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and whenever he had awakened during the long night, she had been there to comfort him.
    He moved restlessly. There was no point lying here thinking about her. She was here — to be used. Plans had to be made. He took out his watch. It was twenty minutes past five.
    He reached out and touched her. She awoke instantly. Her eyes snapped open, and her head lifted from the suitcase which served as her pillow. There was no dull, vacant look on her face that most people have when they wake suddenly. She sat up abruptly, shivered.
    “Come on,” he said roughly. “We’ve got to get out of here. It’s nearly half-past five.”
    She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands, stretched, scrambled to her feet.
    “Does your leg hurt?” she asked as she lifted the umbrellas and closed them.
    Sunshine streamed into the trench. It felt warm and good against Ellis’s chilly skin.
    “It’s all right,” he said, passed his hand across his face. The lightness inside his head worried him. He thought perhaps it was because he hadn’t eaten for some time. Although he didn’t feel like eating, he added, “I’m hungry,”
    She nodded. “I’ll have to see what I can do. I’m hungry, too.” She looked across the fairway towards the clubhouse. “I may find food there,” she went on, half to herself. Then she picked up the blanket which she had wrapped round herself, shook it out, folded it and laid it down. “We shall need that. There’ll be other things we’ll need, too.”
    “We’ve got to get out of here,” Ellis reminded her. “Help me up. I can’t stay here all day.”
    But she wasn’t looking at him so she didn’t know he had spoken. He kicked at her in sudden exasperated rage but she was out of reach.
    “I won’t be long,” she said and scrambled out of the trench.
    “Come back,” he shouted, alarmed at the matter-of-fact way she had left him. He tried to heave himself up, but she walked quickly away, too intent on the problems before her to worry about him.
    For a moment or so he raged, cursing her and his leg in a futile flow of blasphemy, but then he realised the uselessness of anger. He was entirely in her hands. She was aware of the danger that threatened them, and she seemed confident. He would have to leave it to her.
    He lay staring up at the white clouds as they drifted lazily above him. He had been used to fending for himself in the past and it was an odd experience to let someone else take over. He quite liked the experience, feeling heavy and apathetic, the pain in his leg dull, his strength sapped. If she made a mess of it, he thought drowsily, he would take over, but first, he would let her handle it and see what she made of it.
    He dozed. His mind was disturbed by pain, his body listless. He felt feverish, and his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. He supposed he was running a temperature. It was not surprising. His clothes were still damp, and in spite of the mackintosh sheet and the umbrellas, the trench was soggy with wet sand.
    Minutes ticked by but he was not aware of the passing time. It was odd how confident he was that the girl would save him or was it because he was so ill he couldn’t reason clearly? He couldn’t be bothered to work it out. All he wanted now was to lie still and doze, to imagine he was safe and not to think of the effort he would soon have to make to get out of the trench.
    The hot sunshine, the sound of the breeze in the bushes lulled him. He slept uneasily, started up, slept again. Then he suddenly became wide awake, his brain crawling with alarm, conscious that he had been alone some time. Feverishly he looked at his watch. It was now five minutes past six. Where was she? he wondered. Had she taken fright and deserted him? Had someone caught her in the clubhouse? He made a tremendous effort and stood up, his weight supported on his sound leg, the strapped broken limb pounding and aching in protest. Gritting his teeth, he clung to the side of the trench and