Mr. Albert Campion was standing beside the office window of the Turrets, his attention wandering from the sheet of foolscap in his hand to the scene below.
Thick cables coiled like snakes across the courtyard and the foreshortened figures of men in boiler suits moved expertly among portable arc lamps, microphones, trailing wires, batteries and the whole mysterious paraphernalia of television equipment which was being unloaded from a truck too large for the Gothic arch over the entrance. At the front of the house the last scars left by the fallen elm were being plastered into oblivion and the trunk had vanished.
Lottie found him still immersed in the typewritten phrases which covered the page when she appeared in the doorway some minutes later. She was wearing her unofficial tweeds and he
