He sat down at a table and wrote to my dictation. The gist of it was that if a man called Twisdon (I thought I had better stick to that name) turned up before June 15th he was to treat him kindly. He said Twisdon would prove his bona fides by passing the word “Black Stone” and whistling “Annie Laurie.”

“Good,” said Sir Harry. “That’s the proper style. By the way, you’ll find my godfather⁠—his name’s Sir Walter Bullivant⁠—down at his country cottage for Whitsuntide. It’s close to Artinswell on the Kenner. That’s done. Now, what’s the next thing?”

“You’re about my height. Lend me the oldest tweed suit you’ve got. Anything will do, so long as the colour is the opposite of the clothes I destroyed this afternoon. Then show me a map of the neighbourhood and explain to me the lie of the land. Lastly, if the police come seeking me, just show them the car in the glen. If the other lot turn up, tell them I caught the south express after your meeting.”