He put his hand beneath her chin to lift her head, and there came again the thunderous din in the tunnel behind him; he swung round to see what had made it, and when he turned back again, the woman was gone. Hands reached out of the tunnel and caught him by the shoulders… a voice said urgently: “Wake up, wake up, wake up!” He was awake and shivering, sick with foreboding and fear. The man leaning over him was Cockrill. “For God’s sake—what is it?” said Pendock. “Get up, man; I thought you’d never wake. Fran’s room—quick, which is her room?” “Over there, opposite mine, across the corridor. Why do you want Fran’s room…?” But Cockrill was across the passage and flinging open Fran’s door. Pendock pushed him aside and ran to the bed. “Francesca! Oh, God! Oh, Christ! Fran darling—” Cockrill felt for the switch and turned on the light. She was lying in her bed as she had been the morning before, her dark hair spread softly over the pillow, her heavy eyelashes curling against her cheek; but this time she was really asleep.
