IdrovebacktotheGee,dumpedthethegarage,andhadalatecupoftea.AsitwasSundaythebarwouldn’topenforanotherhourortwo.Inthecooloftheevenioutandstrolledupinthedireofthechurch.

    Iwasjustcrossingthemarket-placewhenInoticedawomanwalkingalittlewayaheadofme.AssoonasIseteyesonherIhadamostpeculiarfeelingthatI’dseenhersomewherebefore.Youknowthatfeeling.Icouldn’tseeherface,ofcourse,andsofarasherbackviewwenttherewasnothingIcouldidentifyaIcouldhaveswornIknewher.

    ShewentuptheHighStreetandturneddowheside-streetstht,theonewhereUncleEzekielusedtohavehisshop.Ifollowed.Idon’tquiteknowwhy—partlycuriosity,perhaps,andpartlyasakindofprecaution.MyfirstthoughthadbeenthathereatlastwasohepeopleI’dknownintheolddaysinLowerBinfield,butalmostatthesamemomentitstruckmethatitwasjustaslikelythatshewassomeonefromWestBletchley.InthatcaseI’dhavetowatchmystep,becauseifshefoundoutIwashereshe’dprobablysplittoHilda.SoIfollowedcautiously,keepingatasafedistandexaminingherbackviewaswellasIcould.Therewasnothingstrikingaboutit.Shewasatallish,fattishwoman,mighthavebeenfortyorfifty,inarathershabbyblackdress.She’dnohaton,asthoughshe’djustslippedoutofherhouseforamoment,andthewayshewalkedgaveyoutheimpressionthathershoesweredownatheel.Allinall,shelookedabitofaslut.Aherewasnothingtoidentify,onlythatvaguesomethingwhiewI’dseenbefore.Itwassomethinginhermovements,perhaps.Presentlyshegottoalittlesapershop,thekindoflittleshopthatalwayskeepsopenonaSunday.Thewomanwhokeptitwasstandinginthedoorway,doingsomethingtoastandofpostcard