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the shy ones, he is.’ The gardener again spoke on his indulgent note. At the same time he looked at Honeybath appraisingly, as if estimating whether he was to be placed in the same category. ‘Would you just have come into residence, as they say?’
    â€˜No, nothing of the kind. But I have an appointment at the house, and it looks as if I may be late for it.’ Honeybath found he didn’t want to prolong this humiliating episode. He wondered whether he ought to tip his rescuer. It was unlikely that the inmates of Hanwell Court went around handing out sums of money in return for small services, but his own position as a casual intruder was somewhat different. He decided that Ariadne would take no exception to the cost of a couple of pints, and acted accordingly. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said again. ‘Perhaps I’ll see the birds on another occasion. Meantime, good morning to you.’
    As he walked away he found himself thinking not about the gardener but about the man in the Panama. Was he among those of the inmates whom a tactful meiosis would describe as disturbed? Curiously enough, he felt not. Although undoubtedly a shy one, he hadn’t given the impression of being off his head. Rather, he had seemed rationally wary, much as a displaced person in an unfamiliar environment might be. This was a perplexing notion, and Honeybath didn’t make a great deal of it. He walked on briskly, reached the front door of the house, rang a bell, and made himself known to the servant who answered it.

 
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    There was a small hitch. Brigadier Luxmoore (who was styled the Bursar, and was presumably the top man in an administrative way at Hanwell Court) had been called away on a family emergency, and had left Honeybath his apologies. Dr Michaelis, however, was holding himself available. Honeybath judged it legitimate to inquire what position Dr Michaelis held in the establishment, and was told that he was the Medical Superintendent. He had already gathered from his brochure, and indeed from what he had been told on his previous visit, that full medical and nursing services were on tap at Hanwell. Even when terminal illness befell you the place didn’t turn you out except in your coffin. But that it should actually support a resident physician seemed a shade disconcerting. If it didn’t suggest a madhouse (as at least some other evidences did), it at least suggested a sanatorium. For some reason Honeybath at once thought of the one in Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain . There was a Dr Krokowski there, who chatted you up on your complexes when he wasn’t tapping your chest. Perhaps Dr Michaelis was a psychiatrist. It was more probable that he simply went in for geriatrics in a general way. Honeybath wasn’t attracted by the notion of becoming a subject for the application of gerontology. He wasn’t that old yet. And he never wanted to be, either. Perhaps if he could read his own future what would be revealed would be a mercifully instant encounter with a bus. But that wasn’t to be relied on – which was why he was poking around Hanwell Court now.
    Dr Michaelis himself proved to be no greybeard. He was youngish, alert, and possessed of good professional manners. It was clear that he was accustomed to deal with more than medical issues when required, and that this familiarity extended to the behaviour of prospective clients cautiously obtruding second thoughts about closing with Hanwell Court. Honeybath noted with approval that he was far from pushing any objectionable sales-talk.
    â€˜It’s entirely a matter of the times, isn’t it?’ Michaelis asked pleasantly. ‘Formerly, an elderly woman of some substance would continue to live in her own house, with a reliable servant or two, and a companion. A man like yourself would do something very similar; he’d have a flat or chambers conveniently placed for his club, and so forth, and a