"Whitehall?"
"Yes, to the Intelligence Office."
"What for, in the name of—"
"We must get her a doctor."
"They have a doctor here."
"Not a proper doctor. You ought to see the condition she's in. We must go to your chief and get him to allow—"
When he'd spoken to the chauffeur, he followed her into the car, slammed the door, and relapsed into moody silence.
Above the profoundly stirred deeps a trifle rose to the surface.
"I thought," she said, "prisoners of the first class could wear their own clothes."
"Well?"