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than the angle of two walls. They sat down where they could command the croft and Evans unpacked; he worked with a businesslike haste which was comforting in itself. ‘Map and compass,’ he said; ‘the first essential. Chocolate, the second – have some. Sweater, an acceptable luxury. Billfold, can-opener, jackknife–’
    ‘Hadn’t you better put it on?’
    He put on the sweater. ‘Raincoat – that’s for you. Pipe. Tobacco. Spare pair leather shoestrings–’ He stopped and Sheila saw that he was inspecting a tobacco pouch critically. ‘Did you ever see Caravaggio’s Young Warrior ?’
    ‘I don’t think so.’ Sheila found herself answering this wayward question as if it were wholly relevant to the problems of the moment.
    ‘I started with that as a kid – fascinated me. It’s David going for Goliath. And I used–’ He stopped again and opened the jackknife. ‘Have some more chocolate. And when you’ve finished tell me everything useful.’
    Sheila considered. ‘The important thing is to remember some poetry – some poetry I heard on the train.’
    ‘Sure,’ said Evans impassively. His fingers were busy with the tobacco pouch; every now and then his eye warily swept the uncertain horizons about them.
    ‘Listen:
     
    Where the westerly spur of the furthermost mountain
    Hovers falcon-like over the heart of the bay,
    Past seven sad leagues and a last lonely fountain,
    A mile towards tomorrow the dead garden lay.
     
    Evans frowned. ‘It needs a starting point,’ he said.
    ‘I suppose so.’ She looked at him appraisingly in the cold light. ‘You’re quick on the uptake,’ she added.
    ‘Say?’
    She smiled. ‘Yours isn’t the only variation on the English language. But go on.’
    ‘The poem is just accurate directions for finding the dead garden, whatever that may be. But it needs a starting point. If you know where you are to begin with, then the westerly spur and the heart of the bay will give the line you want… This stuff was passed under someone’s nose on the train – is that it?’
    ‘I think that was it.’ And Sheila gave a brief account of what had happened.
    Evans nodded. ‘It makes sense,’ he said. ‘In a Pickwickian or European use of the word, that’s to say.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Sheila meekly.
    ‘A smart way of going about something plumb crazy. This Pennyfeather was being trailed – or thought he was being trailed – mighty close by the sandy-haired fellow. He had to pass his information on, and Dousterswivel was there to get it. But time must have been a pressing factor when they risked a trick like that.’
    ‘That’s what I think.’ Sheila looked troubled. ‘And the whole thing may be frightfully important.’
    ‘Our business is a getaway. Then we’ll find that policeman and let him figure it all out – nice problem for a Highland cop.’
    ‘I’m not feeling altogether like that.’
    ‘Ah.’ He looked at her in obscure calculation. ‘You’ll be missed?’
    ‘Yes. I was going to cousins beyond Drumtoul. They knew I was on the train.’
    ‘But this poetry business: nobody knows of that except you and me?’
    ‘No – yes. I telephoned when I’d arrive from Perth. And I made a joke of it. They asked me about the journey and I said I was travelling with the shade of Swinburne and he was extemporizing on his Forsaken Garden . I don’t know if they even got it; it was a silly thing to try putting across on the telephone – just something to say.’
    Evans nodded. ‘It will take a clever cop to make much of it. And now we’d better quit. We can make all the running, in a way. Scotland’s all round us and these folk can’t be that. Only I’m wondering if we hadn’t better wait for the letter-carrier and the milk. We might gain–’ He stopped and laid a hand on Sheila’s arm. ‘Get down,’ he whispered.
    They crouched down. From somewhere in the shifting curtain of mist before them had come a little rattle of falling stones. Perhaps a sheep,