Mansell spent some time in demonstrating exactly where he proposed to make his trial dig. This was not into the barrow itself; that had long since been excavated and its contours carefully restored. His idea was to determine whether, at a short distance from the barrow, there had existed a sacred site of the Neolithic Age. Mansell had an archaeologist’s reasons for believing that such a site was there. He put forward these reasons concisely, and the company, whether they were edified or not by what he said, gave a civilized impression that they fully understood and appreciated his statements, and listened with apparent interest to what he had to say.

‘What interests me,’ said Obury, the only one of the party to appear a trifle restive during Mansell’s lecture, ‘is the fox’s den which I see has been made into the lower bastion of the camp.’

‘Not camp; not bastion; theatral area, if you like,’ said Mansell, with a slight touch of condescension which was not lost upon his hearers.

‘I think we ought to be getting along,’ said Jonathan. ‘We’ve still the longer part of the walk in front of us. How do you feel, Deb?’

‘Fine,’ said Deborah, who looked so.

Beyond the long barrow the track forked again, and, keeping to the left, the party climbed a knoll and saw in front of them a small wood. A lonely cottage seemed to be the only dwelling-place, and as they came up to it they saw a woman in a dark-blue dress slip in by the side door.

Beyond the wood there was a village. They by-passed this, led by Jonathan, until they reached the church which they had seen from some distance away. Once past the church, low walls of Cotswold stone enclosed the little road, and another steep climb brought the party to the turn which indicated the road home. Here they bore sharply to the right, along a lane which bordered upland pasture, and then took a downhill track between hawthorn hedges to a farm.

‘There’s our village,’ said Jonathan, pointing. ‘We keep along this track until we come to the stream, and we follow that until we come to our own church.’ He took out his watch. ‘Two hours and a quarter. Good going.’

‘I say,’ said Deborah, dropping behind to walk beside Mrs Bradley, ‘did you notice that woman in the blue dress who slipped inside that lonely cottage as though she didn’t want us to see her?’

‘Yes. It was the woman who claims to be Mr Bill Fullalove’s widow,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘At least, so Will North informed me yesterday.’

‘That’s who I thought it might be. But what is she doing there, I wonder? She’s supposed to have gone back to Portsmouth. Besides, the cottage belongs to Tiny Fullalove. He lived there before he had the bungalow built. He’s said nothing about letting it to anybody.’