It was a tall soldierly old man who appeared at the exit from the platform. His grey hair was clipped close and he had a neatly trimmed white moustache. His porter, staggering slightly under the weight of the solid leather suitcase, indicated Vera and Lombard.

Vera came forward in a competent manner. She said:

«I am Mrs. Owen’s secretary. There is a car here waiting.» She added: «This is Mr. Lombard.»

The faded blue eyes, shrewd in spite of their age, sized up Lombard. For a moment a judgement showed in them – had there been any one to read it.

«Good-looking fellow. Something just a little wrong about him…»

The three of them got into the waiting taxi. They drove through the sleepy streets of little Oakbridge and continued about a mile on the main Plymouth road. Then they plunged into a maze of cross country lanes, steep, green and narrow.

General Macarthur said:

«Don’t know this part of Devon at all. My little place is in East Devon – just on the border-line of Dorset.»

Vera said: «It really is lovely here. The hills and the red earth and everything so green and luscious looking.»

Philip Lombard said critically: «It’s a bit shut in… I like open country myself. Where you can see what’s coming…»

General Macarthur said to him: «You’ve seen a bit of the world, I fancy?»

Lombard shrugged his shoulders disparagingly.

«I’ve knocked about here and there, sir.»

He thought to himself: «He’ll ask me now if I was old enough to be in the War. These old boys always do.»

But General Macarthur did not mention the War.