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out in Morocco.’
    â€˜Oh, really? How amusing. When was that?’
    â€˜Year before last.’
    â€˜And you haven’t seen her since?’
    Torrens looked still more surprised.
    â€˜Yes—I met her here in January, on my way home to report. But why?’
    â€˜No reason on earth,’ Atherley lied easily, pleased with the information he had picked up. ‘Except that I wondered if you would come to lunch on Thursday to meet her.’
    Torrens was caught off guard.
    â€˜Is she still here? I thought she went back to England in March.’
    Then they
are
in touch, Atherley thought to himself, but not in very close touch.
    â€˜She did, but she came back five days ago, to cover the wedding for some paper. So I hope you are free on Thursday. Little Countess Hetta Páloczy will be there too.’
    â€˜Oh, really? The one who’s just got out? Yes—thank you, I should like to come very much.’
    â€˜Good—that will be very pleasant. Just the four of us, I thought—it will be easier for Countess Hetta. She seems a little inclined to find the West the
Wild
West,’ Atherley said. ‘Not really so surprising, in a way.’ He gave Torrens a card with the address of his house, and scribbled the hour on it. ‘Goodbye for the moment,’ he said, rising to terminate the interview.
    When his visitor had gone Atherley sat for a little while, reflecting on what he had heard. Torrens himself impressed him favourably: he was in quite a different class to so many of these S.I.S. types—like poor little Melplash, for instance. He rang up the Military Attaché—the Embassy had a private exchange, unconnected with the Lisbon telephone system except for outside calls—and asked a few questions. The M.A. did not know very much, but the little he did was satisfactory: a sound man; thoroughly reliable, and with a high reputation. ‘He was in the Scots Guards to begin with,’ he said, with a certain finality.
    â€˜That won’t make H.E. like it any better if he drags us into some mix-up over a Central European,’ Atherley said, rather sourly—and Colonel Campbell laughed down the telephone. ‘Let’s hope he won’t,’ he said.
    Atherley continued to reflect. Quite clearly it must have been from Major Torrens that the lovely Julia had picked up her rumour about the important Hungarian, presumably when he passed through Lisbon in January. Both his own impression of the man, and the Military Attache’s account of his record led Atherley to decide that his visitor was not a person to talk recklessly about service matters; he would only do so to someone with whom he was involved in some way, usually emotionally. But not necessarily emotionally, of course, he thought; they might be working together. Press assignments sometimes covered other activities. H’m. Perhaps he had better try to find out from Miss Probyn a little more about her relations with the Major, past
and
present. When dealing with these Secret Service people—or indeed with almost anyone—it was impossible to know too much. He had actually reachedout his hand to the telephone on his desk when the instrument gave its low discreet buzz—he lifted the receiver.
    â€˜Atherley,’ he said.
    â€˜Good morning, Richard.’ It was the Ambassadors voice.
    â€˜Oh, good morning, Sir. How is her Ladyship?’
    â€˜Splendid, thank you—and the baby is putting on weight like anything! She get’s up today, and I think we ought to have a cocktail-party next week; we seem to have been more or less
incomunicado
for some time. I thought of Friday—Helen should be thoroughly strong by then. But we should like you to be there. Are you free?’
    â€˜Of course, Sir,’ Atherley said dutifully, even while he felt in his breast-pocket for his engagement book, and thumbed it awkwardly with his left hand to find next Friday’s page. Before he