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immediately attracted Rowe’s attention – a tall, broad, black-haired man; he couldn’t think why, until he realized that it was his normality which stood out. ‘Mr Cost,’ Mrs Bellairs was saying, ‘this is . . .’
    â€˜Mr Rowe.’ Hilfe supplied the name, and the introductions went round with a prim formality. One wondered why Cost was here, in the company of Dr Forester with his weak mouth and his nobility; Miss Pantil, a dark young-middle-aged woman with blackheads and a hungry eye; Mr Newey – ‘Mr Frederick Newey’ – Mrs Bellairs made a point of the first name – who wore sandals and no socks and had a grey shock of hair; Mr Maude, a short-sighted young man who kept as close as he could to Mr Newey and fed him devotedly with thin bread and butter, and Collier, who obviously belonged to a different class and had worked himself in with some skill. He was patronized, but at the same time he was admired. He was a breath of the larger life and they were interested. He had been a hotel waiter and a tramp and a stoker, and he had published a book – so Mrs Bellairs whispered to Rowe – of the most fascinating poetry, rough but spiritual. ‘He uses words,’ Mrs Bellairs said, ‘that have never been used in poetry before.’ There seemed to be some antagonism between him and Mr Newey.
    All this scene became clear to Rowe over the cups of very weak China tea which were brought round by the austere parlourmaid.
    â€˜And what,’ Mrs Bellairs asked, ‘do you do, Mr Rowe?’ She had been explaining Collier in an undertone – calling him plain Collier because he was a Player and not a Gentleman.
    â€˜Oh,’ Rowe said, watching her over his tea-cup, trying to make out the meaning of her group, trying in vain to see her in a dangerous rôle, ‘I sit and think.’
    It seemed to be the right as well as the truthful answer. He was encircled by Mrs Bellairs’ enthusiasm as though by a warm arm. ‘I shall call you our philosopher,’ she said. ‘We have our poet, our critic . . .’
    â€˜What is Mr Cost?’
    â€˜He is Big Business,’ Mrs Bellairs said. ‘He works in the City. I call him our mystery man. I sometimes feel he is a hostile influence.’
    â€˜And Miss Pantil?’
    â€˜She has quite extraordinary powers of painting the inner world. She sees it as colours and circles, rhythmical arrangements, and sometimes oblongs.’
    It was fantastic to believe that Mrs Bellairs could have anything to do with crime – or any of her group. He would have made some excuse and gone if it had not been for Hilfe. These people – whatever Hilfe might say – did not belong under the stone with him.
    He asked vaguely, ‘You meet here every week?’
    â€˜Always on Wednesdays. Of course we have very little time because of the raids. Mr Newey’s wife likes him to be back at Welwyn before the raids start. And perhaps that’s why the results are bad. They can’t be driven, you know.’ She smiled. ‘We can’t promise a stranger anything.’
    He couldn’t make out what it was all about. Hilfe seemed to have left the room with Cost. Mrs Bellairs said, ‘Ah, the conspirators. Mr Cost is always thinking up a test.’
    Rowe tried out a question tentatively. ‘And the results are sometimes bad?’
    â€˜So bad I could cry . . . if I knew at the time. But there are other times – oh, you’d be surprised how good they are.’
    A telephone was ringing in another room. Mrs Bellairs said, ‘Who can that naughty person be? All my friends know they mustn’t ring me on Wednesdays.’
    The old parlourmaid had entered. She said with distaste, ‘Somebody is calling Mr Rowe.’
    Rowe said, ‘But I can’t understand it. Nobody knows . . .’
    â€˜Would you mind,’ Mrs Bellairs said,