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the last war.”
    “And how long has she been working for them?”
    “Certainly for ten years, possibly more. Security got on to her in the end by selective coding, and that, as you know, is a very slow process.”
    “And not one which a jury would understand or accept.”
    “Oh, certainly not,” said Mr. Calder. “Certainly not. There could be no question here of judicial process. Maria is a season ticket holder, not a commuter.”
    By this Mr. Calder meant that Maria Lipper was an agent who collected, piecemeal, all information which came her way and passed it on at long intervals of months or even years. No messengers came to her. When she had sufficient to interest her master, she would take it to a collecting point and leave it. Occasional sums of money would come to her through the post.
    “It is a thousand pities,” added Mr. Calder, “that they did not get on to her a little sooner – before Operation Prometheus Unbound came off the drawing board.”
    “Do you think she knows about that ?”
    “I’m afraid so,” said Mr. Calder. “I wasn’t directly concerned. Buchanan was in charge. But it was her section that did the Prometheus typing, and when he found out that she had asked for an urgent contact, I think – I really think – he was justified in getting worried.”
    “What is he going to do about it?”
    “The contact has been short-circuited. I am taking his place. Two days from now Mrs. Lipper is driving down to Portsmouth for a short holiday. She plans to leave Woking very early – she likes clear roads to drive on – and she will be crossing Salisbury Plain at six o’clock. Outside Upavon she turns off the main road. The meeting place is a barn at the top of the track. She has stipulated for a payment of five hundred pounds in one-pound notes. Incidentally, she has never before been paid more than fifty.”
    “You must be right,” said Mr. Behrens, “I imagine that I am to cover you here. Fortunately my aunt is taking the waters at Harrogate.”
    “If you would.”
    “The same arrangements as usual.”
    “The key will be on the ledge over the woodshed door.”
    “You’d better warn Rasselas to expect me. Last time he got it into his head that I was a burglar.”
    The great hound looked up at the mention of his name and grinned, showing his long white incisors.
    “You needn’t worry about Rasselas,” said Mr. Calder. “I’ll take him with me. He enjoys an expedition. All the same, it is a sad commentary on the younger generation that a man of my age has to be sent out on a trip like this.”
    “Exactly what I was saying. Where did you put the backgammon board?”
     
    Mr. Calder left his cottage at dusk on the following evening. He drove off in the direction of Gravesend, crossed the river by the Dartford underpass and made a circle round London, recrossing the Thames at Reading. He drove his inconspicuous car easily and efficiently. Rasselas lay across the back seat, between a sleeping bag and a portmanteau. He was used to road travel, and slept most of the way.
    At midnight the car rolled down the broad High Street of Marlborough and out onto the Pewsey Road. A soft golden moon made a mockery of its headlights.
    A mile from Upavon, Mr. Calder pulled up at the side of the road and studied the 1/25,000 range map with which he had been supplied. The track leading to the barn was clearly shown, but he had marked a different and round-about way by which the rendezvous could be approached. This involved taking the next road to the right, following it for a quarter of a mile, then finding a field track – it was no more than a dotted line even on his large-scale map – which would take him up a small re-entrant. The track appeared to stop just short of the circular contour which marked the top of the down. Across it, as Mr. Calder had seen when he examined the map, ran, in straggling gothic lettering, the words slay down.
    The entrance to the track had been shut off by a gate and