"You let their heads stay back unless it's apoplexy. And he's a bit young for that, isn't he?"

She was loosening collar and tie and shirt band with the expert detachment of a cook paring pastry from a pie edge. Grant noticed that her sunburnt wrists were covered with small scars and scratches of varying age, and that they stuck too far out of her out-grown sleeves.

"You'll find brandy in the cupboard, I think. Father isn't allowed it, but he has no self-control."

Grant found the brandy and came back to find her slapping Tisdall's unconscious face with a light insistent tapotement.

"You seem to be good at this sort of thing," Grant said.

"Oh, I ran the Guides at school." She had a voice at once precise and friendly. "A ve-ry silly institution. But it varied the routine. That is the main thing, to vary the routine."

"Did you learn this from the Guides?" he asked, nodding at her occupation.

"Oh, no. They burn paper and smell salts and things. I learned this in Bradford Pete's dressing room."

"Where?"

"You know. The welterweight. I used to have great faith in Pete, but I think he's lost his speed lately. Don't you? At least, I hope it's his speed. He's coming to nicely." This last referred to Tisdall. "I think he'd swallow the brandy now."

While Grant was administering the brandy, she said: "Have you been giving him the third degree, or something? You're police aren't you?"

"My dear young lady — I don't know your name?"

"Erica. I'm Erica Burgoyne."

"My dear Miss Burgoyne, as the Chief Constable's daughter you must be aware that the only people in Britain who are subjected to the third degree are the police."

"Well, what did he faint for? Is he guilty?"

"I don't know," Grant said, before he thought.

"I shouldn't think so." She was considering the now spluttering Tisdall. "He doesn't look capable of much." This with the same grave detachment as she used to everything she did.

"Don't let looks influence your judgment, Miss Burgoyne."

"I don't. Not the way you mean. Anyhow, he isn't at all my type. But it's quite right to judge on looks if you know enough. You wouldn't buy a washy chestnut narrow across the eyes, would you?"

This, thought Grant, is quite the most amazing conversation.

She was standing up now, her hands pushed into her jacket pockets so much the much-tried garment sagged to two bulging points. The tweed she wore was rubbed at the cuffs and covered all over with «pulled» ends of thread where briars had caught. Her skirt was too short and one stocking was violently twisted on its stick of leg. Only her shoes — scarred like her hands, but thick, well-shaped, and expensive — betrayed the fact that she was not a charity child.

And then Grant's eyes went back to her face. Except her face. The calm sureness of that sallow little triangular visage was not bred in any charity school.

"There!" she said encouragingly, as Grant helped Tisdall to his feet and guided him into a chair. "You'll be all right. Have a little more of Father's brandy. It's a much better end for it than Father's arteries. I'm going now. Where is Father, do you know?" This to Grant.

"He has gone to lunch at The Ship."

"Thank you." Turning to the still dazed Tisdall, she said, "That shirt collar of yours is far too tight." As Grant moved to open the door for her, she said, "You haven't told me your name?"

"Grant.