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the cudgel, we heard the clatter of hooves. A shadow moved in the darkness at the foot of the Side, then a black horse came up the narrow hill into
the light of a torch and out again. Its rider was dressed in black to match; at first he was merely a pale shape of face in the night. Then a voice called out: “Nichols, c’est
vous ?” and I recognised the abrupt tones of Henri Le Sac.
    He reined in the horse beside us so sharply that the animal’s head jerked up. Metal gleamed in a flicker of moonlight. I found myself looking into the muzzle of a pistol.
    “Monsieur Patterson,” said Le Sac. “I trust you have good reason to be attacking my friend Nichols.”
    “I can probably invent one,” I said in the most affable tone I could contrive. “But you misjudge the situation. I was helping him fight off two ruffians.”
    “But how philanthropic!” he said, almost as cordially. “And I suppose these ruffians are now run off?”
    “As a matter of fact…” But of course, when I looked round, I saw that the ruffian I had laid flat had taken advantage of our attention being elsewhere to make his escape.
    “It’s that fellow Demsey,” Nichols cried. “He set the rogues on me and this one came to watch.”
    “Nonsense,” I said briskly – for I fancied I had seen the pistol rise. “I was on my way to a lesson, which I may say I am now missing. I was just setting Mr Nichols back
on his feet.”
    “He was in league with them!”
    But Le Sac was lowering his pistol. The moonlight glinted off his horse’s harness and revealed the dark shapes of a violin case and a bag of clothes slung behind. He must be on his way
back from a lesson in the country. “My dear Nichols,” he said with a sigh. “You do not understand people. Monsieur Patterson is not a fool. And,” he added, turning his
attention to me, “neither am I, sir. I know it is not poor Nichols who engages your attention.” He leant forward confidentially. “I tell you frankly, Monsieur Patterson, there is
not room for both of us in this town!”
    And as I stared at him in astonishment, he jerked on the horse’s reins and the animal clattered past me, so close that I felt the warmth of the sweat on its flanks. Nichols stumbled after
them.
    “A real pair of fancy men,” said a female voice from the wall behind my shoulder. The spirit sniffed, then added coyly, “Give me someone plain and honest any day, I
say.”
    If the words were meant for me, I did not regard them as a compliment. And an invitation from a spirit is of little use to a man.
    “We did try to warn you,” she said, “since the old uncle takes such an interest in you. I could see those rogues were up to no good, hiding in the alley. And knowing you came
this way every week…”
    She seemed on the verge of coyness again. I said sharply, “Do you know where Hugh Demsey is?”
    “The other tip-toeing gent? Now there’s a handsome fellow. Wait on.” Did I hear a murmur of voices? A moment later, she resumed. “Never could get the hang of those fancy
dance steps, you know. And gentlemen did like it if you could tread a measure or two. What? Oh, much obliged. He’s in his school room. Down Westgate.”
    I was angry as I started off towards Westgate and in a very short time I was cold as well. The clouds began to deposit a chill rain upon me, whitish drops like sleet splattering on my face and
darkening my greatcoat. Around St John’s Church I almost lost my way in the darkness and stumbled into a horse trough, splashing myself with water. On, up past the vicarage, past the trees of
the vicarage garden and on to the street of tall narrow houses this side of the West Gate itself. This is a part of the town where people of the genteel sort live, so lamps are more conscientiously
placed above house doors. Past the impassive face of the Assembly Rooms on the left, where old Mr Thompson was causing such havoc since he died in the middle of a country dance. Past
Bedwalters’s