being rescued from drowning in a dream.
The Superintendent’s face, which had loomed very large, gradually resumed its normal proportions and his voice, which had receded to a distant hail, slipped back into tune.
‘You’ve overdone it, sir, that’s what you’ve done. We’re just by the station. You’ll have to sit down. You can’t go on for ever without sleeping or eating; no one can.’
The tone was plaintive and gently nagging.
‘You’ll go sick on your feet, and then where shall we be ?’
He was leading his charge all the time with the firm efficiency of long practice and they advanced upon the unexpectedly modern Police Station, set among the Tudor scenery, in spite of his companion’s incoherent protests.
A Police Sergeant met them on the doorstep and there was a muttered conference between him and his chief.
‘Is there?’ Hutch said at last. ‘I see. Yes. Yes, of course. Put it through at once. We’ll take it in the Charge Room.’ He turned to Campion anxiously. ‘There’s a personal call waiting for you, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s from Headquarters. Can you manage it? Are you all right?’
Campion had no clear impression of his passage through the station. He came back to himself as he sat staring into the black mouthpiece of the shabby telephone.
‘Yeo here, Mr Campion,’ said a voice in his ear. It was so small and quiet that it might have been the whisper of conscience. ‘Yeo. Have you got the Chief with you?’
‘Oates?’ Campion’s own voice was strong and apprehensive. It seemed to him that he was shouting.
‘Yes, sir. He’s gone. We can’t find him. He left his room here in the small hours of yesterday morning and hasn’t been heard of since. Is he with you?’
‘No, he’s not here.’
There was a long pause. It seemed to stretch into centuries and shrink again into a minute’s space. He had time to become aware of the light streaming in through the tall windows and of the green distemper on the wall at the end of the room.
The faraway voice spoke again.
‘Then it’s you alone now, sir. You’re the only one now who can do anything. None of the rest of us here even know the full strength. I don’t know if you think that’s wise, sir. The Chief was in sole control of his agents.’
Campion could not reply and after a pause the little voice came again.
‘Any … luck, sir?’
Campion closed his eyes and opened them again as once more the secret reserve which lies in every human body was pumped up into his veins.
‘Not yet,’ he said distinctly, ‘but there’s still an hour or two.’
Then he slipped forward across the table, his head in his arms.
IX
HE WOKE HOLDING Amanda’s hand. He was so relieved to find it there, so comforted to see her, alive, friendly, and gloriously intelligent, that for a blessed moment he remained mindless and content. He lay looking at her with placid, stupid eyes.
‘You’re ill,’ she said, her clear, immature voice frankly anxious. ‘I’ve been trying to wake you for hours. What shall I do? Phone Oates?’
That did it. That brought him back to the situation with a rush. Everything he knew, everything he had discovered or experienced since he had awakened in the hospital bed, sped past his conscious mind like a film raced through a projector at treble speed. The effect was catastrophic. It took his breath away and left him sweating.
‘No,’ he said, struggling into a sitting position, while the whole top of his head seemed to slide backwards sickeningly. ‘No, that’s no good. I mean don’t do that. I’ll get up at once.’
‘All right,’ she agreed and he looked at her with deep affection. She was quite obviously worried about him and in her opinion he should have stayed where he was, but he was the boss and she was not arguing. She was so pretty, too, so young and vividly sensible. He liked her brown eyes and wished she would kiss him. The reflection that he had probably lost her for ever was such an
The Superintendent’s face, which had loomed very large, gradually resumed its normal proportions and his voice, which had receded to a distant hail, slipped back into tune.
‘You’ve overdone it, sir, that’s what you’ve done. We’re just by the station. You’ll have to sit down. You can’t go on for ever without sleeping or eating; no one can.’
The tone was plaintive and gently nagging.
‘You’ll go sick on your feet, and then where shall we be ?’
He was leading his charge all the time with the firm efficiency of long practice and they advanced upon the unexpectedly modern Police Station, set among the Tudor scenery, in spite of his companion’s incoherent protests.
A Police Sergeant met them on the doorstep and there was a muttered conference between him and his chief.
‘Is there?’ Hutch said at last. ‘I see. Yes. Yes, of course. Put it through at once. We’ll take it in the Charge Room.’ He turned to Campion anxiously. ‘There’s a personal call waiting for you, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s from Headquarters. Can you manage it? Are you all right?’
Campion had no clear impression of his passage through the station. He came back to himself as he sat staring into the black mouthpiece of the shabby telephone.
‘Yeo here, Mr Campion,’ said a voice in his ear. It was so small and quiet that it might have been the whisper of conscience. ‘Yeo. Have you got the Chief with you?’
‘Oates?’ Campion’s own voice was strong and apprehensive. It seemed to him that he was shouting.
‘Yes, sir. He’s gone. We can’t find him. He left his room here in the small hours of yesterday morning and hasn’t been heard of since. Is he with you?’
‘No, he’s not here.’
There was a long pause. It seemed to stretch into centuries and shrink again into a minute’s space. He had time to become aware of the light streaming in through the tall windows and of the green distemper on the wall at the end of the room.
The faraway voice spoke again.
‘Then it’s you alone now, sir. You’re the only one now who can do anything. None of the rest of us here even know the full strength. I don’t know if you think that’s wise, sir. The Chief was in sole control of his agents.’
Campion could not reply and after a pause the little voice came again.
‘Any … luck, sir?’
Campion closed his eyes and opened them again as once more the secret reserve which lies in every human body was pumped up into his veins.
‘Not yet,’ he said distinctly, ‘but there’s still an hour or two.’
Then he slipped forward across the table, his head in his arms.
IX
HE WOKE HOLDING Amanda’s hand. He was so relieved to find it there, so comforted to see her, alive, friendly, and gloriously intelligent, that for a blessed moment he remained mindless and content. He lay looking at her with placid, stupid eyes.
‘You’re ill,’ she said, her clear, immature voice frankly anxious. ‘I’ve been trying to wake you for hours. What shall I do? Phone Oates?’
That did it. That brought him back to the situation with a rush. Everything he knew, everything he had discovered or experienced since he had awakened in the hospital bed, sped past his conscious mind like a film raced through a projector at treble speed. The effect was catastrophic. It took his breath away and left him sweating.
‘No,’ he said, struggling into a sitting position, while the whole top of his head seemed to slide backwards sickeningly. ‘No, that’s no good. I mean don’t do that. I’ll get up at once.’
‘All right,’ she agreed and he looked at her with deep affection. She was quite obviously worried about him and in her opinion he should have stayed where he was, but he was the boss and she was not arguing. She was so pretty, too, so young and vividly sensible. He liked her brown eyes and wished she would kiss him. The reflection that he had probably lost her for ever was such an
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