“Yair. Nice place,” repeated the driver, and drove on beside the wind-break following the gentle decline to the bridge which crossed a royal river. “You get out here, sir. That sidetrack’ll take you to Luton’s cottage. Less’nhalf a mile. See you again some time.”

The passenger stood beside the highway and watched the vehicle cross the bridge before taking up his battered suitcase and turning to the unmade road skirting the river-bank. Here grew great gums, and between the trunks the sheen of water dappled with sunlight caught his eye, and that same eye noted the fallen tree litter and the ants working close to their nests, for when the sun set it would be cold.

The river drifted beyond screening gums and lower bush, and presently the track debouched on to an open place where three evenly spaced tree giants guarded the river to the right, and a white-painted picket fence guarded a small weatherboard cottage to the left.

At sight of the stranger, two dogs bounded from the broad veranda to race to the gate and bark with more welcome than hostility. When the wayfarer spoke, they turned themselves into the shape of an S, and escorted him along the cinder path dividing plots of growing vegetables. Reaching the veranda ahead, they barked again, and this time there was the faint note of house guardians.

Then the front door swung open and on to the veranda stepped a man.

He was twice the traveller’s weight, seemed half as high again, and was certainly twice his age. The white hair, clipped short, was plentiful. The full white moustache failed to hide the stern mouth and the rugged chin. Most men begin to decline at forty; this one hadn’t begun to decline at eighty.

“Good day-ee!” drawled the traveller in the manner of the inland. “Are you John Luton?”

“I was thismornin ’ when I woke up,” replied Mr. Luton, examining his visitor with eyes extraordinarily clear and vital. “I think I know who you are, but tell me.”