Remembering this episode, Dikon approached his employer with some misgivings. He listened at the door, caught a whiff of Turkish tobacco, heard Gaunt’s cigarette cough, tapped and walked in. Gaunt, wearing a purple dressing-gown, was propped up in bed, smoking. When Dikon asked how he had slept he laughed bitterly and said nothing. Dikon attempted one or two other little opening gambits all of which were received in silence. He was about to make an uncomfortable exit when Gaunt said: ‘Ring up that hotel in Auckland and book rooms for tonight.’

With a feeling of the most utter desolation Dikon said: ‘Then we are leaving, sir?’

‘I should have thought,’ said Gaunt, ‘that it followed as the night the day. I do not book rooms out of sheer elfin whimsy. Please settle with the Claires. We leave as soon as possible.’

‘But, sir, your cure?’

Gaunt shook his finger at him. ‘Are you so grossly lacking in sensibility,’ he asked, ‘that you can blandly suggest that I, with the loathsome picture of last night starting up before my eyes when ever I close them, should steep my body, mine, in seething mud?’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Dikon lamely. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll tell the Claires.’

‘Pray do,’ said Gaunt and turned his shoulder on him.

Dikon went to find Mrs Claire and encountered Colly on the way. Colly turned his eyes up and affected to dash a tear from them. The phrase, ‘He’s too cheeky,’ formed itself in Dikon’s thoughts and instantly reminded him of the small brown boys who had grimaced in the moonlight. He continued on his way without an answering gesture. He ran the Colonel to earth in his study where he was closeted with a large dark man with a high colour, wearing an uneventful suit and a pair of repellent boots. This person turned upon Dikon a hard speculative stare.

‘Sergeant Webley,’ said the Colonel. Sergeant Webley rose slowly.

‘How do you do, sir?’ he said in a muffled voice. ‘Mr…?’

‘Bell,’ said the Colonel.

‘Ah, yes. Mr Bell,’ repeated Sergeant Webley. He half-opened his hand which was broad, flat and flabby with lateral creases. He seemed to peer into its palm. Dikon realized with a stab of alarm that he was consulting a small notebook. “That’s right,’ repeated Sergeant Webley heavily. ‘Mr Dikon Bell. Would that be a kind of nickname, sir?’

‘Not at all,’ said Dikon. ‘It was given me in my baptism.’

‘Is that so, sir? Very unusual. Old English perhaps.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Dikon coldly. Webley cleared his throat and waited.

‘Sergeant Webley,’ said the Colonel uncomfortably, ‘is making some inquiries…’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Dikon hurriedly. ‘I’m sorry I interrupted, sir. I’ll go.’

‘No need for that, Mr Bell,’ said Webley with a sort of fumbling cordiality. ‘Very glad you looked in. Quite an unfortunate affair. Yes. Take a seat, Mr Bell, take a seat.’