Connie wore her goggles and disguising cap, and she sat in silence. Because of Hilda’s opposition, she was fiercely on the side of the man, she would stand by him through thick and thin.

They had their headlights on, by the time they passed Crosshill, and the small lit-up train that chuffed past in the cutting made it seem like real night. Hilda had calculated the turn into the lane at the bridge-end. She slowed up rather suddenly and swerved off the road, the lights glaring white into the grassy, overgrown lane. Connie looked out. She saw a shadowy figure, and she opened the door.

“Here we are!” she said softly.

But Hilda had switched off the lights, and was absorbed backing, making the turn.

“Nothing on the bridge?” she asked shortly.

“You’re all right,” said the man’s voice.