‘Colly’s a dresser,’ said Dikon, ‘not a valet. He’s been a long time with Mr Gaunt, and I’m afraid he’s got into the way of thinking he’s a licensed buffoon. I’m sorry, Sergeant. I’ll just go and tell Mr Gaunt you’re here.’

He had hoped to get one word in private with Gaunt, but Webley thanked him and followed him out on the verandah. ‘Going in for the treatment, is he?’ he asked easily. ‘Just across the way, isn’t it? I’ve never taken a look at these Springs. Been here ten years and never taken a look at them. Fancy that!’

He followed Dikon across the pumice.

It was Gaunt’s custom before breakfast to soak for fifteen minutes in the largest of the pools, that which was enclosed by a rough shed. Evidently, Dikon thought, his new abhorrence of thermal activities did not extend to this particular bath.

Closely followed by Webley, Dikon went up to the bath house and tapped at the door.

‘Who the hell’s out there!’ Gaunt demanded.

‘Sergeant Webley to see you, sir.’

‘Sergeant who?’

‘Webley.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘Harpoon police force, sir,’ said Mr Webley. ‘Very sorry to trouble you.’

There was no reply to this. Webley made no move. Dikon waited uncertainly. He heard a splash as Gaunt shifted in the pool. He had the idea that Gaunt was sitting up, listening. At last, in a cautious undertone, the voice beyond the door called him. ‘Dikon?’

‘I’m here, sir.’

‘Come in.’

Dikon went in quickly, closing the door behind him. There was his employer as he had expected to find him, naked, vulnerable, and a little ridiculous, jutting out of the vivid water.

‘What is all this?’

Dikon gestured. ‘Is he there?’ Gaunt muttered.

Dikon nodded violently and, with an attempt at cheerfulness that he felt rang very false, said aloud: ‘The Sergeant would like to have a word with you, sir.’

He groped in his pocket, found an envelope and a pencil and wrote quickly: ‘It’s about Questing. They won’t let us go.’ He went on talking as he showed it to Gaunt: ‘Shall I send Colly in, sir?’

Gaunt was staring at the paper. Water trickled off his shoulders. His face was pinched and looked old, the skin on his hands was waterlogged and wrinkled. He began to swear under his breath.

On the other side of the door Webley cleared his throat. Gaunt, his lips moving, looked at the door. He grasped the rail at the edge of the bath and stood upright, a not very handsome figure. ‘He ought to say something,’ Dikon thought. ‘It looks bad to say nothing.’ Gaunt beckoned and Dikon stooped towards him but he seemed to change his mind and said loudly, ‘Ask him to wait. I’m coming out.’