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crawling pace as we edged nose to tail down the vehicle gangway did little to improve Ingaza’s recovery from his mal de mer . He slumped limply over the steering wheel, mechanically fumbling at the gear stick as might a sort of clockwork cadaver, groaning and muttering oaths at any official who impeded us – or for that matter waved us on.
    As we made our slow way down to the quay, my attention was caught by a smart-looking Austin-Healey a couple of vehicles ahead. Sleek and low-slung, its silver-grey chassis made stylish contrast to the more homespun appearance of others in the queue. Of those only our vintage Citroën Avant was in any way distinctive, but whereas that vehicle had about it an aura of subtle menace, the Austin sparkled with breezy elegance.
    Primrose too had obviously noticed the car, for she suddenly exclaimed, ‘Goodness, look who’s in that Austin-Healey. It’s the two I was talking to in the bar, Messrs Climp and … oh, I can’t remember the name, something like a fish or a window … Ah, yes, that was it, Mullion. Anyway, fancy them driving a make like that!’
    I was also slightly surprised, for they had not struck me as the sort to ride about in high-powered sports cars – though admittedly such judgements are absurdly shallow. Primrose turned to Nicholas who, now that we had negotiated both gangway and officials and were moving more briskly along the quayside, was beginning to look vaguely human.
    ‘What do you think, Nicholas? Isn’t it odd that those two should be in a thing like that? They weren’t even good dominoes players.’
    ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ was the weary reply. ‘You may recall that I have been dying for the last three hours. In the circumstances my fellow passengers are of little account … Christ, I could do with a drink!’
    ‘It’s only ten o’clock. You’ll just have to wait.’ And she proceeded to tell him about her companions in the bar, while he manoeuvred us around the cobbled streets of Dieppe having missed the turn for the exit road south.
    ‘Useless signposts,’ he muttered, ‘give you no warning. We’ll have to go all the way round again.’ And performing an abrasive three-point turn he shot up the nearest side street.
    ‘Stop! Stop!’ I suddenly shouted, gripping his shoulder.
    ‘For God’s sake, Francis, you’ll have us all in the ditch!’
    ‘Yes, but you must stop, you really must!’ He swerved to the side of the road and braked violently, and I started to wrench at the handle.
    ‘Oh really, Francis, you haven’t been taken short, have you?’ protested Primrose. ‘Why on earth didn’t you go on the –’
    I made no answer, being now out of the car and starting to race back the way we had come. I rounded the corner and stared. The street was empty except for a passing cyclist, crossbar draped with onions; and I felt a fool. Clearly the months of subterfuge were taking their toll and I was having visions … And then I saw it in a shop doorway: the dog, lifting its leg against a sack of vegetables.
    ‘Bouncer,’ I cried, ‘stop that!’
    The creature lowered its leg and looked round guiltily, saw me and started to bay.
    As always the noise was dire.
    ‘Shut up!’ I yelled. He stopped, and with head cocked on one side slowly began to wag his tail. There was no doubt about it, it was him all right – every mark and hairy feature. And even from a distance I could discern bits of the old green collar peeping out from the thicket around his scruff.
    I approached cautiously, my mind a whirligig of confusion and disbelief. How? How? How? Why wasn’t he with the Watkins and the wolfhound? I had settled him there only three days ago, leaving him safe and smug sucking up to Florence. What on earth had happened, and how on earth did he get here of all places? In a daze I called him to heel (an order which for once he instantly obeyed) and together we walked slowly back to the car.
    Not unexpectedly we were greeted