They passed northwards through the night of London in the Décauville car, Richard and Teresa side by side on the front seats, old Mrs. Bridget in her black alpaca behind, up Regent Street, along Oxford Street, up the interminable Edgware Road, through Kilburn, and so on to Edgware and the open road and country.
‘Bridget knows all my secrets, Mr. Redgrave,’ said Teresa. ‘Moreover, she has no ears unless I wish it.’
‘Sure, miss,’ said Bridget, ‘more gets into my head than goes out. ’Tis for all the world like a Jew’s pocket.’
This fragment of conversation was caused by Richard’s sudden stoppage in the middle or a remark about Micky, who, Teresa told him, had disappeared concurrently with her father.
‘What were you going to say about Micky?’
Teresa asked.
‘I was going to say,’ Richard answered, ‘that things are not what they seem.’
‘You mean that Micky, too, was a——’
She hesitated.
‘Yes, like me, only rather more professional.’