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“We can’t afford that vulnerability.”

“I know. But the College of St. Francis is not our Achilles’ heel.”

Huntley sighed. “I expect to see you at my office on Friday afternoon. Usual precautions, Miss Dobbs.”

“Of course.”

There was a click on the line as Huntley ended the call, and a single dial tone issued from the receiver that was not quite like the tone one would normally hear; then it changed, and Maisie replaced the receiver. As usual, her conversation with Brian Huntley had been scrambled.

Maisie made one more telephone call before leaving the kiosk. It was to James Compton, at his club.

“I’ll be back in London on Friday, James. I think I might get away early—there’s a lecturer who owes me a favor, so I might get her to take my classes.”

“I wish I knew what was going on—all this business about teaching in Cambridge. It makes me feel quite unintelligent.”

Maisie laughed. “Oh, that’s how I feel when I stand up in front of my class of very acute students.” She paused. “Have you spoken to Priscilla?”

“Yes—and do not worry, Sandra is still with her, and some fellow from Scotland Yard—Caldwell is his name—has been to see her. Priscilla said he was actually very kind, very gentle with Sandra, who is looking much better.”

“Any other news?”

“Priscilla had a message from Caldwell for you. He said to tell you it’s just a bit of gossip, but thought you’d like to know.”

“I don’t believe it—Caldwell wants to share gossip with me?”

James laughed. “I wish I knew more about these men you fraternize with at Scotland Yard. Anyway, he said that someone called Stratton had resigned. He’s left the Yard—apparently left the police entirely. Caldwell said you’d worked with him on several occasions and would like to know.”

“Stratton has left?”

“That’s all I know—can’t comment any more than that.”

“Well, that is a turnup for the books.”

James laughed. “And I have a message from Billy that came via Miss Robinson—just in case I spoke to you, he said, which made me laugh—the message is that your father telephoned.”

“Oh dear.”

“Is he all right, Maisie? I hope he hasn’t been ill.”

Maisie smiled. “No, as far as I know he’s not ill, but he might be lovesick.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“James, though he tried to keep it from me, I have discovered my father is courting.”

James began to laugh again, and at once Maisie could not help herself—the tension of the previous days broke and she laughed along with him.

With another six weeks of teaching before her, Maisie began her final accounting while still employed at the college, though she had asked to be released from her contract as soon as another junior lecturer in philosophy could be found. With Alan Burnham as principal, Dr. Francesca Thomas had been promoted to become deputy principal, and it was during a meeting at her office in Eaton Square on an autumn afternoon, with the sun now low in the sky and the first signs of a clinging winter smog beginning to envelop the city, that Maisie asked her how long she thought she might be at the College of St. Francis.

“It’s a good place for me, Maisie. I am a respected lecturer in a position of some responsibility, and I enjoy the work—though the naïveté of some of my students rather worries me. I wonder about them, what might happen to them when another war comes, if it comes. But as I said, I am well placed. And of course, given my position, I find myself invited to the drawing rooms of some very interesting people—and anyone interesting to me will be interesting to those I consider an enemy of my country.”

Maisie nodded.

Thomas looked at Maisie, her stare direct, her question equally so. “And you, Maisie? I know who you have been working for over the past few months, and I know exactly what you do—whether reporting to dear Brian Huntley or your clients. But what will you do when you have completed your reports for Huntley?”

“Then it’s back to my business—which is growing, I might add.”

Thomas smiled. “They won’t let you go, you know. And we