.

into the corridor.

      ‘Yes, I work here,’ he replied with a wry smile. ‘I trust you won’t have too much trouble with Miss Morgan.’

      ‘So do I,’ she averred fervently. ‘Well, goodbye, then. I may see you again some morning.’

      ‘You may, indeed,’ he said easily, and closed the gates, firmly pressing the button for the top floor.

      His office suite was accommodated on this floor, along with the offices of his co-directors and the imposing board room. He had his own staff of typists and his personal assistant, John Mercer, was in the adjoining office. The corridor here was thickly carpeted and all the rooms were soundproof and luxurious.

      He entered the outer office of his own domain and saw that his private secretary was diligently typing as though unaware of his arrival. Laura Freeman was thirty and had been with him for over ten years. She always looked bandbox fresh and wore her long dark hair piled on top of her head in a neat knot. Whereas the rather severe style made some women look austere, with Laura Freeman it merely enhanced her good looks, giving her a businesslike air. Adam was well aware of her personal feelings for him but could not find any appeal in her himself. Their relationship remained strictly businesslike, much to Laura’s chagrin.

      As he closed the door now she looked up and upon seeing him she rose to her feet. ‘Why, Mr Steinbeck,’ she exclaimed as though surprised at his appearance. ‘We didn’t expect you in this morning.’

      ‘Come now, Miss Freeman,’ remarked Adam, crossing the room to his own office. ‘Surely reception hasn’t slipped up for once. I could almost hear the wires tingling as I rode up in the elevator.’

      Laura remained unembarrassed, and refused to rise to his baiting.

      ‘The mail is on your desk,’ she said in her most correct manner. ‘Shall I bring in my notebook?’

      ‘No, don’t bother, I’ll ring when I want you. Oh, and Miss Freeman, get me Miss Morgan on the phone immediately please.’

      ‘Miss Morgan in the typing pool?’ exclaimed Laura.

      ‘Who else?’ said Adam easily, entering his office and closing the door firmly behind him. Caroline Sinclair sat drinking her morning coffee with a fellow typist, Ruth Weston. It was ten-thirty and the typing pool staff were allowed ten minutes for their coffee break. Ruth was smoking, but Caroline was sitting staring thoughtfully into space, her shoulder-length hair framing her piquantly attractive face.

      ‘Penny for them,’ remarked Ruth, bringing Caroline back to earth abruptly.

      Caroline smiled. ‘Oh, I was only wondering why Miss Morgan was so understanding this morning. I’ve only been late once before and that time she was furious about it. Today she simply said she knew what it was like with alarms and that I should hurry and catch up with my work.’

      Ruth, who was nineteen and two years older than Caroline, raised her eyebrows. ‘Heavens,’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ve only been here a fortnight and I’ve never known her understand about anybody sleeping in before, let alone a new girl. Maybe she’s got herself a man at last.’

      Caroline giggled. ‘Ruth, if she could hear you! By the way, that reminds me, I came up in the lift with the most gorgeous man this morning.’

      Ruth looked interested. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘How old was he?’

      ‘Oh, in his thirties, I’d say,’ replied Caroline blandly.

      Ruth chuckled. ‘Rather older than you,’ she remarked dryly.

      ‘So what!’ exclaimed Caroline. ‘I prefer men to boys. Boys always bore me.’

      Ruth shrugged. ‘Well, you know best about that, I suppose. What was he like anyway? To look at, I mean?’

      ‘Oh, big and broad and very attractive,’ murmured Caroline, smiling. ‘Thick black hair cut very short and he was wearing one of those short sheepskin coats. He was what I call a real male.’

      Ruth laughed. ‘Honestly, Caroline, you must be joking, talking like that about a man who’s probably old enough to be your father. Mark Davison should be more in your line. He’s trying to date you, isn’t he?’

      Caroline grimaced. ‘Ruth,’ she exclaimed, ‘Mark Davison is just an overgrown schoolboy, and is he big-headed! He thinks he’s God’s gift to women.’

      Mark Davison worked in one of the adjoining offices in the building and had dated most of the girls in the typing pool from time to time, including Ruth. Caroline, being the new girl, was now being subjected to the treatment, but she was not interested and all the other girls were amused at Mark’s persistence.

      ‘Well, anyway,’ went on Ruth, ‘who was this man? Where did he get out of the lift?’

      ‘I don’t know. He stayed on after I’d got off,’ answered Caroline. ‘Do you know all the men who work here?’

      ‘No, not all,’ replied Ruth. ‘There are too many different departments. I know a lot of them by sight, of course.’

      Caroline nodded thoughtfully. Suddenly an imperious voice broke in on their conversation.

      ‘Miss Sinclair, Miss Weston, I think your break should be over by now.’ It was Vera Morgan on the warpath and with hasty steps the two girls returned to their machines.

      The small flat which Caroline shared with Amanda Burchester was in an old converted mansion standing in a cul-de-sac off the King’s Road. Once the home of a titled lady, the house now accommodated twelve separate couples and no children were allowed, although the scratched paint and peeling wallpaper had seen much better days.

      Caroline’s parents were dead, having died in a car crash when she was three, and she had been brought up by an elderly aunt. When Amanda had the chance of this flat six months ago, she had invited Caroline to share it with her, and Caroline herself had been very keen. Aunt Barbara was a dear old soul but not good company for a teenager, and she had been very understanding and allowed Caroline to go. Caroline had known Amanda since their schooldays and sharing a flat was great fun.

      Although Caroline was less effusive, Amanda had a steady stream of boy-friends, some of whom gravitated to Caroline after meeting her. However, her height deterred many, and in any case, the boys who often appealed to Amanda did not often appeal to Caroline. Amanda was a redhead and eighteen years old. Her parents lived in the North of England now and as Amanda had not wanted to leave London when they did she and Caroline had acquired this flat.

      Boys were only of secondary importance to Caroline. She loved reading and visiting art galleries. She attended most of the exhibitions and revelled in learning about the artists. She also enjoyed classical music and Amanda could never understand how she could dance madly one evening and then go into raptures over Grieg’s Piano Concerto the next. She occasionally visited the Festival Hall when some famous musician was playing, but in the main she had to be content with the concerts on the radio, as after paying her keep at the flat she had very little left to do anything with.

      When she woke up one morning about a week later and padded to the window she found a thick fog outside probing at the panes. Drawing the curtains quickly closed again, she groaned inwardly. Then she looked at Amanda, who was stirring, disturbed by the light that Caroline had switched on.

      ‘Come on, Mandy,’ said Caroline sleepily. ‘There’s a peasouper outside, and goodness know how long it will take us to get to work.’

      Amanda rolled over in her twin bed, rubbing her eyes.

      ‘Oh, dear,’ she moaned unhappily. ‘I feel terrible, Caroline.’

      ‘Don’t we all,’ remarked Caroline, making a face at her, and crossing to the wash basin she began to clean her teeth.

      ‘I’m serious,’ exclaimed Amanda in a croaky voice, lying back on her pillows. ‘I think I’ve got ‘flu. I always seem to get ‘flu in November.’

      Caroline