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tomb by his own superhuman knowledge.
    He opened his eyes. They were clouded no longer. They were brilliantly green. He looked from face to face.
    “Mankind is spared.” His voice had all its old authority. “My star rises in the East.”
    * * *
    Brian spent a most unhappy morning. He decided that he needed company, and called up everybody he could think of to join him for lunch. But everybody either was away or had a prior engagement.
    His packing was done in half an hour, for he traveled light, and he lunched alone in the hotel grill room, wondering if he would ever lunch there again with Lola. Now that separation had come, swift as a sword stroke, he realized acutely how much she meant to him. He thought of the wildest plans, such as chartering a plane to Nottingham, but common sense rejected them. He wouldn’t see her again before he left for Cairo.
    After a miserable lunch he walked across to Hyde Park, a hotel writing pad in his pocket, and took a chair at a spot where he could see the boats on the Serpentine. Lola and he had often sat there. He settled down to write her a long letter. It proved to be even a longer letter than he had intended it to be, and he decided to read it through and see if he had repeated himself.
    It was at this point that he became aware of a voice. This voice was in some way familiar. The speaker seemed to be seated somewhere behind him, but too far away for Brian to make out what he was saying. Yet he seemed to recognize the voice, its curious intonations.
    He tried to blot out other sounds—oars in rowlocks, shouts of young oarsmen, splashing—and to pick out words. And, up to a point, he succeeded.
    “… no choice… instructions are… break off… association… Sorry… all that…”
    Brian’s curiosity had to be satisfied. Taking out a cigarette, he sparked his lighter and turned aside as if to guard the flame from a trifling breeze, but really so that he could glance over his shoulder.
    His curiosity was satisfied.
    The Honorable Peter Wellingham sat in the shade of a fine old oak tree talking animatedly to a girl whose face was shadowed by a large wide-brimmed hat, but who almost certainly was Lola.
    Brian turned his head quickly. He had a sudden sensation almost of nausea. Desperately he told himself that he couldn’t be sure the girl was Lola.
    Although Wellingham had called him on several occasions, this was the first time he had seen him since that morning when the agreement had been signed. And Wellingham had told him only a few hours ago that he was leaving for Paris almost immediately!
    Brian put his pen back in his pocket and stared at the long, unfinished letter. First, he must regain control of himself, then make sure that he hadn’t been mistaken about the identity of the girl with Wellingham. He must be cautious. If he had been lured into some kind of trap, if Wellingham and Lola (his heart seemed to miss a beat or two) were in league, what was their purpose?
    He became calmer; he listened again. He could no longer hear Wellingham’s voice. He turned cautiously and looked back. They were walking away.
    Brian jumped up and followed. Already they had a long start, and they were headed for the highway parallel to Rotten Row, where cars could be parked. He began to run.
    The graceful carriage of the girl, her figure, even the dress she wore told him that she was Lola. The big floppy hat he had never seen. But it might be worn to shade her face if they chanced to see him.
    He was still ten yards behind when Wellingham opened the door of a smart convertible for the girl, walked around, and got into the driving seat. The car glided off.
    Brian called Peter Wellingham’s number, but was told by the Eurasian secretary that Mr. Wellingham was not at home. He gave his name and asked where Mr. Wellingham had gone. She was so sorry, but she didn’t know. Was there any message?
    His next impulse was to call Michel’s. But Lola had been so insistent on this point all along