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John Smith and John’s son grew into Johnson. But here in Wales we still talk about Griffiths the Meat, Evans the Hearse, and of course Dai Jones Trouble, Willie Jones the Bank, Mrs. Jones the Shop. …”
    “Not to mention Katinka Jones the Reservoir,” said Tinka with a little mock bow. “Born plain Katey Jones, Waterworks.” She would have plunged into her recital about Uncle Jo and the Scarlet Woman, but Carlyon said, suddenly: “Talking about waterworks—how are we going to get you back across the river?”
    “Miss Evans was going to watch out for us to wave a white handkerchief, but I don’t suppose she’ll be looking for it quite so soon. What about Mr. Chucky, or whatever his name is?”
    “He’s staying,” said Carlyon, briefly. He put out a hand to help her up from the rock. “Anyway, we can go down to the river and see.”
    She had forgotten all about the slight twist to her ankle. She scrambled up and, feeling a sudden stab of pain, clutched at his arm for support. “I’m so sorry. I think I must have sprained my ankle a bit when I fell.”
    For a moment there was absolute silence. Then he said: “You’ve injured your ankle?” and there was no trace of friendliness in his voice.
    So there was a mystery after all! And now he thought that this was some trick, he thought she was feigning an injured ankle so as to regain entry into the house; he was anxious, he was suspicious, he was afraid, he had something to hide. All right, my lad, she thought, I’ll just take you up on that and see where we go from here! Beyond a slight aching after the first little stab of pain when she had put her foot too abruptly to the ground, there was nothing whatsoever wrong with her; but she gingerly tested her foot on the ground, gingerly took an experimental hop. “I’m afraid it is rather bad.” She grimaced in pretended agony.
    “In other words, you don’t think you can get down to the river?”
    “Let alone across it, and up to the other side, and then down to Swansea. …”
    He was silent, irresolute. At last he said, coldly: “You’ll have to come back to the house with me. Mrs. Love can look after you and in the morning I’ll make some arrangement to get you back across the river. It’s too late now.”
    “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,” she said, hopping along beside him, leaning her weight on his reluctant arm.
    He said nothing, but walked on steadily beside her, lending his strength, without tenderness, to her exaggerated hobblings and twistings. In face of his stern silence, she began to regret her impulse, to be once again a little afraid. She had no idea what time it was, but the mist was closing in about the mountain, the fine, soft drizzle of rain made grey evening of September afternoon. The mountain rose up, impregnably grim, behind the fretted decoration of the silly peaked roofs of the house; and at sight of the two strange servants standing in the little porch, like two dogs straining at the leash to come to their master for some news that he carried, her heart failed her altogether. Of all the asinine, idiotic things to do! Having once got away—letting myself in for it all over again! She must go into that house again, into the hideous chocolate-coloured hall, must spend the long night there alone with these two dreadful servants, with the friendly Mr. Chucky turned sneering traitor, with Carlyon who believed her to be spying upon them all, who thought—who knew—that there was nothing whatsoever wrong with her ankle. … Miles from anywhere, with no telephone, no communication of any sort with the outside world. And there was some horrible mystery there, horrible and frightening, something past the understanding of ordinary people like herself. Amista had been there, and now was no longer there; or was there a prisoner or a murdered corpse? Imagination rose up dizzily into her brain and took possession there. The bog of brown chocolate surged up and sucked her in.
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