I have done some rock climbing and had become rather vain about my ability to lower myself smoothly down a chimney or rock face. I soon discovered that a bedsheet is not a good substitute for ropes and pulleys. My thigh muscles wouldn’t work the way they were supposed to, the sheet kept stretching, and the bag kept banging against my chest. I didn’t dare discard it, though. It’s bad enough to be on the run. Being on the run sans money, passport, and other useful items complicates the problem even more.

I had to drop the last ten feet, not because the linen gave out but because my thighs lost the struggle. Scrambling up, I scuttled along the side of the house, ducking under the windows, till I reached the corner.

Two of the gardeners were at work on the flowers that lined the driveway. Kneeling, their backs to me and the house, they appeared to be weeding the beds. Their dusty faded robes blended with the shadowed foliage and their white turbans looked like cauliflower. There were no vehicles in the driveway. The gates at its far end were closed. So was the door next to the gates. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I had anticipated it would be there, for the use of visitors who came and went on foot.

I had two choices. Well, actually, I had quite a few, but turning myself in didn’t appeal to me and neither did trying to get over a wall ten feet high that was topped with barbed wire and broken glass. I could make a run for it or try to bluff my way out. I decided on the second alternative. The gardeners were bound to see me – I intended that they should – and they were more likely to stop a frantic fugitive than a casual stroller.

I stuck to the shrubbery as long as I could, but I was still ten yards from the gate when I had to leave the path and step out into the open. One hand in my pocket, the other in my bag, I strode briskly towards the gate. One of the weeders sat back on his haunches as I passed him and gave me a curious look. I gave him a pleasant nod and managed not to break into a run. My back felt exposed, as if it had been stripped not only of clothing but of skin. My neck muscles ached as I fought the impulse to look over my shoulder.