4: Greeley
THE clock in the hall of Quayle's flat struck midnight. Quayle heard it through the open bedroom door. He was stretched out on the bed. He wore a red and white spotted foulard dressing-gown over scarlet pyjamas. His hands were folded behind his head. He looked unblinkingly at the ceiling as if he were seeing pictures there. Beside him on the bed, typed out on yellow quarto flimsies, was the decoded report which Mrs. Ferry had been so self-sacrificing in securing.
Quayle read it through a dozen times. Now he was putting himself through a process which he used on occasions. He was visualising the report. It had begun to rain. Almost subconsciously Quayle heard the rain-drops beating against the window-pane. The pattering did not disturb him. His conscious mind was filled with Fo
