“I haven’t got the key,” he declared, his eyes searching her face for the slightest sign of hesitation, of distraction. Give him one fraction of a second start, he told himself, and he would have that gun away from her.

But Penelope was keyed for anything. “If you don’t open that gate in ten seconds,” she said, with some surprise at the steadiness of her own voice, “I shall shoot.”

Sullenly he began to search his pockets. “One,” she counted, “two⁠—three⁠—four⁠—five⁠—six⁠—seven⁠—”

A key rattled on the ground in front of her. She made no move to touch it. His intention was evident to her. “Pick that up,” she ordered, “and open the gate. Quick. Eight⁠—nine.”

His face still a mask he reluctantly obeyed. Tense she waited for the faintest suspicious movement. The key slipped into the lock.