my head, and added his gloves to my get-up. The dusty roadman
in a minute was transformed into one of the neatest motorists in
Scotland. On Mr Jopley's head I clapped Turnbull's unspeakable hat,
and told him to keep it there.

Then with some difficulty I turned the car. My plan was to go back the
road he had come, for the watchers, having seen it before, would
probably let it pass unremarked, and Marmie's figure was in no way like
mine.

'Now, my child,' I said, 'sit quite still and be a good boy. I mean
you no harm. I'm only borrowing your car for an hour or two. But if
you play me any tricks, and above all if you open your mouth, as sure
as there's a God above me I'll wring your neck. SAVEZ?'

I enjoyed that evening's ride. We ran eight miles down the valley,
through a village or two, and I could not help noticing several
strange-looking folk lounging by the roadside. These were the watchers
who would have had much to say to me if I had come in other garb or
company. As it was, they looked incuriously on. One touched his cap
in salute, and I responded graciously.

As the dark fell I turned up a side glen which, as I remember from the
map, led into an unfrequented corner of the hills. Soon the villages
were left behind, then the farms, and then even the wayside cottage.
Presently we came to a lonely moor where the night was blackening the
sunset gleam in the bog pools. Here we stopped, and I obligingly
reversed the car and restored to Mr Jopley his belongings.

'A thousand thanks,' I said. 'There's more use in you than I thought.
Now be off and find the police.'

As I sat on the hillside, watching the tail-light dwindle, I reflected
on the various kinds of crime I had now sampled. Contrary to general
belief, I was not a murderer, but I had become an unholy liar, a
shameless impostor, and a highwayman with a marked taste for expensive
motor-cars.

CHAPTER SIX

The Adventure of the Bald Archaeologist

I spent the night on a shelf of the hillside, in the lee of a boulder
where the heather grew long and soft. It was a cold business, for I
had neither coat nor waistcoat. These were in Mr Turnbull's keeping,
as was Scudder's little book, my watch and--worst of all--my pipe and
tobacco pouch. Only my money accompanied me in my belt, and about half
a pound of ginger biscuits in my trousers pocket.

I supped off half those biscuits, and by worming myself deep into the
heather got some kind of