The hamlet of Diddlestock, a brief interlude of whitewash and thatch, marked the last stage. Already as he slid out of the shadow of Ottercombe Woods, he fancied that he heard the thunder of the sea.

Watchman checked his car, skidded, and changed into low gear. Somewhere about here, Diddlestock Lane crossed Ottercombe Lane and the intersection was completely masked by banks and hedgerows. A dangerous turning. Yes, there it was. He sounded his horn and the next second crammed on his brakes. The car skidded, lurched sideways, and fetched up against the bank, with its right-hand front bumpers locked in the left-hand rear bumpers of a baby two-seater.

Watchman leant out of the driving window.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yelled. The two-seater leapt nervously and was jerked back by the bumpers.

“Stop that!” roared Watchman.

He got out and stumbled along the lane to the other car.

It was so dark down there between the hedgerows that the driver’s features, shadowed both by the roof of his car and the brim of his hat, were scarcely discernible. He seemed about to open the door when Watchman, bareheaded, came up to him. Evidently he changed his mind. He leant farther back in his seat. His fingers pulled at the brim of his hat.

“Look here,” Watchman began, “you’re a hell of a fellow, aren’t you, bucketing about the countryside like a blasted tank! Why the devil can’t you sound your horn? You came out of that lane about twenty times as fast as—What?”

The man had mumbled something.

“What?” Watchman repeated.

“I’m extremely sorry. Didn’t hear you until…” The voice faded away.

“All right. Well, we’d better do something about it. I don’t imagine much damage has been done.” The man made no move and Watchman’s irritation revived. “Give me a hand, will you.”