“Are you looking for any particular number—or are you just looking?”
“I’m looking for number 5a,” he replied.
“Well, well, I thought you might be. You see I live there. Just popped out to the post so’s to catch it in the morning. Number five’s back that way. If you’ll wait till I’ve posted my letter I’ll show you. You just wait here.”
The voice was a woman’s voice, good-tempered and full of confidence. Macdonald heard the click of her heels as she walked briskly along the pavement. He waited as she had bidden him, amusing himself by visualising the owner of the cheerful Cockney voice. A woman as old or older than himself, he judged (Macdonald was looking fifty in the face), a Londoner undoubtedly, one of the undaunted millions who take blackout and bombs in their stride, and prefer the
