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than friends—or strangers for that matter—could help me, ten years ago.” He had his eyes open wide now and looked at Palfrey with almost forbidding straightness. “Perhaps the best thing is to let you read a press cutting I have had in my pocket for ten years but a day.”
    He took out his wallet and from the back section took out a plastic protected cutting. It was not a big one, and was from the Daily Telegraph. It read:
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    Mother and three children buried in same grave.
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    The article explained the simple facts of what had happened and it carried a picture of a dark-haired woman, and narrow cut pictures of three children.
    Palfrey read swiftly, then handed the cutting back.
    â€œDid you go to the cemetery today?” he asked.
    â€œYes. As I have on every anniversary for the past ten years. The strange thing is that I told Mrs. Drummond about it, on the journey. I’ve never told anyone before. And I told her I didn’t expect to go again. Less than half an hour afterwards she was brutally confronted with the fact that in all but detail, the same thing had happened to her.”
    Costain turned to the window, and silence fell. It was a welcome relief when there was a tap at the door and coffee and sandwiches, beer and cheese were brought in by an elderly messenger.
    â€œWhen we’ve had a snack, I’d like you to come out to the village—or as near as we can safely get,” Palfrey said at last. “You know the countryside well, and we won’t need a guide.” He proffered the sandwiches in a matter-of-fact way. “It will be a relief not to be followed by a police car and therefore by the Press. You can guess what a Roman holiday they’re making of this, can’t you? Television and movie teams have been down and may still be at the village. That’s one reason we whisked Mrs. Drummond away.” He began to eat, opened two bottles of beer, and after one sandwich, tried the cheese. “Um-um. Very good. Try some.”
    Costain found himself eating.
    Half an hour later they left the police station by a side entrance, and as Palfrey was about to start the engine of a small, unmarked car, Devine came hurrying, with a letter in his hand.
    â€œThis has just arrived, sir.”
    â€œAh. Thanks. I’ll read it later.” Palfrey slipped the letter into his inside breast pocket, and started the engine. “I’d like to go high enough for us to look down on the village,” he said. “There’s hardly been a breath of air all day.”
    â€œThen take the Romsey road,” Costain said. “Sane is on the fringe of the New Forest.”
    â€œSo I gather.”
    Costain pointed out three turnings, and suddenly Palfrey pulled into the side of the road, and said: “It would be much wiser for you to drive. Get us there more quickly.” He got out, Costain manoeuvred himself into the driving seat, and started off, glad to have something to do. Since he had met Palfrey, his whole attitude had changed. Without minimising what had happened, Palfrey somehow took out the sting. “I’ll look through that letter,” he added, drawing it out of its envelope. One sideways glance told Costain that it was a two-paged, typewritten document. At last, when they were well in the country, he folded and put the letter away.
    â€œHow far now?” he asked.
    â€œAbout seven miles.”
    â€œRemarkably isolated, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes,” said Costain. “It took some finding.”
    â€œYou mean, a place to bury yourself in.”
    â€œBury is the word,” agreed Costain wryly.
    â€œMy dear chap! You will never get anywhere while you are as sensitive as that,” Palfrey remonstrated mildly. “Why is the village so isolated, do you know?”
    â€œIt was in one family’s hands, a family named Sane. The Manor House and every cottage and house, every farm and every barn was owned by