“That’s all jolly fine,” said Chief Superintendent Alleyn. “What’s the Special Branch think it’s doing? Sitting on its fat bottom waving Ng’ombwanan flags?”

“What did he say, exactly?” asked Mr. Fox. He referred to their Assistant Commissioner.

“Oh, you know!” said Alleyn. “Charm and sweet reason were the wastewords of his ween.”

“What’s a ween, Mr. Alleyn?”

“I’ve not the remotest idea. It’s a quotation. And don’t ask me from where.”

“I only wondered,” said Mr. Fox mildly.

“I don’t even know,” Alleyn continued moodily, “how it’s spelt. Or what it means, if it comes to that.”

“If it’s Scotch it’ll be with an h, won’t it? Meaning: ‘few.’ Wheen.”

“Which doesn’t make sense. Or does it? Perhaps it should be ‘weird,’ but that’s something one drees. Now you’re upsetting me, Br’er Fox.”

“To get back to the A.C., then?”

“However reluctantly: to get back to him. It’s all about this visit, of course.”

“The Ng’ombwanan President?”

“He. The thing is, Br’er Fox, I know him. And the A.C. knows I know him. We were at school together in the same house: Davidson’s. Same study, for a year. Nice creature, he was. Not everybody’s cup of tea but I liked him. We got on like houses-on-fire.”

“Don’t tell me,” Said Fox. “The A.C. wants you to recall old times?”

“I do tell you precisely that. He’s dreamed up the idea of a meeting — casual-cum-official. He wants me to put it to the President that unless he conforms to whatever procedure the Special Branch sees fit to lay on, he may very well get himself bumped off and in any case will cause acute anxiety, embarrassment and trouble at all levels from the Monarch down. And I’m to put this, if you please, tactfully. They don’t want umbrage to be taken, followed by a highly publicized flounce-out. He’s as touchy as a sea-anemone.”