Unpacking Peter’s haversack in the warm, lighted bedroom with the drawn blue curtains and the two brass bedsteads, Patricia found a bundle of correspondence addressed “Francis Gordon, Esq., 10 Mecklinburgh Square.” A postcard, an American picture-post-card, dropped out of the bundle: lay, address downwards, on the carpet. The colouring and design—a large white hotel set among palm-trees—caught her eyes; and she could not help reading the handwriting underneath: “A happy Christmas. It’s a long time since you’ve written. Why? B.C.”

Patricia had asked herself the same question many times in the last months. Nobody knew exactly what had happened to Francis Gordon. Except Peter. She felt certain that Peter knew. But Peter wouldn’t say; contented himself, in reply to verbal enquiries with: “All I can tell you, is that he’s all right.” Her letters on the subject, he had calmly ignored....