Fletcher Hill's hand was like a steel trap, cold and firm and merciless.

She longed to wrench herself free from it, yet felt too paralysed to move.
And still he waited, not urging her, yet by his very silence making her aware of a compulsion she could not hope to resist for long.
She turned to him at last in desperation.

"What--have you to suggest ?" she asked.
"I ?" he said.

"I shall be ready at the end of the week--if that will suit you." She gazed at him blankly.

"The end of the week! But of course not--of course not! You are joking!" "No, I am serious," Fletcher said.