Then I lay still, my blood pounding in my temples and ears, and in my nostrils a faint, musty smell from the Oriental stuff that covered the lounge.
I could see nothing from where I lay, except the side of the couch, the wall, and a bit of the ceiling with the gargoyley cornice which Di had mentioned when she wanted to seem indifferent to the subject of our conversation.

But I was listening with all my might for what was to come.
"Better lock the door, if you please, Dundas," said a voice, which gave me a shock of surprise, though I knew it well.
Instead of Di, it was the Foreign Secretary who spoke.
"We won't run the risk of interruptions," he went on, with that slow, clear enunciation of his which most Oxford men have, and keep all their lives, especially men of the college that was his--Balliol.

"I told Mountstuart that I wanted a private chat with you.

Beyond that, he knows nothing, nor does anyone else except myself.

You understand that this conversation of ours, whether anything comes of it or not, is entirely confidential.