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and had seemed preoccupied and vague. Furthermore, she was wearing a blouse which did not seem to go with her fawn coat and skirt, and he had spied a ladder in her right stocking. Selina was normally as well-groomed and co-ordinated as a Siamese cat, and these small irregularities worried him.
    He said, “Is anything wrong?”
    Selina tried to meet his eye, to take a deep breath and be entirely calm, but her heart was thumping like a sledge-hammer, and her stomach felt as though she had just ascended in a too-fast lift, leaving most of her innards in the basement.
    â€œNo, there’s nothing wrong, but I simply have to talk to you.”
    He frowned. “Won’t it keep till this evening? This is the only chance we’ll get to measure the…”
    â€œOh, Rodney, please help me and listen.”
    He hesitated, and then with a resigned expression, laid down the book of carpet samples and folded his foot-rule and slid it into his pocket.
    â€œWell? I’m listening.”
    Selina licked her lips. The empty flat unnerved her. Their voices echoed, and there was no furniture, and no ornament with which to fiddle, no cushion to plump into shape. She felt as if she had been put on to a large, empty stage, with no props and no cues, and she had forgotten her lines.
    She took a deep breath and said, “It’s about my father.”
    Rodney’s expression scarcely changed. He was a good lawyer, and he enjoyed a game of poker. He knew all about Gerry Dawson, for Mrs. Bruce and Mr. Arthurstone had long since deemed it necessary to keep him informed on such facts. And he knew that Selina didn’t know anything about her father. And he knew that he was not going to be the one to tell her.
    â€œWhat about your father?” he said, quite kindly.
    â€œWell … I think he’s alive.”
    In relief, Rodney took his hands out of his pockets and gave a small snort of incredulous laughter. “Selina.…”
    â€œNo, don’t say it. Don’t say he’s dead. Just listen, for a moment. You know that book you gave me yesterday? Fiesta at Cala Fuerte. And you know it had on the back a photograph of the author, George Dyer?”
    Rodney nodded.
    â€œWell, the thing is … he looks exactly like my father.”
    Rodney digested this, and then said, “How do you know what your father looked like?”
    â€œI know, because I found a photograph of him, ages ago, in a book. And I think it’s the same person.”
    â€œYou mean George Dyer is…” He stopped just in time.
    â€œGerry Dawson,” Selina finished, triumphantly, for him.
    Rodney began to feel as if a carpet was being pulled from beneath his feet.
    â€œHow did you know his name? You were never meant to know his name.”
    â€œAgnes told me yesterday.”
    â€œBut, Agnes has no business…”
    â€œOh, Rodney, try to understand! You can’t blame her. I caught her unawares. I put the face of George Dyer like that, flat down on the table in front of her, and she practically fainted away.”
    â€œSelina, you do realise that your father is dead?”
    â€œBut Rodney, don’t you see, he was missing? Missing, presumed killed. Anything might have happened.”
    â€œThen why didn’t he come back after the war?”
    â€œPerhaps he was ill. Perhaps he lost his memory. Perhaps he heard that my mother had died.”
    â€œAnd what’s he been doing all this time?”
    â€œI don’t know. But for the last six years he’s been living on San Antonio.” She realised that Rodney was going to ask her how she had found that out, and she added quickly, “It tells you all about this in his book,” because she didn’t want him to know that she had been to see Mr. Rutland.
    â€œHave you got the photograph of your father with you?”
    â€œNot the book one.”
    â€œI didn’t mean that. I meant the other.”
    Selina