With the arrival of the Pomeroys the private bar took on its customary aspect for a summer’s evening. They both went behind the counters. Abel sat facing the Private and on Cubitt’s order drew pints of draught beer for the company. A game of darts was started in the Public.

The man in the settle had not moved, but now Watchman saw his hand reach out for his pint. He saw the callouses, the chipped nails, the coarsened joints of the fingers. Watchman got up, stretched himself, grimaced at Parish, and crossed the room to the settle.

The light shone full in the face of the stranger. The skin of his face was brown, but Watchman thought it had only recently acquired this colour. His hair stood up in white bristles, his forehead was garnished with bumps that shone in the lamplight. The eyes under the bleached lashes seemed almost without colour. From the nostrils to the corners of the mouth ran grooves that lent emphasis to the fall of the lips. Without raising his head the man looked up at Watchman, and the shadow of a smile seemed to visit his face. He got up and made as if to go to the door, but Watchman stopped him.

‘May I introduce myself?’ asked Watchman.

The man smiled more broadly. ‘They are false teeth,’ thought Watchman, and he added: ‘We have met already this evening, but we didn’t exchange names. Mine is Luke Watchman.’

‘I gathered as much from your conversation,’ said the man. He paused for a moment and then said: ‘Mine is Legge.’

‘I’m afraid I sounded uncivil,’ said Watchman. ‘I hope you’ll allow me a little motorists’ licence. One always abuses the other man, doesn’t one?’

‘You’d every excuse,’ mumbled Legge, ‘every excuse.’ He scarcely moved his lips. His teeth seemed too large for his mouth. He looked sideways at Watchman, picked up a magazine from the settle, and flipped it open, holding it before his face.

Watchman felt vaguely irritated. He had struck no sort of response from the man and he was not accustomed to falling flat. Obviously, Legge merely wished to be rid of him and this state of affairs piqued Watchman’s vanity. He sat on the edge of the table, and for the second time that evening offered his cigarette-case to Legge.

‘No thanks—pipe.’

‘I’d no idea I should find you here,’ said Watchman, and noticed uncomfortably that his own voice sounded disproportionately cordial, ‘although you did tell me you were bound for Ottercombe. It’s a good pub, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Legge hurriedly. ‘Very good.’

‘Are you making a long visit?’

‘I live here,’ said Legge.