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me and the two young ones. I mean, I think that a wealthy relative is just what he feels we need.”
    Richard’s expression remained uncharacteristically serious and he turned back to the first page of the letter before casting a furtive glance at the breathtaking face beside him. Annabelle hurried on.
    “We didn’t write to Aunt Polly, because her letter was to Mother anyhow, and explanations seemed too difficult and long-winded to be put on paper. I thought I’d just come up and see what she wanted, but it all sounded a bit peculiar so I thought I’d better arrange with someone reliable to know where I was.”
    She paused and grinned at him, reminding him vividly of herself as he remembered her best.
    “You’re the only person I know in London,” she said. “It was the sensible thing to write you, don’t you think?”
    “Of course.” Richard stifled an unmanly doubt. “Seven Garden Green. It’s one of those houses over there, I suppose.” He nodded without enthusiasm towards the grey terrace, dingy and tall in the mist, which surrounded the Green on the other side of the encircling wall.
    “No, I don’t think so. I came that way. That’s Garden Crescent.” Annabelle glanced uneasily at the maze of shabby stucco stretching in every direction. “Perhaps it’s at the back here. I didn’t like to go and look in case you arrived and missed me.”
    He smiled at her. She was terrific. That half independence, half leaning on one, was the most touching thing he had ever encountered. He got up. “I’ll find out. You stay there. There’s a bobby down there. He’ll know. I shan’t be a moment.”
    He sped off before she could attempt to join him and caught Bullard just as he was moving off towards the Barrow Road.
    “Garden Green, sir?” In the way of elderly constables he took his time before replying. “What number do you want? Seven? That’ll be the first building down that turning on the right over there. You can’t miss the house. It’s a museum.”
    “A what?” Richard was taken by surprise. His eyes looked blue and astounded.
    Bullard could not forbear to smile. The boy reminded him of a startled pup, with that red setter-coloured hair.
    “Isn’t that what you were looking for, sir? It’s number Seven all right. It’s only a small museum and there’s a house attached which is occupied by the caretaker. If I recollect she’s also the owner. Name of Tassie.”
    “The name’s right.” Richard still sounded shaken. “Thank you very much, officer. Over there? I see.”
    Old Bullard was loth to let him go. He was curious about the pair. Annabelle in particular had stirred his imagination.
    “Number Seven’s the museum all right. Only a small one, admission free. If it’s any help to you, the house used to be called Tether’s End.”
    The boy grimaced at him. “That’s cheerful.”
    “So it is.” Bullard was amused. “That’s a funny thing, I’ve been about here thirty years and never noticed that. It’s the same as
Dunroamin
only more sarky, isn’t it? Excuse me, sir, but has the young lady come up from the country?”
    “Yes, as a matter of fact she has.” To his annoyance Richard felt himself flushing. He looked across the leaf-strewn grass to where she sat waiting, and on an impulse turned to the older man and expressed the incredulity which was overwhelming him. “She’s
suddenly
got beautiful like that,” he exploded. “Suddenly.”
    Bullard’s smile was charming. “She’s certainly done it, sir,” he said, and moved off in his deliberate way, highly tickled. It was pleasant to see a young chap knocked all of a heap like that. Suddenly, eh? Well, that was how it always happened, and very nice too.
    He dismissed the incident and started to think about himself again. It was quite remarkable, he reflected, what a memory he had got. Ask him anything you liked about the district and he could answer it pat, just like that. It was what they called a visual memory.