“Yes?”

“A confession of incompetency on my part. Pedler has managed to escape.”

“What?”

“Yes. No one knows how he managed it. He was securely locked up for the night⁠—in an upper-story room of one of the farms roundabouts which the military have taken over, but this morning the room was empty and the bird had flown.”

Secretly I was rather pleased. Never, to this day, have I been able to rid myself of a sneaking fondness for Sir Eustace. I dare say it’s reprehensible, but there it is. I admired him. He was a thoroughgoing villain, I dare say⁠—but he was a pleasant one. I’ve never met anyone half so amusing since.