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They went out into the main hall of the surgery and the slim figure of an attractive girl appeared, about to go out of the front door. She was dark and bright-eyed, with a dazzling smile as she flashed a greeting in Adam's direction, which included Emma. She raised a hand and waved it before disappearing. Emma wondered who she was, and felt slightly depressed by the intimate and cheerful atmosphere she conveyed.

'That,' Adam said, Emma thought warmly, 'is Dr Judy Meyhew, our assistant. Been with us three months and has every prospect of a partnership later on.'

Emma heard his words with a sensation of emptiness. Dr Meyhew had suggested an element of happiness and camaraderie that was infectious, yet which Emma could not share. So! Adam worked with her; they had a relationship which reminded her of her own hospital days among doctors and emphasised the barrenness of her present existence. She found herself wondering what Adam felt about her, and almost stammered, 'She's very attractive.'

'A compliment indeed from one woman to another.' Adam smiled and added, 'Yes, Judy is very popular and fits in well.'

Emma didn't know why she said, 'And I suppose one day you and she will run the practice, when Dr Bryant retires?'

Adam looked down at her, his expression frankly pleased as he said, 'That's the idea.'

Emma felt dispirited. It was like looking at happiness through another's eyes, although she hastened to tell herself that the last thing she wanted would be to work for, or with, a man like Adam Templar!

As they walked to the door, Emma absorbed the atmosphere of the busy practice, feeling the pulse of work unceasing; of happiness, tragedy; life, death. It was all there in the ringing of the telephones, footsteps going from waiting-room to consulting-room. Patients arriving, some harassed, dreading what diagnosis might ensue; others, light of step as a much-wanted preg
nancy
had been confirmed, or, tragically, confirmation of a dreaded one. She was conscious of the activity around her and realised that she had taken up Adam's valuable time without a degree of graciousness, or appreciation. A strange uneasy feeling beset her; she had been affected by the presence of Judy Meyhew, almost as though sensing that her advent would have repercussions she feared. Yet why? Whatever had she to do with her, Emma? Except, a voice whispered, to hold up the mirror and reflect what you would have liked in your life.

Adam saw Emma to her car, the sun falling on his dark smooth hair which was shaped attractively to his head. His features were etched in faint shadow as he opened the door and saw her into the driving seat. It was a strong face, she thought irrelevantly, with mesmeric eyes that met hers steadily and half questioningly. 'Are you going to the shops now, or ?'

'Now,' she hastened, anticipating that he would have
added, 'or have you already been?' And suddenly a wave of misery flooded over her, striking the pit of her stomach and making her breathing irregular. Her thoughts were chaotic and untidy, and she felt that she was being assessed and found wanting.

He shut the car door and she wound down the window.

To her surprise he said, 'This is a day for the river.'

Was that his method of emphasising the bleakness of her life?

She just looked at him stonily, bereft of words. Her right hand reached out and turned the ignition key so that the engine started.

He put a forearm along the bottom of the window and leaned slightly forward. 'Don't dismiss what I've said today, Emma, because my saying it has angered you.'

She wanted to get rid of the emotion and hopelessness, the curious resentment within her, and her words came harshly, 'You give yourself credit for too much power, Adam.'

'We shall see, Emma. . .we shall see.' With that he stood back and watched her race away.

Emma parked her car at the multi-storey car park adjoining King Edward Court and set about her shopping, starting at Peascod Street and ending up at Caley's in the High Street, opposite the Guildhall. The space and attractiveness of the shop, the faint fragrance that wafted from the perfume counter, soothed her a little, and her heart slowed down as she endeavoured to forget Adam and concentrate on the shade of Elizabeth Arden powder Irene wanted. She already felt tired and the busy shoppers did nothing to revive her. She was also conscious that she had been far longer than she had anticipated, and began to worry about Irene. The
worrying brought back Adam's words: 'If you go on as you are now, you will sacrifice your life for your sister', and annoyance and anger built up as the echo taunted her. She felt trapped. Irene had already made friends with Adam, accepted him, so there was no question of their reverting to having Edmund Bryant as her physician again. Yet Adam didn't understand the case and she could not foresee any possibility of his improving Irene's condition; worse still, his present assessment could endanger Irene's peace of mind were he to propound his theories and force her to move at a pace unsuitable. Wasn't gaining her confidence a step in that direction? Yes, but a voice whispered warningly, What's the alternative, except a life of accepting phobias and nervous tensions?

