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stopped herself and only asked, ‘Everything in order?’
    ‘As far as I could see.’
    ‘I wonder if you would collect together a few things, and bring them when you next come. I am sure I can leave it to you.’
    ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Remembering the house, I wondered what I could do. I rose. ‘I’ll look in tomorrow, if I may.’ The cat followed me to the door purring. ‘Perhaps I shall be able to see Sally then.’
    Miss Garvice only nodded.
     
    The truth was that I could not rest until I had investigated that back room. I was afraid, of course; but much more curious. Even my fear, I felt, perhaps wrongly, was more fear of the unknown than of anything I imagined myself likely in fact to find. Had there been a sympathetic friend available, I should have been glad of his company (it was a job for a man, or for no one). As it was, loyalty to Sally sent me, as before, alone.
    During the morning it had become more and more overcast. In the middle of lunch itbegan to rain. Throughout the afternoon it rained more and more heavily. My mother said I was mad to go out, but I donned a pair of heavy walking shoes and myriding mackintosh. I had borrowed my father’s flashlamp before he left that morning for his business.
    I first entered the sitting-room, where I took off my mackintosh and saturated beret. It would perhaps have been more sensible to hang the dripping objects in the lower regions; but I think I felt it was wise not to leave them too far from the front door. I stood for a time in front of the mirror combing my matted hair. The light was fading fast, and it was difficult to see very much. The gusty wind hurled the rain against the big bay window, down which it descended like a rippling membrane of wax, distorting what little prospect remained outside. The window frame leaked copiously, making little pools on the floor.
    I pulled up the collar of my sweater, took the flashlamp, and entered the back room. Almost at once in the beam of light, I found the switch. It was placed at the normal height, but about three feet from the doorway: as if the intention were precisely to make it impossible for the light to be switched on – or off – from the door. I turned it on.
    I had speculated extensively, but the discovery still surprised me. Within the original walls had been laid three courses of stonework, which continued overhead to form an arched vault under the ceiling. The grey stones had been unskilfully laid, and the vault in particular looked likely to collapse. The inside of the door was reinforced with a single sheet of iron. There remained no window at all. A crude system of electric lighting had been installed, but there seemed provision for neither heating nor ventilation. Conceivably the room was intended for use in air-raids; it had palpably been in existence for some time. But in that case it was hard to see why it should still be inhabited as it so plainly was . . .
    For within the dismal place were many rough woodenshelves laden with crumbling brown books; several battered wooden armchairs; a large desk covered with papers; and a camp bed, showing, like the bed upstairs, signsof recent occupancy. Most curious of all were a small ashtray by the bedside choked with cigarette ends, and an empty coffee cup. I lifted the pillow; underneath it were Sally’s pyjamas, not folded, but stuffed away out of sight. It was difficult to resist the unpleasant idea that she had begun by sleeping in the room upstairs, but for some reason had moved down to this stagnant cavern; which, moreover, she had stated that her father had never left.
    I like to think of myself as more imaginative than sensible. I had, for example, conceived it as possible that Dr Tessler had been stark raving mad, and that the room he never left would prove to be padded. But no room could be less padded than this one. It was much more like a prison. It seemed impossible that all through her childhood Sally’s father had been under