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the sand to the main building on the off-chance that post had arrived and not yet been brought to the bungalows.
    Ingham was working when Mokta came in just before eleven o ’ clock with a letter. Ingham seized it, automatically fishing in his pocket for some coins for Mokta.
    ‘ Hallelujah! ’ Ingham said. The envelope was a long business airmail, and it was postmarked New York.
    ‘ Succ ès !’ said Mokta. ‘ Merci, m ’ sieur! ’ He bowed and left.
     
    The letter was from Peter Langland, strangely enough. Their letters had crossed.

    June 19, 19—
    Dear Mr Ingham — or Howar d
    By now you no doubt know of the sad events of over last weekend, as Ina said she would write you. John spoke to me just two days before. He was in a crise, as you probably know, or maybe you didn ’ t know. But none of us expected anything like this. He was afraid he couldn ’ t go through with ‘ Trio ’ under the circumstances, which made him feel doubly guilty, I think, because you were already in Tunisia. Then he had his personal problems, as you probably know from Ina. But I know he would want me to write a line to you and say he is sorry, so herewith I do it. He simply couldn ’ t stand up to everything that was on his shoulders. I liked John very much and thought very highly of him, as I think everyone did who knew him. We all believed he had a great career coming. It is a shock to all of us, but especially to those who knew him well. I suppose you ’ ll be coming home now, and maybe you ’ ve already left, but I trust this can be forwarded to you.
    Yours sincerely,
    Peter Langland

    John Cas tl ewood had killed himself. Ingham walked to the window with the letter in his hand. The blue shutters were closed against the augmenting morning sun, but he stared at the shutters as if he could see through them. This was the end of the Tunisia expedition. How had John done it? A gun? Sleeping pills most likely. What a hell of a thing, Ingham thought. And why ? Well, he hadn ’ t known John well enough to guess. He remembered John ’ s face — always lively, usually smiling or grinning , pale below the neat, straight black hair. Maybe a trifle weak, that face. Or was that an after-thought? A weak beard, anyway, soft, pale skin. John hadn ’ t looked in the least depressed when Ingham had last seen him, at that last dinner in New York with Ina in a restaurant south of the Square. It had been the evening before the day Ingham caught the plane. ‘ You know where to go in Tunis for the car rental? ’ John had asked, making sure of the practical things as usual, and he had asked again if Ingham had packed the street map of Tunis and the Guide Bleu for Tunisia, both of which John had lent or given him.
    ‘F or Christ ’ s sake, ’ Ingham muttered. He walked up and down his room, and felt shattered. An anecdote of Adams ’ s drifted into his mind: Adams fishing on a small river (Connecticut? Indiana?) when he was ten years old, and bringing his line up with a human skull on the end of it, a skull so old ‘ it didn ’ t matter ’ , Adams had said, so he had never told his parents, who he had feared wouldn ’ t believe him, anyway. Adams had buried the skull, out of fear. Suddenly Ingham wanted the comfort of Adams ’ s presence. He thought of going over now to tell Adams the news. He decided against it.
    ‘ Good God .’ Ingham said, and went to his kitchen to pour himself a Scotch. The drink did not taste good at that hour, but it was a kind of rite, in Castlewood ’ s honour.
    He ’ d have to think now about starting home. Tell the hotel. See about a plane from Tunis to New York.
    Surely he ’ d hear from Ina today. Ingham looked at the calendar. The weekend Peter meant was the 10 th and 11 th of June. What the hell was happening over in the great, fast Western world? It was beginning to seem slower than Tunisia.
    Ingham went out and walked in the now empty driveway that curved towards the