“Those white trees are manuka bushes,” she said. “They bloom at this time of the year. I had forgotten.”

There was a long silence. He looked from one dimly-lit slumping figure to another. At last he became aware of Hambledon’s gaze, fixed on himself.

“Do you find us very queer cattle?” said Hambledon, with his air of secret enjoyment.

“Why do you ask that?” said the tall man quickly.

“I noticed you looking at us and wondered what were your thoughts. Do you think us queer cattle?”

In order not to disturb Susan Max and to make himself heard above the racket of the train, he bent forward. So did the tall man. With their heads together under the murky lamp, they looked like conspirators.

“That would be an ungracious thought,” said the tall man, “after your kindness.”

“Our kindness? Oh, you mean George Mason’s offer of a seat in our carriage?”

“Yes. The alternative was a back-to-the-engine pew by a swinging door, among commercial travellers, and next to a lavatory.”

Hambledon laughed silently.

“Ah well,” he said, “even queer cattle may be preferable to all that.”

“But I didn’t say I thought—”

“If you had it would not have been very strange. Actors are a rum lot.”

“The last man I heard say that was an actor — and a murderer,” said the tall man.

“Really?” Hambledon raised his head. “You don’t by any chance mean Felix Gardener?”

“I do. How did you guess—?”

“Now I know who you are. Of course! How stupid of me! I have seen your photograph any number of times in the papers. It’s been worrying me.”

His companion looked at Susan Max. Her three chins were packed snugly down into her collar and her eyes were closed. Her whole person jogged rhythmically with the motion of the train.