As Robert turned his car into the garage in Sin Lane and came to a halt, Stanley, who was shrugging off his overalls outside the office door, glanced at his face and said: “Down the drain again?”

“It isn’t a bet,” Robert said, “it’s human nature.”

“You start to be sorry about human nature and you won’t have time for anything else. You been trying to reform someone?”

“No, I’ve been trying to get someone to take some paint off a wall.”

“Oh, work!” Stanley’s tone indicated that even to expect someone to do a job of work these days was being optimistic to the point of folly.

“I’ve been trying to get someone to wipe a slogan off the walls of The Franchise, but everyone is extraordinarily busy all of a sudden.”

Stanley stopped his wriggling. “A slogan,” he said. “What kind of slogan?” And Bill, hearing the exchange, oozed himself through the narrow office door to listen.

Robert told them. “In best quality white paint, so the policeman on the beat assures me.”

Bill whistled. Stanley said nothing; he was standing with his overalls shrugged down to his waist and concertinaed about his legs.

“Who’ve you tried?” Bill asked.

Robert told them. “None of them can do anything tonight, and tomorrow morning, it seems, all their men are going out early on important jobs.”

“It’s not to be believed,” Bill said. “Don’t tell me they’re afraid of reprisals!”

“No, to do them justice I don’t think it’s that. I think, although they would never say so to me, that they think those women at The Franchise deserve it.” There was silence for a moment.

“When I was in the Signals,” Stanley said, beginning in a leisurely fashion to pull up his overalls and get into the top half again, “I was given a free tour of Italy. Nearly a year it took. And I escaped the malaria, and the Ities, and the Partisans, and the Yank transport, and most of the other little nuisances. But I got a phobia. I took a great dislike to slogans on walls.”

“What’ll we get it off with?” Bill asked.

“What’s the good of owning the best equipped and most modern garage in Milford if we haven’t something to take off a spot of paint?” Stanley said, zipping up his front.

“Will you really try to do something about it?” Robert asked, surprised and pleased.

Bill smiled his slow expansive smile. “The Signals, the R.E.M.E. and a couple of brooms. What more do you want?” he said.

“Bless you,” Robert said. “Bless you both. I have only one ambition tonight; to get that slogan off the wall before breakfast tomorrow. I’ll come along and help.”

“Not in that Savile Row suit, you won’t,” Stanley said. “And we haven’t a spare suit of ——”

“I’ll get something old on and come out after you.”

“Look,” Stanley said patiently, “we don’t need any help for a little job like that. If we did we’d take Harry.” Harry was the garage boy. “You haven’t eaten yet and we have, and I’ve heard it said that Miss Bennet doesn’t like her good meals spoiled. I suppose you don’t mind if the wall looks smeary? We’re just good-intentioned garage hands, not decorators.”

The shops were shut as he walked down the High Street to his home at Number 10, and he looked at the place as a stranger walking through on a Sunday might. He had been so far from Milford during his day in Larborough that he felt that he had been away for years. The comfortable quiet of Number 10 — so different from the dead silence of The Franchise — welcomed and soothed him. A faint smell of roasting apples escaped from the kitchen. The firelight flickered on the wall of the sitting-room, seen through its half-open door. Warmth and security and comfort rose up in a gentle tide and lapped over him.

Guilty at being the owner of this waiting peace, he picked up the telephone to talk to Marion.

“Oh, you! How nice,” she said, when at last he had persuaded the Post Office that his intentions were honourable; and the warmth in her voice catching him unawares — his mind being still on white paint — caught him under the heart and left him breathless for a moment. “I’m so glad. I was wondering how we were going to talk to you; but I might have known that you would manage it. I suppose you just say you’re Robert Blair and the Post Office gives you the freedom of the place.”

How like her, he thought. The genuine gratitude of “I might have known that you would manage”; and then the faint amusement in the sentence that followed.

“I suppose you’ve seen our wall decoration?”

Robert said yes, but that no one ever would again, because by the time the sun rose it would have gone.

“Tomorrow!”

“The two men who own my garage have decided to obliterate it tonight.”

“But — could seven maids with seven mops ——?”

“I don’t know; but if Stanley and Bill have set their minds on it, obliterated it will be. They were brought up in a school that doesn’t tolerate frustrations.”

“What school is that?”

“The British Army. And I have more good news for you: I have established the fact that X exists. She had tea with him one day. Picked him up at the Midland, in the lounge.”

“Picked him up? But she is just a child, and so —— Oh, well, she told that story, of course. After that anything is possible. How did you find out that?”

