“Hullo, Studdock! “said a voice. “Writing to little wifie, eh?”

“Damn!” said Mark. “You’ve made me drop my pen.”

“Then pick it up, sonny,” said Miss Hardcastle, seating herself on the table. Mark did so, and then sat still, without looking up at her. Not since he had been bullied at school had he known what it was to hate and dread anyone with every nerve of his body as he now hated and dreaded this woman.

“I’ve got bad news for you, sonny,” she said presently. His heart gave a jump.

“Take it like a man, Studdock,” said the Fairy.

“What is it?”

She did not answer quite at once and he knew she was studying him, watching how the instrument responded to her playing.

“I’m worried about little wifie, and that’s a fact,” she said at last.

“What do you mean?” said Mark sharply, this time looking up. The cheroot between her teeth was still unlit, but she had got as far as taking out her matches.

“I looked her up,” said Miss Hardcastle, “all on your account, too. I thought Edgestow wasn’t too healthy a place for her to be at present.”

“What’s wrong with her?” shouted Mark.

“Ssh!” said Miss Hardcastle. “You don’t want everyone to hear.”

“Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

She waited for a few seconds before replying. “How much do you know about her family, Studdock?”

“Lots. What’s that got to do with it?”

“Nothing . . . queer . . . on either side?”

“What the devil do you mean?”

“Don’t be rude, honey. I’m doing all I can for you. It’s only-well, I thought she was behaving pretty oddly when I saw her.”

Mark well remembered his conversation with his wife on the morning he left for Belbury. A new stab of fear pierced him. Might not this detestable woman be speaking the truth?

“What did she say?” he asked.

“If there is anything wrong with her in that way,” said the Fairy, “take my advice, Studdock, and have her over here at once. She’ll be properly looked after here.”

“You haven’t yet told me what she said or did.”

“I wouldn’t like to have anyone belonging to me popped into Edgestow Asylum. Specially now that we’re getting our emergency powers. They’ll be using the ordinary patients experimentally, you know. Whereas if you’ll just sign this form I’ll run over after lunch and have her here this evening.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort. Specially as you haven’t given me the slightest notion what’s wrong with her.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you but you don’t let me. She kept on talking about someone who’d broken into your flat-or else met her at the station (one couldn’t make out which) and burned her with cigars. Then, most unfortunately, she noticed my cheroot, and, if you please, she identified me with this imaginary persecutor. Of course after that I could do no good.”

“I must go home at once,” said Mark, getting up.

“Here-whoa! You can’t do that,” said the Fairy, also rising.

“Can’t go home? I’ve bloody well got to, if all this is true.”

“Don’t be a fool, lovey,” said Miss Hardcastle.

“Honest! I know what I’m talking about. You’re in a dam dangerous position already. You’ll about do yourself in if you’re absent without leave now. Send me. Sign the form. That’s the sensible way to do it.”

“But a moment ago you said she couldn’t stand you at any price.”

“Oh, that wouldn’t make any odds. Of course it would be easier if she hadn’t taken a dislike to me. I say, Studdock, you don’t think little Wifie could be jealous, do you?”

“Jealous? Of you?” said Mark with uncontrollable disgust.

“Where are you off to?” said the Fairy sharply.

“To see the D.D. and then home.”

“Stop. You won’t do that unless you mean to make me your enemy for life-and let me tell you, you can’t afford many more enemies.”

“Oh, go to the Devil,” said Mark.

“Come back, Studdock,” shouted the Fairy. “Wait! Don’t be a bloody fool.” But Mark was already in the hall. For the moment everything seemed to have become clear. He would look in on Wither, not to ask for leave but simply to announce that he had to go home at once because his wife was dangerously ill: he would be out of the room before Wither could reply-and then off. The further future was vague, but that did not seem to matter. He put on his hat and coat, ran upstairs and knocked at the door of the Deputy Director’s office.

There was no answer. Then Mark noticed that the door was not quite shut. He ventured to push it open a little farther, and saw the Deputy Director sitting inside with his back to the door. “Excuse me, sir,” said Mark.

“Might I speak to you for a few minutes.” There was no answer. “Excuse me, sir,” said Mark in a louder voice, but the figure neither spoke nor moved. With some hesitation, Mark went into the room and walked round to the other side of the desk; but when he turned to look at Wither he caught his breath, for he thought he was looking into the face of a corpse. A moment later he recognised his mistake. In the stillness of the room he could hear the man breathing. He was not even asleep, for his eyes were open. He was not unconscious, for his eyes rested momentarily on Mark and then looked away. “I beg your pardon sir,” began Mark, and then stopped. The Deputy Director was not listening. He was so far from listening that Mark felt an insane doubt whether he was there at all, whether the soul of the Deputy Director were not floating far away, spreading and dissipating itself like a gas through formless and lightless worlds, waste lands and lumber rooms of the universe. What looked out of those pale watery eyes was, in a sense, infinity-the shapeless and the interminable. The room was still and cold: there was no clock and the fire had gone out. It was impossible to speak to a face like that. Yet it seemed impossible also to get out of the room, for the man had seen him. Mark was afraid; it was so unlike any experience he had ever had before.

When at last Mr. Wither spoke, his eyes were not fixed on Mark but on some remote point beyond him, beyond the window, perhaps in the sky.

“I know who it is,” said Wither. “Your name is Studdock. What do you mean by coming here? You had better have stayed outside. Go away.”

It was then that Mark’s nerve suddenly broke. All the slowly mounting fears of the last few days ran together into one fixed determination and a few seconds later he was going downstairs three steps at a time. Then he was crossing the hall. Then he was out, and walking down the drive. Once again, his immediate course seemed quite plain to him. Opposite the entrance was a thick belt of trees pierced by a field path. That path would bring him in half an hour to Courthampton and there he could get a country ’bus to Edgestow. About the future he did not think at all. Only two things mattered: firstly, to. get out of that house, and secondly to get back to Jane. He was devoured with a longing for Jane, which was physical without being at all sensual: as if comfort and fortitude would flow from her body, as if her very skin would clean away all the filth that seemed to hang about him. The idea that she might be really mad had somehow dropped out of his mind. And he was still young enough to be incredulous of misery. He could not quite rid himself of the belief that if only he made a dash for it the net must somehow break, the sky must somehow clear, and it would all end up with Jane and Mark having tea together as if none of all this had happened.

He was out of the grounds now: he was crossing the road: he had entered the belt of trees. He stopped suddenly. Something impossible was happening. There was a figure before him on the path; a tall, very tall, slightly stooping figure, sauntering and humming a little dreary tune; the Deputy Director himself. And in one moment all that brittle hardihood was gone from Mark’s mood. He turned back. He stood in the road; this seemed to him the worst pain that he had ever felt. Then, tired, so tired that he felt his legs would hardly carry him, he walked very slowly back into Belbury.