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full figure.
    “Joyce Morgan,” the announcer stated, and the name appeared beneath the picture.
    “No,” said Janey, with hardly a pause.
    “Are you quite sure?” demanded Ramon.
    “Yes, absolutely.”
    “Very well.”
    Other pictures appeared, other names were uttered and shown, but she recognised none. As she watched, she became aware of two things. First, that she liked all the faces, particularly Palfrey’s, the Russian’s whose name she could not recall properly, and the woman’s, Joyce Morgan. Second, there were many non-English faces, one or two she placed from features as well as from names as French, Italian, German and Spanish; but there were many who might be from any country in the world.
    At long, long last, the pictures were finished and a brighter light came on but not with the fierce brightness of the floodlights. Everything in the room seemed normal, she was now so used to the mirrors and the men.
    The man who had been called Ramon, said: “If you recall any of these names, you must tell Mr Ashley at once.”
    “I will,” Janey promised. And immediately felt shame that she should be so eager to.
    “And if you recall anything that Carr said you must report at once.”
    “I will,” she assured him, mechanically.
    “All right,” he said. “You may go back to your apartment.”
    The man behind her came and helped her to her feet, then led her to one of the mirrors, which proved to be a door. She was very unsteady and could not have walked without his aid, and he did not seem surprised, for at the end of a long, narrow passage there was a hallway, and on one side, two wheelchairs with canvas backs and seats, invalid chairs. He helped her into one, and pushed her. She was so mortified that tears stung her eyes, and soon she was crying.
    Suddenly, they stopped in front of an open lift, and he pushed her into it, followed, and pressed a button for the door to close, and the lift went slowly upwards. She had nothing with which to dry her eyes, until, still standing behind her, the man gave her a paper handkerchief. As she dried both cheeks and eyes, the lift stopped and the door opened. Only then did she realise that she was in the passage which led to her own apartment. He pushed her towards the rooms and opened the door; once inside, he came to the front of the chair and helped her out.
    He was still masked, as when he had held the lash.
    He bowed from the waist, as if he were a servitor, not an executioner.
    He drew away and went out with the chair, and as the door closed behind him she realised he had not uttered a word, had been as silent as a dumb man would be.
    Almost choking, she moved slowly, effortfully, to her bedroom. The bed had been made and turned down, everything was exactly as she would expect to find it after coming back from the laboratory. She was so physically exhausted that she almost collapsed into bed, had hardly the strength to draw the clothes over her. Yet her mind was alert enough for her to realise how right Philip had been. This was a prison – was a form of concentration camp.
    Would she ever see him again?
    Would she ever get out of here?
    Had he escaped?
    Her last waking thought was almost of exhilaration with a sudden flash of realisation. Philip must surely have got safely away or they would not have been so desperately anxious for her to talk.
    At last, she fell asleep; and slept, as she had grown accustomed to sleeping with the thunderous roaring in her ears and the whole room, the whole building, roaring and vibrating.
    She did not dream.
     
    When she woke, it was dark and silent.
    She had a sense of movement but not of vibration, but was too drowsy to worry about that.
    When she woke again, it was pitch dark, but this time she could not doze, so she got out of bed and banged against the wall, hurting her toe. Who on earth had moved her bed? She groped for the light switch on the bedside table, but could not find it. As she groped about the room, her heart