I climbed down and made my way to Hernsholt across country. So far as the Long Down was concerned,

I was in dead ground. From trees on or near the road I used the line of the hedges to protect myself. It was slow going, for I had to squeeze like a rabbit under wire and through thorn. It occurred to me that a horse was the only means of moving fast and decisively over this landscape of meadow, hedge and muddy stream.

When I had reached the back gardens of Hernsholt I cut down into the road and started to stroll home innocently and openly. The light was fading. I tried to persuade myself that there were no holes in my reasoning. With three quarters of a mile to go to my cottage, I realized in horror that there was a large hole. The dark gentleman, wondering if he had somehow missed me, might have made a silent approach to the kitchen window and discovered the drugged dog. In that case he had nothing to lose by waiting for me in the dusk alongside the road and taking a close-range shot from either of the hedges.

Never before had I known the madness of fear. During the war I had been afraid — sometimes reasonably, sometimes beyond reason — of arrest and execution, but I felt part of a team who were all enduring the same risk and uncertainty. I was sure of my technique. And, though I seldom saw a confederate, I was not alone.

In this simple walk along a deserted, darkening road there was none of the high morale which comes from outwitting the enemy. Defense was so limited. I could not shoot first. I might bag the wrong man. Even if I got the right one, it could be most difficult to prove his intentions to the satisfaction of a jury, for he sounded like a man who would be above suspicion. It was quite possible that his identity could not be established at all unless he were caught on the body of his victim. The parallel with a man-eating tiger was uncomfortably close.

The sun had set, and light was patchy. The leaves of the eastern hedge reflected the red of clouds and emphasized every block of darkness. Under the shadow of the western hedge both solid and space were dark gray. What appalled me was that there was no safety in vision. My eyes were continually attracted by the light in the west, and what was ahead of me appeared the darker. As for my ears — I once heard the click of a safety catch, dived headlong into the ditch and stayed there until I heard it again. It was a damned starling clicking its beak.

I reminded myself again and again why I was taking this risk. Because I had to go home and turn the lights on. Because then, after giving me a chance to eat the poisoned meal, the enemy would come in expecting to find my body on the floor. Because I wanted to live my life without fear of assassination and no police could ensure it.

All woulds. All mights. It was futile to try and guess what this sort of animal would do or where it was. Its only predictable qualities were patience and ferocity. And meanwhile the “is,” the here and now, was a panic of hedge and shadow, of colors like dried blood and arterial blood.

Once I ran and checked myself with an effort. Once I saw a broken oak twig pointing straight at me, half

drew the pistol, saw it was hopeless and put up my hands. That was the end. I swore at myself under the name of Graf Karl von Dennim. What the devil would my father have thought of me?

I found such pride surprisingly calming. This conjuring up of an imperial and famous family, which I had never taken seriously since 1918, seemed to make sense of what Charles Dennim, zoologist, was doing. Having accepted British nationality, he owed his feudal service to the Crown. He was at the moment — besides his personal interest in the matter — engaged in avenging the death of a very humble servant of the Crown: a postman.

This preposterous romancing, this sudden, unexpected result of the conditioning of a child who was a gallant little fellow up to the age of six, made me pay more intelligent attention to the road of shadows. It would have been pleasanter to render feudal service with a drawn sword and a few well-mustachioed retainers than to walk through gray-green darkness — the red was now low in the sky — with a toy gun which had to be kept half hidden until it was too late to draw it. But at least I could now listen to the regularity of my own lonely steps padding along the road.

I turned at last into the track which led to the Warren and opened the front door. The .22 was in my hand now, and if he had been waiting for me he would have died first. Without turning on the lights I searched all the rooms, coming last to the kitchen. The snoring had stopped. The dog had been removed. All that remained was the torn, chewed paper on the floor together with other evidence, carefully left in place under the window, that a dog had been about. The telephone wire had been inconspicuously repaired.

What had happened was clear. My first homecoming and stealthy departure had not been observed — for the man would never have come back to remove the dog if he knew that my suspicions had been aroused but did not know where I was. I could have gone to fetch the police. To take such a risk was not in his character.

No. He had waited and waited for my return, crept up close to the cottage when the light began to fade, and then to his astonishment heard the snoring. He entered boldly and found — only a dog.

So much for panic! He may never even have thought of ambushing me on my way back, for there was no telling when I would be home. I might have decided to watch badgers. I might have gone off with some casual acquaintance. And meanwhile he had to consider his own timetable and line of retreat.

I was confident that he had gone. Still, it would have been rash to turn on the lights or to eat anything which could be quickly and easily contaminated. Vanishing into the willow copse with an unopened tin of corned beef, blankets and a ground sheet, I slept alongside a fallen branch. Soundly, too. Experience counts. No one on a moonless night can distinguish a man rolled in a dark blanket from a log.

In the damp, sweetly scented dawn I lay there thinking it all out. The Long Down —that, of course, was where he had been hiding, with a perfect view of the track, the gate and the front door. He had no reason to spend an uncomfortable night there. He would sleep in London or wherever he was staying, and return in the morning. Why shouldn’t he? Nothing was known against him. He could say good morning to me or to a policeman with every appearance of a clear conscience.

I breakfasted on the inside of the loaf— with some hesitation, but I was too hungry to fuss — and cleaned up the cottage and myself. At nine the telephone rang. I let it ring while I did some quick thinking — for there was nobody in the world who could be calling me except Ian and my enemy. Taking cover round the corner of the kitchen, I knocked the receiver off with a long-handled feather brush. Nothing blew up, so I answered. At the other end, to my utter amazement, was Aunt Georgina.

“But how in the world, dear aunt, did you know I was here?” I asked.

“And if you knew you were going to be there, my dear nephew,” she retorted, “why the devil didn’t you give me your address?”

I could tell from her voice that she had hitched up her skirt — as a man hitches his trousers before exercise — and was settling down for a long chat. It was soon plain how the dark follower had picked up my scent.

“After you dropped me at Paddington Station,” she said, “I suddenly remembered I ought to have packed my boots and breeches.”

I remarked that she always looked very well in jodhpurs.

“But they might have wanted me to show Nur Jehan. And I couldn’t know that they weren’t all terribly smart and county. So I wired the admiral that I would take a later train and went home to get a proper outfit. Then someone from the museum called up to ask for your address. Didn’t catch his name. Dr. Paffletrout, it sounded like. But your colleagues do have the most extraordinary names, Charles.”