There was some justification for her annoyance, for negotiation of the secret passage demanded either a stout heart, or a desperate one. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. Maybe others that I do not know about. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. She got up early, and walked about the garden in the dewy June sunshine and revived her childhood. He looked at her, his eyes filled with excited terror and astonishment at her move. Neither would she allow herself to feel guilty nor would she allow him to find a way into the house. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. Another car followed, a rusty Cadillac sedan full of kids.
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