"How come?"

"Every chancer who has lost himself or wants to find himself."

"Surely it's too remote for dreamy-eyed tourists?"

"Not for inadequates. Every tosspot with a warped personality. When they've tried all the other dead-end provinces, they sniff the wind and waft up here. No money, no likelihood of work, no sense."

"It's cold and inhospitable-drifters surely don't like that?"

"Oh, sun and seduction are not for losers. They yearn for empty open spaces, they want to endure hardship, they believe suffering in a wilderness will expand their lives."

"So they seek out the mist on the edge of the world, among the legendary woad-painted men? And now you have a wild-eyed population of ragged people in shanties-feckless, rootless characters who may go off pop"

"Right. They don't fit."

"Are any running from the law?"

"Some."

"That's fun."

"Joyous."

"So here they are-looking for a new start."

"Butting up against the innocent British who only want to sell shale trays to visitors. All the British want to see arriving here are importers of dodgy wine that's passing itself off as Falernian. And now," exclaimed Silvanus, who was close to passing out, which in theory was what I needed, "we are starting to get the others."

"Who are those?" I murmured.

"Oh, these people know exactly what they're doing," he burbled.

"These are the ones to watch, are they?"

"You get it, Falco."

"And who are they, Silvanus?" I asked patiently.

"The ones who come to prey on the rest," he said. Then he lay down, closed his bleary eyes, and started snoring.

I had made him drunk. Now I had to sober him up again. That's because the theory is wrong. When you bring a witness to the point of passing out, he does not know he is supposed to tell you all before he quits-he just goes ahead and drifts into oblivion.