In spite of all this, however, Nightingale tentatively absolved him. He would be wary with Majendie, that was all. If the letters he handed over were forged, they would in time be proved so: and in that time it was unlikely that Majendie, secure in his lucrative business, would try to slink out of the country.

Meanwhile, he wondered, what was Beddoes doing about Ivan Karukhin? He made for a telephone box, glad enough at the prospect of its shelter. If there was to be any prolonged watching of premises in this affair, he thought, whoever did it had better be got up as a night-watchman, complete with hut and brazier; otherwise they might tender their resignation.

He dialled, and caught sight of his face reflected in the mirror. Why did all mirrors in telephone kiosks throw back such a ghastly glare? In them every complexion was livid, every blemish magnified. He heard the office answer, pressed the button and made himself known. Before he could say more, a spate of words poured into his ear—Beddoes, the canal, slugged, St. Thomas’s. Without waiting to hear further he dropped the ’phone and drew a couple of deep breaths. He pushed open the stiff door, then hesitated. He hadn’t thought to ask how badly Beddoes was hurt. But it didn’t make any difference. St Thomas’s, quickly, that was the main thing. He flung out of the kiosk and began to run up the road. Fool, ass, idiot! he silently apostrophised Beddoes, and urgently hailed a cruising taxi.

* * *

Beddoes had taken quite a nasty knock, although no serious damage had been inflicted. He was looking very white, and very unfamiliar in the bleached and roughly ironed hospital pyjamas; but he couldn’t be prevented from reciting his adventure in a rather shaken voice. Nightingale had given up trying to stem the flood of disgusted self-derision. For Beddoes seemed to feel more mortified than physically uncomfortable.

“Then the last straw,” he was muttering now, “wake up and find a damn great retriever yowling and sniffing all round you, as if you were some fat partridge—do they get partridges?”

“He sounds a very intelligent dog,” said Nightingale.

“Yes.” Beddoes closed his eyes. “Put it on the kids’ telly. Saved a copper from bronchial pneu. Pity he wasn’t going walkies a bit sooner—see what they did with Ivan the Terrible. Or pity he wasn’t a bloodhound. Rub his nose on the bank and follow the trail. What are we doing—about Ivan?”

“Don’t bother,” said Nightingale.

Beddoes opened his eyes. “I’m all right.”

“You don’t look it.” Nightingale felt that a little dashing of Beddoes’ spirits could do no harm.

“You’ve never seen me without a tie, that’s all it is,” said Beddoes. “Young and vulnerable.”

“All right, then. Apart from keeping our eyes open for him we’ll drag the canal in case they just tipped him back.”

“Shan’t half be mad if they did. All my work.”