6
MCMINNS parked his car in a lane on the Balcombe road; began to walk towards the village, smoking a cigarette, admiring the weather and the signs of early spring. He was a tall, thin man, partially bald. He wore pince-nez, which gave him an owl-like expression. He walked slowly, with his hands in his trouser pockets, considering life and its implications.
McMinns was in fact beginning to wonder what life was all about. He was fifty-five years of age, and ever since the beginning of World War II had been employed as a liaison officer between M.I. 5 and Mr. Quayle's peculiar organisation. There is no doubt that McMinns found life unsatisfying because never, during that period of years, had he known anything about the real business with which he was concerned. He carried a message from he
