Banian saw them looking at him and realized that something was expected of him. He said, hesitatingly, ‘Like a gimlet?’

The wonder spread to other households and rose by capillary attraction from kitchens to drawing rooms, where the bond of love between the twins provided a soothing new theme for conversation. Bartle, to his annoyance, Petronel, to her surprise, found themselves congratulated on their ownership of those interesting children. Visiting ladies brought toys—identical but distinguished by red or blue bows. When the twins were extricated from their private life and brought in to be grateful, their size proved disconcerting. It was plain they had outgrown toy lambs.

It was still rich autumn when the cranes came flying from the north. They flew in vast flocks, one flock following another, clamouring as if they were riding on broomsticks to a Walpurgisnacht. A few days later, it began to rain.

The idea of applying to his son-in-law’s rascally solicitor was unpleasing, and he thought of it as little as possible. The twins grew; so did the cost of their upkeep. Petronel spoke of selling her pearls. Bartle swallowed his pride and visited Master Caraway’s office, which was as orderly as a shark’s teeth. Master Caraway assumed what Bartle called his abracadabra airs and pressed a button. A drawer sprang open and Master Caraway took out a letter from Hamlet. Hamlet had tired of Attica and was going to an island called Orplid. ‘He may be there by now,’ said Master Caraway, looking at his spotless fingernails.

As Ludo spoke, a man wearing splendid boots came up the steps. With the instinct of a well-trained servant he instantly recognised Ludo as the head of the party, bowed deeply, and handed him a letter on pink paper, gilt-edged. The letter was written in Turkish, Sclavonian, and bad French—the language of diplomacy. It ran:

Nothing more was heard of them. Advertisements were posted on trees, rewards were offered, Lady Elissa strained her eyes; all was in vain. Finally, Queen Annot herself was invoked. In her heyday (she was a great age) she had been renowned for Divination and Art Magic, and made them fashionable at Court. Now she caused wormwood, tansy, and white lavender to be burned on a hot plate, and cast herself into a trance. After a day and a night, the ladies watching her heard her cry in the voice of one far distant, ‘Cantuar! Ebor!’ But the spirits she called on did not comply, for when she woke much later, blinking and smiling, and asked for a bowl of bread and milk, she brought nothing out of her sleep and did not know how the words came to be spoken.

‘Going back to Moor’s original triangle,’ said Nimmerlein, ‘The passive, serene one. If I remember rightly, it was perfect whichever way up it was. You couldn’t accuse it of inversion.’