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by the baker’s boy. Or indeed, come myself.”
    He cast a glance at a mechanism which Is had been staring at, on and off, ever since she noticed it. Half-covered with a waterproof sheet, it stood in a shadowy corner: a spindly affair, made of metal, with two large wheels, one somewhat bigger than the other, which were connected by various rods and a revolving chain; between the wheels and attached to the bars hung a triangular piece of wood, covered with leather, which might be intended for a seat.
    “I invented the device,” said the Admiral proudly. “When becalmed, years ago, in the Sea of Sargasso. I call it my Dupli-gyro. I sit, you see, on that leather crupper, place my feet on these small bars – which rotate – causing the wheels to do likewise, and I thus proceed at a quite remarkable velocity, I can assure you.”
    “Doesn’t it fall over sideways?” asked Arun, fascinated.
    “No, my boy, because the velocity maintains its equilibrium . . . As when you bowl a hoop, you know, or spin a top.”
    “Yes, I see.”
    “I have made a number of them,” said the Admiral in a tone of satisfaction. “But this one is the best. I can propel myself to Seagate and back on it in little over an hour. So – my dear young people – I strongly advise you to transfer to that charming little place.”
    Seems like everybody wants us to leave Folkestone, thought Is, who now knew what it was that she had seen gliding across the hillside on the previous evening. I shouldn’t care to ride on that thing, she thought. I reckon the Admiral is a spooky old gager, with his spiders and his Dupli-gyro.
    “Sir – Admiral,” she said. “Mrs Boles wants us to stow Arun’s Mum’s pictures somewhere safe.”
    “ Pictures ?” The Admiral at once looked very interested indeed.
    “There’s a whole scoop o’ pictures upstairs in Arun’s house. We think his Mum musta painted ’em.”
    “I should be most curious to see them!” declared the Admiral. “Are they landscapes? Still lifes? . . . Portraits? Are any of them portraits?”
    “They’re beautiful pictures,” said Is. “They aren’t like anything else at all. Stunning, they are. Ain’t they, Arun?”
    But Arun did not seem to want to talk about his mother’s pictures.
    “Are there many?” A greedy light flashed in the Admiral’s eye.
    “You just bet! A whole roomful.”
    “Well,” said the Admiral, in a tone of gracious consideration, “I do not see why they should not be stored – as a purely temporary measure, you understand – in my dene-hole cellar. Fortunately it is very spacious. And dry. And, I confess, you have made me quite curious to observe these works!”
    “A dene-hole?” said Is doubtfully. “What’s that?”
    “Dene-holes are very well-ventilated,” the Admiral assured her.
    “But what is a dene-hole?” asked Arun, rousing himself out of a longish, moody silence.
    “Made by prehistoric folk some time between the Stone Age and the Bronze Age. (That is to say, many many thousand years ago.) Chipped out of the chalk, you know, by flint knives. Their habit, those long-ago folk, was to dig out quite a network of caves. Indeed, I have never explored these ones very far. My lame leg, you see, prevents me.” He patted it, causing Rosamund to turn on him a reproachful glare. “And also – I must confess – I am not partial to enclosed places.”
    “How can we shift all the pictures, though?” puzzled Is. “There’s a mortal lot of ’em. We’d need a wagon.”
    She hoped the Admiral would suggest sending his carriage. Instead he said, “I have a trolley. On which I am used to wheel my golf clubs. That would serve, no doubt?”
    “Let’s have a look at it.”
    So – first tipping Rosamund on to the floor; she retired sulkily up her web again – he led them through a back door into a spacious conservatory, filled with a mad clutter of garden tools, golf clubs, fowling pieces, fishing-rods, baskets, hip-baths, and