ights of steamers
making for the Thames. The whole scene was so peaceful and ordinary
that I got more dashed in spirits every second. It took all my
resolution to stroll towards Trafalgar Lodge about half-past nine.

On the way I got a piece of solid comfort from the sight of a greyhound
that was swinging along at a nursemaid's heels. He reminded me of a
dog I used to have in Rhodesia, and of the time when I took him hunting
with me in the Pali hills. We were after rhebok, the dun kind, and I
recollected how we had followed one beast, and both he and I had clean
lost it. A greyhound works by sight, and my eyes are good enough, but
that buck simply leaked out of the landscape. Afterwards I found out
how it managed it. Against the grey rock of the kopjes it showed no
more than a crow against a thundercloud. It didn't need to run away;
all it had to do was to stand still and melt into the background.

Suddenly as these memories chased across my brain I thought of my
present case and applied the moral. The Black Stone didn't need to
bolt. They were quietly absorbed into the landscape. I was on the
right track, and I jammed that down in my mind and vowed never to
forget it. The last word was with Peter Pienaar.

Scaife's men would be posted now, but there was no sign of a soul. The
house stood as open as a market-place for anybody to observe. A
three-foot railing separated it from the cliff road; the windows on the
ground-floor were all open, and shaded lights and the low sound of
voices revealed where the occupants were finishing dinner. Everything
was as public and above-board as a charity bazaar. Feeling the
greatest fool on earth, I opened the gate and rang the bell.

A man of my sort, who has travelled about the world in rough places,
gets on perfectly well with two classes, what you may call the upper
and the lower. He understands them and they understand him. I was at
home with herds and tramps and roadmen, and I was sufficiently at my
ease with people like Sir Walter and the men I had met the night
before. I can't explain why, but it is a fact. But what fellows like
me don't understand is the great comfortable, satisfied middle-class
world, the folk that live in villas and suburbs. He doesn't know how
they look at things, he doesn't understand their conventions, and he is
as shy of them as of a black mamba. When a trim parlour-maid opened
the door, I could hardly find my voice.

I asked for