The major hailed him with a show of relief. “Where am I?” he muttered. It must be sent home this evening. Before a month has elapsed, your mother will be mine. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. . ‘Think it’s worth getting some sort of light and following her down there?’ asked Roding. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles.
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