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interested.”
    The directeur rasped the tip of his finger against the shaven side of his chin but said nothing.
    “It seems fairly certain,” went on the girl, “that when Mr. Rimbault reaches France he will run into trouble. The people whom I have mentioned are remarkable for their good intelligence organisation. Nor do they conduct their affairs with gloved hands.”
    “You think then,” said the directeur, “that when he leaves England, you should – it is, of course, entirely your decision.”
    “I think so,” said the girl. “Yes, I most certainly think so.”

 
Chapter Nine
     
    Nap wedged his deck chair into a convenient space between the end of a wooden seat and a steel bulkhead, buttoned up his overcoat collar and settled down to do some thinking.
    A night breeze was scuffling the water as the steamer cleared Newhaven harbour, and, winking in and out against the blackness of the sea, Nap saw the whitecaps as the wind bit off the top of the little waves. There didn’t seem to be enough power behind it to move the sea, for which Nap was duly thankful for he was not the world’s best sailor.
    He had plenty to think about.
    First of all he was trying to work out a plan of campaign which might have a chance of unearthing in five or six days something which had lain hidden for as many years.
    The only line of approach which he could see was to visit the two farms – the Père Chaise farm where Vicky had worked and Wells had hidden and on which the Gestapo had descended with such disastrous results in September, 1943, and the farm of the brothers Marquis which, he had ascertained, lay about five miles to the north of it. Was it a coincidence, he wondered, that the brothers Marquis, who had stood surety for Sainte, should have a farm such a short distance away. Probably only a coincidence. The second possible line would be to question the brothers Marquis and Monsieur Gimelet of Angers, and try to discover something to the discredit of Monsieur Sainte. This would not, perhaps, help to unravel the mystery, but it might provide more useful ammunition for Macrea.
    Langeais, Avrillé-les-Ponceaux, Saumur, Angers. They all lay within quite a small circle. Somewhere within that circumference was a key to their riddle, if he had the wit to find it.
    He looked out across the blackness of the sea and the gloss and shine of the waves suddenly put him in mind of a head of hair belonging to a girl he had seen that morning.
    Upon which he raised his eyes, and saw her, leaning against the rail.
    First, in silhouette, against the pale night sky, but he knew at once, from the tilt of the chin and the set of the neck. Then the companionway door, swinging open and shut as the ship rolled, loosed a shaft of light, only for a second, but it was enough.
    Nap got up and moved over to the rail as quickly as he could for the deck chairs and the clutter of baggage. When he got there the girl had gone.
    “She can’t get away unless she swims for it,” he said.
    It wasn’t a big boat and in ten minutes he had been through the few public rooms. Then he went out and made a slow circuit of the two decks. The blue night lamps were lit and he did the job thoroughly, staring at recumbent forms and disturbing an indignant couple in a dark corner behind the deck-chair house.
    He went back again into the lighted interior and had a word with the purser.
    Yes, said the purser, there were private cabins – only six of them and all were taken. If Nap would tell him the name of the person he was looking for, he would examine the list.
    Nap said it didn’t matter.
    He would have to wait until they docked at Dieppe. If he stationed himself by the gangplank he could hardly miss her. Meanwhile, he thought he would kill time by having a drink. He made his way through the saloon into the bar.
    The bar was empty except for a bearded Frenchman in one corner who was sacrificing his Channel crossing in libations of cognac, and the French girl, who was