A Town like Alice

had a word with him about Miss Paget. "I shall write to her in a day or two and give her your address," I said. "I know that she'll be very sorry to have missed you, and I should think you'd find a letter from her waiting for you at Midhurst when you get there. In fact, I know you will, because I shall write air mail, and she's certain to write air mail to you."
    He brightened considerably at the thought. "I don't think I'll write to her from here," he said. "If you're going to do that I'll wait and write when I hear from her. I'm glad I didn't meet her over here, in a way. It's probably all turning out for the best."
    It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him then that she was in Australia, but I refrained. I had written to her in Alice Springs the day before Joe Harman had come to me, and I was expecting a letter from her any day now, because she used to write once a week, very regularly. If necessary, I could cable her to tell her his address in order that she might not leave Australia without seeing him, but there was no reason to lay all her cards before him at this stage.
    I saw him off at the docks two days later, as I had seen Jean Paget a few months before. As I turned to go down the gangway he said gruffly, "Thank you for doing so much for me, Mr Strachan. I'll be writing from Midhurst." And he shook my hand with a grip mat made me wince, for all the injury his hand had suffered.
    I turned to go down the gangway. "That's all right, Joe. You'll find a letter from Miss Paget when you get back home. You might even find more than that."
    I had reason for that last remark, because I had a letter from her in my pocket that had come by that day's post, and it was postmarked Willstown.

Chapter 6
    When Jean Paget stepped down the gangway from the Constellation on to Darwin airport she was wildly and unreasonably happy. It is a fact, I think, that till that time she had never really recovered from the war. She had come to England when she was repatriated and she had done her job efficiently and well with Pack and Levy for two years or so, but she had done it in the manner of a woman of fifty. She lived, but she had very little zest for life. Deep in the background of her mind remained the tragedy of Kuantan, killing her youth. She had only been speaking the truth when she had told me once that she felt about seventy years old.
    She landed at about eight-fifteen at night, after dark; as she was getting off the plane at Darwin, Qantas had booked a room for her at the Darwin Hotel. She stepped on to the concrete and was marshalled to the Customs office in the hangar; at the foot of the gangway there were three young men who scrutinized her carefully. At the time she took them for officials of the airport. It was only later that she found out that they were reporters on the staff of various Australian newspapers engaged in what must surely be the worst assignment in all journalism, meeting every aeroplane that lands on Darwin airport in the hope of finding a Prime Minister on board, or a woman with two heads.
    One of them came up to her as soon as she was through the Customs; there had been nothing to make a story in this load of passengers. A happy-looking girl was a small dividend, however. He said, "Miss Paget? The stewardess tells me that you're getting off here and you're staying at the Darwin Hotel. Can I give you a lift into town? My name is Stuart Hopkinson; I represent the Sydney Monitor up here."
    She said, "That's terribly kind of you, Mr Hopkinson. I don't want to take you out of your way, though."
    He said, "I'm staying there myself." He had a small Vauxhall parked outside the hangar; he took her suitcase and put it in the back seat and they got in, chatting about the Constellation and the journey from Singapore. And presently, as they drove past the remains of Vestey's meatworks, he said, "You're English, aren't you, Miss Paget?" She agreed. "Would you like to tell me why you're visiting Australia?"
    She laughed. "Not very much, Mr Hopkinson. It's only something personal-it wouldn't make a story. Is this where I get out and walk?"
    "You don't have to do that," he said. "It was just a thought. I haven't filed a story for a week."
    "Would it help if I said that I thought Darwin was just wonderful? 'London Typist thinks Darwin wonderful'?"
    "We can't go panning London, not in the Monitor. Is that what you are, a typist?" She nodded. "Come out to get married?"
    "I don't think so."
    He sighed. "I'm afraid