“By the way,” he said presently, “some driving expert nearly dashed himself to extinction against my bonnet.”

“Really?”

“Yes. At Diddlestock Corner. Came bucketing out of the blind turning on my right, beat me by a split second, and hung his silly little stern on my front buffers. Ass!”

“Any damage?”

“No, no. He heaved his pygmy up by the bottom and I backed away. Funny sort of fellow, he is.”

“You knew him?” asked Parish in surprise. “No.” Watchman took the tip of his nose between thumb and forefinger. It was a gesture he used in cross-examination. “No, I don’t know him, and yet— there was something — I got the impression that he didn’t want to know me. Quite an educated voice. Labourer’s hands. False teeth, I rather fancy.”

“You’re very observant,” said Parish, lightly.

“No more than the next man, but there was something about the fellow — I was going to ask if you knew him. His car’s in the garage.”

“Surely it’s not — Hullo, here are the others.” Boots and voices sounded in the public bar. Will Pomeroy came through and leant over the counter. He looked, not towards Watchman or Parish, but into a settle on the far side of the Private, a settle whose high back was towards them.

“‘Evening, Bob,” said Will cordially. “Kept you waiting?”

“That’s all right, Will,” said a voice from beyond the settle. “I’ll have a pint of bitter when you’re ready.”

Luke Watchman uttered a stifled exclamation.

“What’s up?” asked his cousin.

“Come here.”

Parish strolled nearer to him and in obedience to a movement of Watchman’s head, stooped towards him.

“What’s up?” he repeated.

“That’s the same fellow,” muttered Watchman. “He must have been here all the time. That’s his voice.”

“Hell!” said Parish delightedly.

“D’you think he heard?”

“Of course he heard.”