He'd died that evening. Father and son together, this was a filthy war, Benin thought.She wondered every night about John Greenhaugh. Had he been shot...down? Or maybe waiting to be evacuated with the other foreigners in Barcelona? She knew it was the latter. She refused to believe that a big, confident man such as John could be lying in some anonymous grave somewhere.At night she wrote in her diary by the light of a flickering wax candle. She drew little sketches to pass the time; sketches of. " We all swear an oath to her on joining sir." Yes, quite." Not many live up to it like you though."I said nothing."May I make you an offer for it?" Yes sir," I said, "But before you do, let me tell you the minimum I'll accept." Of course, please do." One hundred and fifty thousand pounds; a copy to be made at your expense for me and a written promise that it can be sold back to me in the event of your death, at what you paid for it."He blinked twice and then smiled."Why do you want it back?" I. More

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