A head and a uniformed shoulder were poked round the door. “The girl’s father’s just arrived, sir.”

“Oh, yes. I’ll be out in a second.” The Superintendent turned to Brett. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go and soothe parental agitation. She seems a nice girl.”

“Very nice,” said Brett.

The Superintendent went out and closed the door.

“Boil me!” said Beddoes in a low and pithy voice. He sat down on the edge of the table. “A very nice girl. Boil me! I never get these jobs with nice bits of blonde crackling thrown in. No, no—send the sergeant chasing down the Dover road after a load of perishing Christmas puddings, that’ll do for him.”

“Beddoes, I’m sorry. I thought, about that brake, what they thought, except that I counted on the lot and they on Majendie’s party piece. And I don’t remember that you put forward other suggestions. Weren’t you surprised?”

“Surprised! You should have seen it. Not just the puds—pâte, sausages, fruit, turkey, cigars, enough to feast a battalion, all rolling over the road. The doors burst open, you see. Prize picking in that ditch, I reckon. There’ll be tramps passing the sign the length and breadth of England. On the way here they were telling me that Majendie’s Christmas and New Year parties are famed in the district, especially at Nackington.”

“Nackington?”

“Traffic H.Q. Apparently his guests by the time they leave, have usually formed an idiosyncratic interpretation of the highway code, and I can well believe it. Of course, I thought of picking a pud apart to see where the diamonds were.”

“Aren’t you satisfied yet? Isn’t it enough to have made me feel like Prometheus? Yes, there was snow, as on the mountain peak, and a descending eagle—”

“I didn’t feel like the king of the birds, I can tell you. How I love terra firma! I say—” Beddoes hesitated. “Would you mind if I had a cigarette?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Brett astonished. “What’s seized you?” He watched Beddoes take out the cigarette and a match, and wondered at the length of time he took to get a light. The flame danced like a midge round the cigarette end; because, as he at length realised, Beddoes’ hands were shaking.

“You know what you’ll be given for all this?” he said thoughtfully.

“A putty medal. Sooner have a cheque.”

“Promotion,” said Brett.

“Boil me! Ps and Qs all the time.”

“Yes, and I shall be sir, sir, sirred, by your successor. How exceedingly strange!”

Beddoes puffed out a ribbon of smoke. “The pilot, Keston Hayes. Is he American?”

“No, he affects the accent. And his real name is Maurice Wright. He’s British, so we can gobble him up. But you haven’t mentioned the point about him. Have you forgotten, or did you never hear it?”

“What?”