Unfortunately this was not quite the clear and helpful explanation that the officer intended it to be. But Strange felt that he had demonstrated his ignorance long enough. His desire to ask questions had quite evaporated.

“Lord Wellington is in the Lines.” It was a very curious phrase and if Strange had been obliged to hazard a guess at its meaning he believed he would have said it was some sort of slang for being drunk.

He went back into the hotel and told the porter to find Jeremy Johns. If any one was going to appear ignorant and foolish in front of the British Army he had much rather it was Jeremy.

“There you are!” he said when Jeremy appeared. “Go and find a soldier or officer and ask him where I shall find Lord Wellington.”

“Certainly, sir. But don’t you want to ask him yourself?”

“Quite impossible. I have magic to do.”

So Jeremy went out and after a very brief interval he returned.

“Have you found it out?” asked Strange.

“Oh yes, sir!” said Jeremy, cheerfully. “There is no great secret about it. Lord Wellington is in the Lines.”

“Yes, but what does that mean?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir! The gentleman said it so naturally. As if it were the most commonplace thing in the world. I thought you would know.”

“Well, I do not. Perhaps I had better ask Prideaux.”

Mr Prideaux was delighted to be of assistance. There was nothing simpler in the world. Mr Strange must go to the Army’s Headquarters. He was certain to find his lordship there. It was a half day’s ride from the city. Perhaps a little more. “As far as from Tyburn to Godalming, sir, if you can picture it.”

“Well, if you would be so good as to shew me on a map …”

“Lord bless you, sir!” said Mr Prideaux, much amused. “You would never find it on your own. I must find a man to take you.”

The person whom Mr Prideaux found was an Assistant Commissary with business in Torres Vedras, a town four or five miles further on than Headquarters. The Assistant Commissary declared himself very happy to ride with Strange and shew him the way.

“Now, at last,” thought Strange, “I am making progress.”

The first part of the journey was through a pleasant landscape of fields and vineyards scattered here and there with pretty little white-painted farms and stone-built windmills with brown canvas sails. Large numbers of Portuguese soldiers in brown uniforms were continually going to and fro along the road and there were also a few British officers whose brighter uniforms of scarlet or blue appeared – to Strange’s patriotic eye at any rate – more manly and warlike. After they had been riding for three hours they saw a line of mountains rising up from the plain like a wall.