The dog reached the edge of the dyke, and came to a halt whining anxiously. A man’s figure loomed up beside him and a moment later two more.

“Whoever it was has got across,” said a voice that the detective did not recognise. “No use going any farther in this fog.”

“That damn dog’s seeing things,” grumbled another voice, and this time Labar identified the tone of Billy Bungey. “If there was anything at all it was a sheep. Who’s likely to get out here in a peasoup like this. Call your tripe hound off and let’s get inside. I’d got three aces, and I looked like winnin’ a pot for the first time for an hour.”

“Oh, curse your poker,” cut in the third voice brusquely. “That dog doesn’t make mistakes. Listen.”

They waited breathing heavily. One of them moved along the dyke in an opposite direction to Labar and looked into its depths. A bullock came out of the fog and peered at him.