They limped away together, disappearing into the night, and Chavasse said, “Good man, Earl. My thanks.”

“Getting too old for this kind of game,” Jackson said. “And so are you. Think about that.”

The Tibetan stood there holding his trilby, rain falling on the shaven head, the yellowing saffron robes beneath the raincoat indicating one thing only: that this was a Buddhist monk. He looked about thirty-five, with a calm and placid face.

“A violent world on occasion, Sir Paul.”

“Well you’re up to date at least,” Chavasse told him. “Why have you been hanging around for the last three days?”

“I wished to see you.”

“Then why not knock on the door?”

“I feared I might be turned away without the opportunity of seeing you. I am Tibetan.”

“I can tell that.”

“I know that I seem strange to many people. My appearance alarms some.” He shrugged. “I thought it simpler to wait in the hope of seeing you in the street.”

“Where you end up at the mercy of animals like those.”

The Tibetan shrugged. “They are young, they are foolish, they are not responsible. The fox kills the chicken. It is his nature. Should I then kill the fox?”

“I sure as hell would if it was my chicken,” Earl Jackson said.

“But that would make me no follower of Lord Buddha.” He turned to Chavasse. “As you may be able to tell I am a Buddhist monk. My name is Lama Moro. I am a monk in the Tibetan temple at Glen Aristoun in Scotland.”

“Christ said that if a man slaps you across the check turn the other one, but he only told us to do it once,” Chavasse said. Jackson laughed out loud. Chavasse carried on. “Have you eaten?”

“A little rice this morning.”

Chavasse turned to Jackson. “Earl, take him to the kitchen. Let him discuss his diet with Lucy. Tell her to feed him. Then bring him up to me.”

“You are a kind man, Sir Paul,” Lama Moro said.