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looking elsewhere with one eye: it gave him an effect of appalling casualness, as if he only needed half a mind in order to destroy. He followed up without science at all, smashing out – not seeking a quick victory so much as just pain and blood. D.’s hands were useless; he made no attempt to hit back (his mind remained a victim of the horror and indignity of the physical conflict), and he didn’t know the right way to defend himself. The chauffeur battered him; D. thought with desperation – they’ll have to stop soon: they don’t want murder. He went down under a blow. The manager said, ‘Get up, you skunk, no shamming,’ and as he got to his feet he thought he saw his wallet in L.’s hands. Thank God, he thought, I hid the papers: they can’t batter the socks off me. The chauffeur waited till he got up, and then knocked him against the hedge. He took a step back and waited, grinning. D. could see with difficulty and his mouth was full of blood; his heart was jumping and he thought with reckless pleasure – the damned fools, they will kill me. That would be worth while, and with his last vitality he came back out of the hedge and struck out at the chauffeur’s belly. ‘Oh, the swine,’ he heard the manager cry, ‘hitting below the belt. Go on. Finish him.’ He went down again before a fist which felt like a steel-capped boot. He had an odd impression that someone was saying ‘seven, eight, nine’.
    One of them had undone his coat. For a moment he believed he was at home, buried in the cellar with the rubble and a dead cat. Then he remembered – and his mind retained a stray impression of fingers which lingered round his shirt, looking for something. Sight returned and he saw the chauffeur’s face very big and very close. He had a sense of triumph: it was he who had really won this round. He smiled satirically up at the chauffeur.
    The manager said, ‘Is he all right?’
    â€˜Oh, he’s all right, sir,’ the chauffeur said.
    â€˜Well,’ the manager said, ‘I hope it’s been a lesson to you.’ D. got, with some difficulty, on to his feet; he realised with surprise that the manager was embarrassed – he was like a prefect who has caned a boy and finds the situation afterwards less clear-cut. He turned his back on D. and said, ‘Come on. Let’s get going. I’ll take Miss Cullen’s car.’
    â€˜Will you give me a lift?’ D. said.
    â€˜A lift! I should damn well think not. You can hoof it.’
    â€˜Then perhaps your friend will give me back my coat.’
    â€˜Go and get it,’ the manager said.
    D. walked to the ditch where his coat lay; he couldn’t remember leaving it there near L.’s car – and his wallet too. He stooped and as he painfully straightened again he saw the girl – she had been sitting all the time in the back of L.’s Daimler. Again he felt suspicion widen to include the whole world – was she an agent too? But, of course, it was absurd; she was still drunk: she hadn’t an idea of what it all meant any more than the absurd Captain Currie. The zip-fastener of his wallet was undone; it always stuck when pulled open, and whoever had been looking inside had not had time to close it again. He held the wallet up to the window of the car and said, ‘You see. These people are very thorough. But they haven’t got what they wanted.’ She looked back at him through the glass with disgust; he realised that he was still bleeding heavily.
    The manager said, ‘Leave Miss Cullen alone.’
    He said gently, ‘It’s only a few teeth gone. A man of my age must expect to lose his teeth. Perhaps we shall meet at Gwyn Cottage.’ She looked hopelessly puzzled, staring back at him. He put his hands to his hat – but he had no hat: it must have dropped somewhere in the road. He said, ‘You must excuse me now. I have a