“Excellent vittles,” he said. “Is there any more wine?”

I opened another bottle for him, and we all watched with a certain admiration as he proceeded to empty that one as well. His cheeks were swiftly turning from magenta to a very deep purple and his nose seemed to be catching on fire. Halfway through the third bottle, he began to loosen up. He worked, he told us, in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan and was home on leave. His job had to do with the Sudan Irrigation Service, and a very hot and arduous business it was. But fascinating. Lots of fun, y’know. And the wogs weren’t too much trouble so long as one kept the old shambok handy all the time.

We sat round him, listening and not a little intrigued by this purple-faced creature from distant lands.

“A great country, the Sudan,” he said. “It is enormous. It is remote. It is full of mysteries and secrets. Would you like me to tell you about one of the great secrets of the Sudan?”

“Very much, sir,” we said. “Yes, please.”

“One of its great secrets,” he said, tipping another glass of wine down his throat, “a secret that is known only to a few old-timers out there like myself and to the natives, is a little creature called the Sudanese Blister Beetle or to give him his right name, Cantharis vesiccitoria sudanii.”

“You mean a scarab?” I said.

“Certainly not,” he said. “The Sudanese Blister Beetle is a winged insect, as much a fly as a beetle, and is about three-quarters of an inch long. It’s very pretty to look at, with a brilliant iridescent shell of golden green.”