Upon this ludicrous but alarming pantomime came the cause of it, Mr Questing himself. With his thumbs in the armholes of his white waistcoat he balanced quizzically from his toes to his heels and looked at Barbara through half-closed eyes.

‘Well, well, well,’ Mr Questing purred in a noticeably thick voice. ‘So we’ve got ’em all on, eh? And very nice too. So she didn’t know who sent them to her? Fancy that, now. Not an idea, eh? Must have been Auntie in India, huh? Well, well, well!’

If he wished to cause a sensation, he met with unqualified success. They gaped at him. Barbara said in a small desperate voice: ‘But it wasn’t…? It couldn’t have been…?’

‘I’m not saying a thing,’ cried Mr Questing in high glee. ‘Not a thing.’ He leered possessively upon Barbara, dug Dr Ackrington in the waistcoat and clapped Gaunt on the back. ‘Great work, Mr Gaunt,’ he said. ‘Bit highbrow for me, y’know, but they seemed to take it. Mind, I was interested. I used to do a bit of reciting myself at one time. Humorous monologues. Hope you liked the little pat on the back I gave you. It all helps, doesn’t it? Even at a one-eyed little show like this,’ he added in a spirituous whisper, and, laughing easily, turned to find Rua at his elbow. ‘Why, hullo, Rua,’ Mr Questing continued without batting an eyelid. ‘Great little show. See you some more.’ And, humming the refrain of the song about death, he moved forward to shake hands heartily with the Mayor. He made a sort of royal progress to the door and finally strolled out.

Later, when it was of enormous importance that he should remember every detail of the next few minutes, Dikon was to find that he retained only a few disconnected impressions. Barbara’s look of desolation; Mr Septimus Falls in pedantic conversation with Mrs Claire and the Colonel, both of whom seemed to be wildly inattentive; the startling blasphemies that Gaunt whispered as he looked after Questing—these details only was he able to focus in a field of hazy recollections.

It was Rua, he decided afterwards, who saved the situation. With the adroitness of a diplomat at a difficult conference, he talked through Dr Ackrington’s furious expostulations and, without appearing to hurry, somehow succeeded in presenting the Mayoral party to Gaunt. They got through the next few minutes without an actual flare-up.

It must have been Rua, Dikon decided, who asked a member of the glee club to strike up the National Anthem on the meetinghouse piano.

As they moved towards the entrance, Gaunt, speaking in a furious whisper, told Dikon to drive the Claires home without him.

‘But…’ Dikon began.

‘Will you do as you’re told?’ said Gaunt. ‘I’m walking.’