The change was almost instantaneous. In the one instant the walls of scrub crowded upon the car; in the next they had vanished and the car was rolling across a large clearing on the left of which stood the hotel, its weather-boarded walls painted cream and its iron roof a cap of terra-cotta. Across the clearing ran a little creek spanned by another but much smaller white-painted bridge.

Bony stopped the car before the veranda steps. To the left of them wisteria covered the lower portion of the veranda and climbed the roof supports. To the right, windows bore the golden letters of the word “Bar”. It was a comfortable building, a welcoming building to the traveller. He switched off the engine and heard a voice say:

“Get to hellouta here.”

Another voice croaked:

“That’s enough of that.”

To which the first countered with:

“Nuts! What about a drink?”

From the fly-wired door above the steps emerged a man dressed in a sports shirt and grey slacks. He came down to meet the traveller alighting from the old single-seater. Under forty, his still handsome face bore unmistakable signs of high-pressure living. Shrewd, cold grey eyes examined the visitor even as the sensuous mouth widened into a not unattractive smile.

“Good day!” he said, his accent unexpectedly good. There was a question-mark behind the greeting, as though a stranger coming this way was rare.

“Good day-ee!” Bony replied with an assumed drawl. “You’re the landlord, I take it. Can you put me up for a day or two? Pretty place. Looks peaceful.”

“Peaceful enough-most times,” was the qualified agreement, accompanied by a meaning smile. “Oh yes, we can give you a room. My name is Simpson. Call me Jim.”