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Again
,
there
was
that
other
maxim
of
Peter
's
which
had
helped
me
when
I
had
been
a
roadman
.
"
If
you
are
playing
a
part
,
you
will
never
keep
it
up
unless
you
convince
yourself
that
you
are
it
.
"
That
would
explain
the
game
of
tennis
.
Those
chaps
did
n't
need
to
act
,
they
just
turned
a
handle
and
passed
into
another
life
,
which
came
as
naturally
to
them
as
the
first
.
It
sounds
a
platitude
,
but
Peter
used
to
say
that
it
was
the
big
secret
of
all
the
famous
criminals
.
It
was
now
getting
on
for
eight
o'clock
,
and
I
went
back
and
saw
Scaife
to
give
him
his
instructions
.
I
arranged
with
him
how
to
place
his
men
,
and
then
I
went
for
a
walk
,
for
I
did
n't
feel
up
to
any
dinner
.
I
went
round
the
deserted
golf-course
,
and
then
to
a
point
on
the
cliffs
farther
north
beyond
the
line
of
the
villas
.
On
the
little
trim
newly-made
roads
I
met
people
in
flannels
coming
back
from
tennis
and
the
beach
,
and
a
coastguard
from
the
wireless
station
,
and
donkeys
and
pierrots
padding
homewards
.
Out
at
sea
in
the
blue
dusk
I
saw
lights
appear
on
the
Ariadne
and
on
the
destroyer
away
to
the
south
,
and
beyond
the
Cock
sands
the
bigger
lights
of
steamers
making
for
the
Thames
.
The
whole
scene
was
so
peaceful
and
ordinary
that
I
got
more
dashed
in
spirits
every
second
.
It
took
all
my
resolution
to
stroll
towards
Trafalgar
Lodge
about
half-past
nine
.
On
the
way
I
got
a
piece
of
solid
comfort
from
the
sight
of
a
greyhound
that
was
swinging
along
at
a
nursemaid
's
heels
.
He
reminded
me
of
a
dog
I
used
to
have
in
Rhodesia
,
and
of
the
time
when
I
took
him
hunting
with
me
in
the
Pali
hills
.
We
were
after
rhebok
,
the
dun
kind
,
and
I
recollected
how
we
had
followed
one
beast
,
and
both
he
and
I
had
clean
lost
it
.
A
greyhound
works
by
sight
,
and
my
eyes
are
good
enough
,
but
that
buck
simply
leaked
out
of
the
landscape
.
Afterwards
I
found
out
how
it
managed
it
.
Against
the
grey
rock
of
the
kopjes
it
showed
no
more
than
a
crow
against
a
thundercloud
.
It
did
n't
need
to
run
away
;
all
it
had
to
do
was
to
stand
still
and
melt
into
the
background
.
Suddenly
as
these
memories
chased
across
my
brain
I
thought
of
my
present
case
and
applied
the
moral
.
The
Black
Stone
did
n't
need
to
bolt
.
They
were
quietly
absorbed
into
the
landscape
.
I
was
on
the
right
track
,
and
I
jammed
that
down
in
my
mind
and
vowed
never
to
forget
it
.
The
last
word
was
with
Peter
Pienaar
.
Scaife
's
men
would
be
posted
now
,
but
there
was
no
sign
of
a
soul
.
The
house
stood
as
open
as
a
market-place
for
anybody
to
observe
.
A
three-foot
railing
separated
it
from
the
cliff
road
;
the
windows
on
the
ground-floor
were
all
open
,
and
shaded
lights
and
the
low
sound
of
voices
revealed
where
the
occupants
were
finishing
dinner
.
Everything
was
as
public
and
above-board
as
a
charity
bazaar
.
Feeling
the
greatest
fool
on
earth
,
I
opened
the
gate
and
rang
the
bell
.
A
man
of
my
sort
,
who
has
travelled
about
the
world
in
rough
places
,
gets
on
perfectly
well
with
two
classes
,
what
you
may
call
the
upper
and
the
lower
.
He
understands
them
and
they
understand
him
.
I
was
at
home
with
herds
and
tramps
and
roadmen
,
and
I
was
sufficiently
at
my
ease
with
people
like
Sir
Walter
and
the
men
I
had
met
the
night
before
.
I
ca
n't
explain
why
,
but
it
is
a
fact
.
But
what
fellows
like
me
do
n't
understand
is
the
great
comfortable
,
satisfied
middle-class
world
,
the
folk
that
live
in
villas
and
suburbs
.
He
does
n't
know
how
they
look
at
things
,
he
does
n't
understand
their
conventions
,
and
he
is
as
shy
of
them
as
of
a
black
mamba
.
When
a
trim
parlour-maid
opened
the
door
,
I
could
hardly
find
my
voice
.
I
asked
for
Mr
Appleton
,
and
was
ushered
in
.
My
plan
had
been
to
walk
straight
into
the
dining-room
,
and
by
a
sudden
appearance
wake
in
the
men
that
start
of
recognition
which
would
confirm
my
theory
.
But
when
I
found
myself
in
that
neat
hall
the
place
mastered
me
.
There
were
the
golf-clubs
and
tennis-rackets
,
the
straw
hats
and
caps
,
the
rows
of
gloves
,
the
sheaf
of
walking-sticks
,
which
you
will
find
in
ten
thousand
British
homes
.
A
stack
of
neatly
folded
coats
and
waterproofs
covered
the
top
of
an
old
oak
chest
;
there
was
a
grandfather
clock
ticking
;
and
some
polished
brass
warming-pans
on
the
walls
,
and
a
barometer
,
and
a
print
of
Chiltern
winning
the
St
Leger
.
The
place
was
as
orthodox
as
an
Anglican
church
.
When
the
maid
asked
me
for
my
name
I
gave
it
automatically
,
and
was
shown
into
the
smoking-room
,
on
the
right
side
of
the
hall
.
That
room
was
even
worse
.
I
had
n't
time
to
examine
it
,
but
I
could
see
some
framed
group
photographs
above
the
mantelpiece
,
and
I
could
have
sworn
they
were
English
public
school
or
college
.
I
had
only
one
glance
,
for
I
managed
to
pull
myself
together
and
go
after
the
maid
.
But
I
was
too
late
.
She
had
already
entered
the
dining-room
and
given
my
name
to
her
master
,
and
I
had
missed
the
chance
of
seeing
how
the
three
took
it
.
