“I feel like a fool,” she told Rand, gazing across the desk with uncertain eyes. “Nonsense,” he reassured her. “You did the right thing in reporting it. Now suppose you start at the beginning and tell me everything that happened.” “That’s the trouble. Nothing happened except that I saw this man taking a wax impression of the lock—the way they do in the movies, and—” Rand smiled slightly. “You haven’t even told me your name, or where you work.” “What? I thought my boss phoned you.” “I’d like to hear it all from you, if I may. From the beginning.” She shifted in the chair and crossed her legs. “Well, my name is Audrey Fowler, and I’m a pool typist in the Foreign Office. I’ve been there nearly three years and I like it a lot. The girls are so friendly, and there are lots of handsome men—” Rand cleared his throat. “About yesterday.” “Oh! Yes. I don’t usually work on Sunday, of course, but with all those television people around—” “What television people?”
