seemed to fill the whole hut, his beard wagging up and down as he spoke. By comparison, the little Welshman, seated at the desk before the telescope, seemed very small indeed. When Logan had finished I sensed that Morgan was sceptical. He put his head on one side like a bird and drummed with his fingers on the desk. ‘It is possible, of course,’ he conceded, and he darted a glance at the big fisherman. ‘It is possible. I saw what I think was a U-boat about six miles off the coast only yesterday.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘But where would he have landed?’
    â€˜What about the Devil’s Frying Pan?’ suggested Logan.
    â€˜Yes, indeed—but it was very choppy last night. The boat would have