He told her.

“You’ve had a bad day at The Franchise, haven’t you,” he said, when he had finished the saga of the coffee shops.

“Yes, I feel dirty all over. What was worse than the audience and the wall was the post. The postman gave it to the police to take in. It is not often that the police can be accused of disseminating obscene literature.”

“Yes, I imagine it must have been pretty bad. That was only to be expected.”

“Well, we have so few letters that we have decided that in future we shall burn everything without opening them, unless we recognise the writing. So don’t use typescript if you write to us.”

“But do you know my handwriting?”

“Oh, yes, you wrote us a note, you remember. The one Nevil brought that afternoon. Nice handwriting.”

“Have you seen Nevil today?”

“No, but one of the letters was from him. At least, it wasn’t a letter.”

“A document of some kind?”

“No, a poem.”

“Oh. Did you understand it?”

“No, but it made quite a nice sound.”

“So do bicycle bells.”

He thought she laughed a little. “It is nice to have poems made to one’s eyebrows,” she said. “But still nicer to have one’s wall made clean. I do thank you for that — you and what’s-their-names — Bill and Stanley. If you want to be very kind perhaps you would bring or send us some food tomorrow?”

“Food!” he said, horrified that he had not thought of that before; that was what happened when you lived a life where Aunt Lin put everything down in front of you, all but put the stuff in your mouth; you lost your capacity for imagination. “Yes, of course. I forgot that you would not be able to shop.”

“It isn’t only that. The grocer’s van that calls on Monday didn’t come today. Or perhaps,” she added hastily, “it came and just couldn’t call our attention. Anyhow, we should be so grateful for some things. Have you got a pencil there?”

She gave him a list of things, and then asked: “We didn’t see today’s Ack–Emma. Was there anything about us?”

“Some letters on the correspondence page, that is all.”

“All anti, I suppose.”

“I’m afraid so. I shall bring a copy out tomorrow morning when I bring the groceries, and you can see it for yourselves.”

“I’m afraid we are taking up a great deal of your time.”

“This has become a personal matter with me,” he said.

“Personal?” She sounded doubtful.

“The one ambition of my life is to discredit Betty Kane.”

“Oh; oh, I see.” Her voice sounded half relieved, half — could it be? — disappointed. “Well, we shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

But she was to see him long before that.

He went to bed early, but lay long awake; rehearsing a telephone conversation that he planned to have with Kevin Macdermott; considering different approaches to the problem of X; wondering if Marion was asleep, in that silent old house, or lying awake listening for sounds.

His bedroom was over the street, and about midnight he heard a car drive up and stop, and presently through the open window he heard Bill’s cautious call; not much more than a throaty whisper. “Mr. Blair! Hey, Mr. Blair!”

He was at the window almost before the second utterance of his name.

“Thank goodness,” whispered Bill. “I was afraid the light might be Miss Bennet’s.”

“No, she sleeps at the back. What is it?”

“There’s trouble at The Franchise. I’ve got to go for the police because the wire is cut. But I thought you’d want to be called, so I——”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Hooligans. I’ll come in for you on my way back. In about four minutes.”

“Is Stanley with them?” Robert asked, as Bill’s great bulk merged with the car again.

“Yes, Stan’s having his head bound up. Back in a minute.” And the car fled away up the dark silent High Street.

Before Robert had got his clothes on he heard a soft “ssshush” go past his window, and realised that the police were already on their way. No screaming sirens in the night, no roaring exhausts; with no more sound than a summer wind makes among the leaves the Law was going about its business. As he opened the front door, cautiously so as not to wake Aunt Lin (nothing but the last trump was likely to wake Christina) Bill brought his car to a standstill at the pavement.

“Now tell me,” Robert said, as they moved away.

“Well, we finished that little job by the light of the headlamps — not very professional, it isn’t, but a lot better than it was when we got there — and then we switched off the heads, and began to put away our things. Sort of leisurely like; there was no hurry and it was a nice night. We’d just lit a cigarette and were thinking of pushing off when there was a crash of glass from the house. No one had got in our side while we were there, so we knew it must be round the sides or the back. Stan reached into the car and took out his torch — mine was lying on the seat because we’d been using it — and said: ‘You go round that way and I’ll go the other and we’ll nip them between us.’”

“Can you get round?”

“Well, it was no end of a business. It’s hedge up to the wall end. I wouldn’t like to have done it in ordinary clothes, but in overalls you just push hard and hope for the best. It’s all right for Stan; he&rsqu............