She left Caley
's,
omitting to get several items for
herself
in her anxiety to hurry home, and irritation beset her as she manoeuvred out of the packed car park and made for York Road.

Driving into the garage, the fact registered that Irene was not at the sitting-room window watching for her, as was her custom. She opened the front door with a degree of trepidation, calling out as she did so. But there was only the silence of a house that might have been deserted. She flung open the sitting-room door, threw her parcels on the sofa and, still calling, went into the kitchen. Panic assailed her as she rushed upstairs, her now continuous shouting of Irene's name getting louder and more apprehensive, the stillness growing more uncanny as each room proved to be empty. The vacant bathroom brought her near to collapse. Irene
couldn't
have gone
out.

Only the thudding of her heart was audible as she stood still on the circular landing from which one had a view of the hall. Another pulse seemed to throb in the silence—fear. It filled the space like some wild animal waiting to pounce, giving rise to horrors from which she shrank. But suddenly, uncannily, she thought she heard a sob. . . Her ears seemed to be bursting as she listened, realising after a few seconds that, somewhere, Irene was crying. But where? She moved across the landing to the top of the staircase and called out, 'Irene! Irene!'

A broken hysterical voice came back, seemingly from nowhere.

'I'm
here.'

And suddenly, appalled, Emma knew. Irene had shut herself in the spacious cupboard under the stairs, where the vacuum cleaner and domestic implements were stored. And when Emma reached her, she was sitting on the floor in pitch darkness, shrieking, 'I thought you weren't coming back; that you'd had an accident.' The words came jerkily and in terror.

Emma lifted the shaking figure to its feet, soothing her as she might have done a child. They stumbled out into the bright light of the spring day and Irene's tear-filled reddened eyes seemed a reproach.

When they reached the sitting-room and sat down, Emma keeping her arms around the trembling body, she said desperately, 'Why hide yourself—
why?'

Irene murmured, 'I felt safe. . . You were so long. I couldn't stand the—the cars going by.' She took a deep breath. That was better; her raw nerves, which had seemed like saw-edges, subsided. Emma was back. Her vivid imagination faded; her limbs stopped shaking. She seemed to recover almost miraculously as she said, 'Did you get my powder?'

Emma heaved a thankful sigh; the nightmare over.

'Yes.'

'Why were you so long?'

Emma moved away and then looked down at Irene as she sat on the sofa; the storm abated.

'It's always so busy. . . You must not get like this, Irene. How do you think I feel?' She didn't realise that she had put herself first as she spoke, whereas normally it was what
Irene
felt. The ghost of Adam might have been standing beside her.

Irene flared, 'It's like dying a little for me. . .you don't know how I feel.' Tears gushed to her eyes again. 'There's nothing I can do,' she wailed, 'nothing.' She caught her words on a sob as she added, 'And Daddy and Mummy are
dead.'

Emma let her head drop; she glanced at her hands as they were clasped in her lap. She had sat down because her legs refused to support her, emotion tearing at her as she looked at the broken figure of Irene near her.

'We won't talk about it any more,' she said firmly. 'It's teatime and I've bought some of those little chocolate cakes with almond paste that you love.'

Irene brightened.

'You're so good to me,' she murmured, looking solemn.

The drama of the cupboard would not be mentioned until there was another crisis. That was the pattern and Emma accepted it. She studied Irene
's
face, almost with a new interest in the light of her conversation with Adam, wishing that he could have seen for himself the panic, the sheer terror of these events. Annoyance built up and emotion undermined her simulated calm. She felt Irene's gaze upon her and lowered her own as though her thoughts were capable of being read.

'It's time for my doctor to come to see me,' Irene said suddenly, jerkily. 'Isn't it?'

Emma murmured something about not knowing.

'But he comes regularly—quite often, in fact,' Irene added almost proudly. Then, disarmingly, 'Do you like him?'

