THE night porter knocked at Christopher's door.
"Hallo!"
"Case, sir."
Kit yawned, and sat up. He had been called out once before during the night, and his body resented the second disturbance. He felt full of an abominable and delightful desire to sleep.
"Gates."
"Sir?"
"Is it far?"
"Great Plumpton Street, sir, or just off it."
"Foreign or English?"
"English, sir. I'm keeping the messenger."
"Good."
Kit arose, switched on the light and dressed. He collected the black midwifery bag and descended the stairs to the dim vestibule where the night-porter and a vague feminine figure waited. Gates, holding an illustrated magazine, and keeping the place marked with a fat finger tucked between the pages, opened the street door. Kit marched out, with the vague feminine shape following. The closing door shut out the band of light, and Sorrell and the messenger were alone in the darkness of the silent street, and in the midst of London's most strange silence.
Kit walked briskly. He knew his direction, and he seemed hardly aware of the figure at his side, for it was no more than a shadow, one of London's shadows. The woman walked beside him consentingly, glancing occasionally at his silent and preoccupied profile. They reached Oxford Street without having exchanged a word.
Halfway across the empty street the girl paused under an electric standard.
"Queer, isn't it?"
