“I like being in a train,” he said, “more lavishly than anything that’s ever happened so far. Do you like being in a train. Daddy?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. He opened the door of the washing-cabinet, which lit itself up. Ricky watched his father shave.

“Where are we now?” he said presently.

“By a sea. It’s called the Mediterranean and it’s just out there on the other side of the train. We shall see it when it’s daytime.”

“Are we in the middle of the night?”

“Not quite. We’re in the very early morning. Out there everybody is fast asleep,” Alleyn suggested, not very hopefully.

“Everybody?”

“Almost everybody. Fast asleep and snoring.”

“All except us,” Ricky said with rich satisfaction, “because we are lavishly wide awake in the very early morning in a train. Aren’t we, Daddy?”

“That’s it. Soon we’ll pass the house where I’m going tomorrow. The train doesn’t stop there, so I have to go on with you to Roqueville and drive back. You and Mummy will stay in Roqueville.”

“Where will you be most of the time?”

“Sometimes with you and sometimes at this house. It’s called the Château de la Chèvre d’Argent. That means the House of the Silver Goat.”

“Pretty funny name, however,” said Ricky.

A stream of sparks ran past the window. The light from the carriage flew across the surface of a stone wall. The train had begun to climb steeply. It gradually slowed down until there was time to see nearby objects lamplit, in the world outside: a giant cactus, a flight of steps, part of an olive grove. The engine laboured almost to a standstill. Outside their window, perhaps a hundred yards away, there was a vast house that seemed to grow out of the cliff. It stood full in the moonlight, and shadows, black as ink, were thrown by buttresses across its recessed face. A solitary window, veiled by a patterned blind, glowed dully yellow.