Emma
started; the question took her off guard. 'It isn't really for me to like or dislike him,' she said evasively. 'As long as he does you good. . .' She let it go at that.

'I didn't like him at first,' Irene said reflectively. 'He didn't understand and I didn't feel he was sympathetic.' A pathetic note crept into her voice. 'Can anyone imagine I want to be like this?' She added a trifle triumphantly, 'But I've made him see my point of view.'

Was that a matter of tactics on Adam's part? Emma asked herself. Gaining Irene's confidence in order finally to assert himself with subtle authority? A great sigh started deep within her. If only she had not bought those theatre tickets; suggested the trip to London. All the tragedy started from that, and the fact was never far from her mind.

To Emma's distress, Irene refused the tea and cakes.

'I feel ill, Emma.' She looked piteous. 'My heart hurts.' The almost childish phraseology added to the poignancy of the moment. 'And it's racing.'

Studying her, Emma realised that she was shaking violently.

'I think,' Irene murmured piteously, 'I need the doctor. . .I feel so ill,' she repeated, 'so dreadful. . . Oh! Emma, will you send for him—
please
? I'm frightened.'

It was the last thing Emma wanted; neither did she, considerately, like the idea of upsetting what she knew was Adam's busy schedule, with surgery coming up at any moment.

'I'll get you to bed,' she suggested soothingly, conveying the suggestion that it was an alternative.

Irene gave a little moan. 'Please, Emma; send for him.' Her voice rose on a note of hysteria.

Emma looked into the wild appealing eyes and felt a sensation of fear. She got up and went to the telephone, dialling the surgery number and asking to speak to Dr Templar. His secretary, Mrs Digby, whom Emma knew, explained that he was in surgery.

'Would you ask him to visit my sister?' Emma asked half-apologetically. 'She's very unwell.' And, looking over to the sofa, Emma saw that Irene had fainted. 'It's urgent,' she added, her voice raised as she replaced the receiver and rushed to Irene's side. The inert figure slumped against the sofa cushions, stirred, wide eyes opened appealingly.

Emma got her to bed. Once there she lay back against the pillows lifelessly, her gaze following Emma apprehensively.

'You won't leave me,' she begged.

'I won't leave you,' Emma promised, her heart heavy.

The house had taken to itself the silence of sickness, as though a pulse had stopped and life had become a dark forbidding grey. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall seemed an uncanny intrusion, as though time were the enemy.

Adam arrived within half an hour.

'I got Judy to stand in for me,' he explained by way of greeting. He looked at Emma with a questioning directness, 'What's the trouble?' At that moment he was the doctor, anxious only about his patient, and she appreciated his attitude, shutting her mind against all that had taken place earlier in the day.

She outlined the circumstances, giving him the details, without realising she was being on the defensive.

'I'll go over her,' Adam said briefly. He met her gaze. 'I'd like you to be with me to fill in any gaps there may be in her story.'

Emma was brief and to the point, 'There won't be any gaps: she was terrified.'

As they went up the stairs she was conscious of his nearness and the faint smell of anaesthetic that still clung to him, after a previous hospital case.

Irene lay like a pink and white doll in the large bed with its frilled orchid-shaded duvet and pillows. Her face was devoid of colour, her eyes wide and appealing. Without make-up she had a childlike quality that gave her a pathetic air, and Emma saw Adam's eyebrows rise as he looked down at her with a degree of surprise and alarm.

'So sorry to worry you,' she murmured.

'That's what I'm here for,' he said whimsically, and looked around the room at the curtain-drawn windows which muted the light and gave a depressing air. 'I'd like those opened,' he said with authority.

'I like the dark,' Irene insisted.

'And I want to see you,' he countered, nodding as Emma let in the sunlight.

Despite herself, Irene whispered, 'It was a sunny day when they died.'

For a fleeting second Emma caught Adam's gaze and her own was unconsciously challenging.

Adam put his medical bag down on the dressing-table stool which, like the dressing-table itself, was frilled with the same shimmering brocade as the other drapings, and took from it his sphygmomanometer and stethoscope.