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I
found
a
place
farther
up
the
hill
,
in
the
garden
of
an
empty
house
.
From
there
I
had
a
full
view
of
the
court
,
on
which
two
figures
were
having
a
game
of
tennis
.
One
was
the
old
man
,
whom
I
had
already
seen
;
the
other
was
a
younger
fellow
,
wearing
some
club
colours
in
the
scarf
round
his
middle
.
They
played
with
tremendous
zest
,
like
two
city
gents
who
wanted
hard
exercise
to
open
their
pores
.
You
could
n't
conceive
a
more
innocent
spectacle
.
They
shouted
and
laughed
and
stopped
for
drinks
,
when
a
maid
brought
out
two
tankards
on
a
salver
.
I
rubbed
my
eyes
and
asked
myself
if
I
was
not
the
most
immortal
fool
on
earth
.
Mystery
and
darkness
had
hung
about
the
men
who
hunted
me
over
the
Scotch
moor
in
aeroplane
and
motor-car
,
and
notably
about
that
infernal
antiquarian
.
It
was
easy
enough
to
connect
those
folk
with
the
knife
that
pinned
Scudder
to
the
floor
,
and
with
fell
designs
on
the
world
's
peace
.
But
here
were
two
guileless
citizens
taking
their
innocuous
exercise
,
and
soon
about
to
go
indoors
to
a
humdrum
dinner
,
where
they
would
talk
of
market
prices
and
the
last
cricket
scores
and
the
gossip
of
their
native
Surbiton
.
I
had
been
making
a
net
to
catch
vultures
and
falcons
,
and
lo
and
behold
!
two
plump
thrushes
had
blundered
into
it
.
Presently
a
third
figure
arrived
,
a
young
man
on
a
bicycle
,
with
a
bag
of
golf-clubs
slung
on
his
back
.
He
strolled
round
to
the
tennis
lawn
and
was
welcomed
riotously
by
the
players
.
Evidently
they
were
chaffing
him
,
and
their
chaff
sounded
horribly
English
.
Then
the
plump
man
,
mopping
his
brow
with
a
silk
handkerchief
,
announced
that
he
must
have
a
tub
.
I
heard
his
very
words
--
"
I
've
got
into
a
proper
lather
,
"
he
said
.
"
This
will
bring
down
my
weight
and
my
handicap
,
Bob
.
I
'll
take
you
on
tomorrow
and
give
you
a
stroke
a
hole
.
"
You
could
n't
find
anything
much
more
English
than
that
.
They
all
went
into
the
house
,
and
left
me
feeling
a
precious
idiot
.
I
had
been
barking
up
the
wrong
tree
this
time
.
These
men
might
be
acting
;
but
if
they
were
,
where
was
their
audience
?
They
did
n't
know
I
was
sitting
thirty
yards
off
in
a
rhododendron
.
It
was
simply
impossible
to
believe
that
these
three
hearty
fellows
were
anything
but
what
they
seemed
--
three
ordinary
,
game-playing
,
suburban
Englishmen
,
wearisome
,
if
you
like
,
but
sordidly
innocent
.
And
yet
there
were
three
of
them
;
and
one
was
old
,
and
one
was
plump
,
and
one
was
lean
and
dark
;
and
their
house
chimed
in
with
Scudder
's
notes
;
and
half
a
mile
off
was
lying
a
steam
yacht
with
at
least
one
German
officer
.
I
thought
of
Karolides
lying
dead
and
all
Europe
trembling
on
the
edge
of
earthquake
,
and
the
men
I
had
left
behind
me
in
London
who
were
waiting
anxiously
for
the
events
of
the
next
hours
.
There
was
no
doubt
that
hell
was
afoot
somewhere
.
The
Black
Stone
had
won
,
and
if
it
survived
this
June
night
would
bank
its
winnings
.
There
seemed
only
one
thing
to
do
--
go
forward
as
if
I
had
no
doubts
,
and
if
I
was
going
to
make
a
fool
of
myself
to
do
it
handsomely
.
Never
in
my
life
have
I
faced
a
job
with
greater
disinclination
.
I
would
rather
in
my
then
mind
have
walked
into
a
den
of
anarchists
,
each
with
his
Browning
handy
,
or
faced
a
charging
lion
with
a
popgun
,
than
enter
that
happy
home
of
three
cheerful
Englishmen
and
tell
them
that
their
game
was
up
.
How
they
would
laugh
at
me
!
But
suddenly
I
remembered
a
thing
I
once
heard
in
Rhodesia
from
old
Peter
Pienaar
.
I
have
quoted
Peter
already
in
this
narrative
.
He
was
the
best
scout
I
ever
knew
,
and
before
he
had
turned
respectable
he
had
been
pretty
often
on
the
windy
side
of
the
law
,
when
he
had
been
wanted
badly
by
the
authorities
.
Peter
once
discussed
with
me
the
question
of
disguises
,
and
he
had
a
theory
which
struck
me
at
the
time
.
He
said
,
barring
absolute
certainties
like
fingerprints
,
mere
physical
traits
were
very
little
use
for
identification
if
the
fugitive
really
knew
his
business
.
He
laughed
at
things
like
dyed
hair
and
false
beards
and
such
childish
follies
.
The
only
thing
that
mattered
was
what
Peter
called
"
atmosphere
"
.
If
a
man
could
get
into
perfectly
different
surroundings
from
those
in
which
he
had
been
first
observed
,
and
--
this
is
the
important
part
--
really
play
up
to
these
surroundings
and
behave
as
if
he
had
never
been
out
of
them
,
he
would
puzzle
the
cleverest
detectives
on
earth
.
And
he
used
to
tell
a
story
of
how
he
once
borrowed
a
black
coat
and
went
to
church
and
shared
the
same
hymn-book
with
the
man
that
was
looking
for
him
.
If
that
man
had
seen
him
in
decent
company
before
he
would
have
recognized
him
;
but
he
had
only
seen
him
snuffing
the
lights
in
a
public-house
with
a
revolver
.
The
recollection
of
Peter
's
talk
gave
me
the
first
real
comfort
that
I
had
had
that
day
.
Peter
had
been
a
wise
old
bird
,
and
these
fellows
I
was
after
were
about
the
pick
of
the
aviary
.
What
if
they
were
playing
Peter
's
game
?
A
fool
tries
to
look
different
:
a
clever
man
looks
the
same
and
is
different
.
