He was right. I went into an office and talked to the manager. Håkan Almquist had never returned. The previous afternoon they had cleared his things out of his room and packed his suitcase. It was currently in a side room. I could see it if I liked. He showed me a not very large blue Revelation case.

“Weren’t there any other bags?” I asked, thinking of the black leather backpack.

“Only this. All his things went into it. Oh, and we have his passport.”

At that time I had never stayed in a hotel on my own, I had scarcely stayed in a hotel at all and certainly not abroad. I didn’t know if this was standard practice on the part of a hotel, to retain a foreign guest’s passport. The manager explained.

“We don’t usually hang on to passports. Of course, we collect them and give them back to the guest the next day. Your dad”—I had to think who he meant—“asked us to hold on to his. He seemed to think it was safer with us.”

This document was shown to me. It wasn’t helpful. As usual with passports, the photograph was unrecognizable. “May I look in the suitcase?”

He shrugged. It was all the same to him. I lifted the somewhat scuffed canvas lid. I was looking, of course, for the money. Mr. Almquist’s clothes held little interest for me. I’d have been very surprised to find £2,000 in notes lying between the jeans and the sweatshirts. Suddenly I thought of his hotel bill. I didn’t want to ask about it in case the manager expected me to pay it. That was what might come of saying I was his daughter. But I did ask.

“We’ve an imprint of his credit card. You needn’t worry about that.”

After this I went to the Houghtons’. It was going to be as hot as the day before. I pulled out more nettle root systems, I grubbed up more groundsel and docks with tap roots eight inches long. Mrs. Houghton brought me out a long cold drink whose principal ingredients, she said, were lemongrass and ginger. I didn’t expect Silver to come round and fetch me, but as I was putting the tools away he appeared, walking down the path with Mrs. Houghton.

“Such a nice boy,” she said the next day. “Is he your fiancé?”

I couldn’t answer that, for I didn’t know what was requisite and what had to happen before a betrothal was finalized. Mrs. Houghton looked sympathetically at the bruises on his face and his black eye, now quite closed.