Once more, MacConnachie led the way forward. They had just reached a point from which both could look out across the square, MacConnachie now no more than a yard from the tree, when the second man came out of the café.

This one was falling-down drunk. He lurched and plunged about the garishly lit street as though in pursuit of his own monstrous shadow. Yet he too remained silent, mainly, Ansell suspected, because to open his mouth would be to invite disaster; he carried himself with the air of a man constantly on the point of vomiting. An amused shout came after him and then the light diminished. Clearly the proprietor, having rid himself of his last customer, had taken the lamp inside

Baffled by this sudden dimness the man reached out for support, fell sideways, and clung to the tree not two feet from where MacConnachie stood. It seemed impossible to Ansell that he should fail to see the other figure. Nor did he, for, with a little cry of pleasure, the man released the tree and staggered forward to embrace MacConnachie. Ansell waited for him to stiffen in surprise as the knife went in. Instead, arms about one another, they muttered for some moments and then, throwing back their heads, roared with laughter. Ansell was electrified with astonishment and fright; but MacConnachie, apparently unaware of any danger, continued the conversation at the top of his voice until, with a vigorous display of back-slapping, he sent the man on his way across the square.

This unlooked-for friendliness in the night appeared to have restored the man’s confidence, for he progressed now with unwarranted bravado, turning every few yards to wave back and shout at MacConnachie, who returned the salutation. At length, two thirds of the way across the square, he turned for one last exchange of good wishes and fell down the well.

This was no more than a sunken bath four feet square, its water level only inches below that of the street. But it became rapidly apparent that the drunk was unable to extricate himself and would surely drown. Between gaspings and thrashings about he was making a great deal of noise. MacConnachie swore. ‘Wait here!’

Hardly believing his eyes, Ansell watched as MacConnachie fled across the square, dragged the man out, thumped him and carried him quickly from view behind the corner of a hut. The next moment MacConnachie was running back alone, signalling to Ansell to join him at the tree.

‘I don’t want to waste any more time. He’s out for the night. See if we can find something to carry water in.’

They turned to the nearest huts and were lucky at once. From a nail in one of the wooden uprights hung a large, flat, circular canteen on a canvas strap. It was eighteen inches across, nearly as tall, and four inches deep. It seemed inconceivable that anyone should leave so valuable a possession unguarded, for it must hold close to twenty pints of water. When Ansell pointed it out to him, MacConnachie muttered, ‘I don’t believe it.’