He ran again. No thought of stealth now. At the front door he paused to look over his shoulder. From inside the house came a steady hum of silence. He went in. Emily was lying on the ottoman, the guittar held in her arms like a sleeping child. The room was cut with light and she lay just beneath its surface. He woke her.

“Jane?” she said.

He pulled her to her feet, held her upper arm with one hand, took the guittar with the other. “He’s here,” he said. “Henderson.” He went with her into his room, sat her on the chair at the far end, hung the guittar on its peg beside her, then closed the door and looked for something to secure it with. There was nothing, or there was only the bed. He put the small pile of his things on the floor and pushed the bed up hard against the wood. He thought it was probably useless, would keep someone out for no more than a few seconds but at least the door would not now give at a touch.

He squatted on the floor under the window and took the wrapped pistol from where it lay on top of Lovall’s writing case. He began to unwind its swaddling.

“Jane and Cornelius are safe,” he said. “They have gone away. Ranald is hurt but will live. We cannot speak now, Emily. We will listen. We will be still and we will listen.”

He threw the oilcloth aside and drew back the hammer to half-cock the pistol for loading. He knew—remembered clearly, could see his hands at the work—he had made up cartridges on the Jenny. He could not, however, remember where he had put them. Were they in the bag that was stolen? He stared at the gun as though it might inform him. What was this? Some effect of fear? Some mental locking brought about by fear? And why was he bothering with the pistol at all? Did he seriously think he was going to shoot anybody? They would be better off hiding themselves among the dunes. Or in the house? There must be some chest or deep cupboard they could lie in together, play dead . . .

He was, in his confusion, starting to look for it, the hiding place, when he saw, on the other side of the chair where Emily was sitting, the scuffed leather nose of his fiddle case. He crawled to it, unbuckled the straps, lifted out the fiddle, opened the lined box below, took out two of the cartridges. He glanced up. The top of a man’s head passed the window, left to right, a distance of five yards or so. Lacroix touched Emily’s hand. “Not a sound or a movement,” he said.