There was a silence.
Howard stood looking out of the window at the little weeded, overgrown garden outside.
As he stood the situation became clear to him.
In such a case the local officers of the Gestapo would have to make a show of energy.
They would have to produce the spies who had been instrumental in the raid, or the mutilated bodies of people who were classed as spies.
Presently he said:
'I cannot tell them what I do not know, and so things may go badly with me.
If I should be killed, you will do your best for the children, Nicole?'
She said: 'I will do that.
But you are not going to be killed, or even hurt.
Something must be possible.'
She made a little gesture of distress.
Pursuing his thought, he said:
'I shall have to try and get them to let me make a new will.
Then, when the war is over and you could get money from England, you would be able to keep the children and to educate them, those of them that had no homes.
But in the meantime you'll just have to do the best you can.'
The long hours dragged past.
At noon an orderly brought them an open metal pan with a meal of meat and vegetables piled on it, and several bowls.
They set the children down to that, who went at it with gusto.
Nicole ate a little, but the old man practically nothing.
The orderly removed the tray and they waited again.
At three o'clock the door was flung open and the Feldwebel was there with a guard.
'Le Vieux,' he said, 'Marchez.'
Howard stepped forward and Nicole followed him.
The guard pushed her back.
The old man stopped.
'One moment,' he said.
He took her hand and kissed her on the forehead.
There, my dear,' he said.
'Don't worry about me.'
They hustled him away, out of that building and out into the square.
Outside the sun was bright; a car or two passed by and in the shops the peasants went about their business.
In Lannilis life went on as usual; from the great church the low drone of a chant broke the warm summer air.
The women in the shops looked curiously at him as he passed by under guard.
He was taken into another house and thrust into a room on the ground floor.
The door was shut and locked behind him.
He looked around.
He was in a sitting-room, a middle-class room furnished in the French style with uncomfortable, gilded chairs and rococo ornaments.
A few poor oil paintings hung on the walls in heavy, gilded frames; there was a potted palm, and framed, ancient photographs on the side tables, with a few ornaments.
There was a table in the middle of the room, covered over with a cloth.
At this table a young man was sitting, a dark-haired, pale-faced young man in civilian clothes, well under thirty.
He glanced up as Howard came into the room.
'Who are you?' he asked in French.
He spoke almost idly, as if the matter was of no great moment.
The old man stood by the door, inwardly beating down his fears.
This was something strange and therefore dangerous.
'I am an Englishman,' he said at last.
There was no point any longer in concealment.
'I was arrested yesterday.'
The young man smiled without mirth.