'Before or after he went on the Maloy raid?'
'Before.' She gulped at her drink. 'I was working for the Kompani Linge.'
'Have you heard from him since?'
She seemed to hesitate. 'No.'
I didn't press the point. 'Did you know him as George Farnell, or as Bernt Olsen?' I asked.
'Both,' she answered. Then suddenly, as though she couldn't stand the suspense any longer, she said. 'Please, Mr Gansert I must get to Norway. This is the only way I can do it. I want to know what happened. And I want to — see where he's buried. Please — help me, won't you? Sir Clinton said you were going to Norway. Please, take me. I won't be in the way. I promise. I've done quite a lot of sailing. I'll work on deck, cook — anything. Only let me come.'
I didn't say anything for the moment. I was wondering what was behind her plea. There was something driving her — something that she hadn't stated. Had Farnell been her lover? But that alone wouldn't account for the urgency of her tone. 'Why did Sir Clinton phone you this morning?' I asked her.
'I told you — to tell me to get in touch with you.'
'No,' I said. 'I mean't, how did he come to know you were interested?'
'Oh. He put an advertisement in The Times some time back. I answered it. I went up and saw him. He thought I might know something of George's activities since the war.'