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endowed La Comtesse in his

too-frequent mentions of her in the staff-room he stuck to the French with all those qualities of

beauty and nobility he had never encountered outside his books, but which had to exist somewhere.

Certainly the Château existed. Glodstone had looked it up in his Michelin map for Périgord and

found it apparently standing above the river, La Boose, a tributary of the Dordogne. A narrow

road ran down beside the river and the hillsides opposite were coloured green which meant they

were forested. It had often occurred to him to take the Bentley and find some excuse for dropping

in but...Anyway, there was no point in pining over her. There was doubtless some damned Frog,

Monsieur Le Comte, in attendance.
    But that evening, after a restless day, he went up to his rooms early and sat sucking a pipe,

studying the map again and turning over La Comtesse's brief letters to him. Then he folded them

carefully away and replaced them in the cigar-box he kept in his desk before knocking out his

pipe on the window sill and turning in.
    'Damn Slymne,' he muttered as he lay in the darkness.
    He would have damned him far more had he seem Mr Slymne move from the roof of the chapel

opposite and descend the circular steps holding his camera carefully with his left hand while

feeling the wall with his right. He paused at the bottom, made sure the quad was empty, and

crossed to the Tower with the camera and 300mm lens concealed under his jacket. Ten minutes

later, after locking himself in his bathroom and pulling the dark blind over the window, he had

loaded the developing tank.
    For Peregrine, the strange contortions of character in Glodstone and Slymne were too complex

to be noticeable. He took them as usual quite literally at face value and since Glodstone's face

with its neat moustache, monocle and glass eye gave the impression of strength and authority,

while Slymne's didn't, he despised the latter. Besides, he enjoyed a man-to-man friendliness with

Glodstone as a result of his enthusiastic reading of every book in his library, to the present

where he was allowed to help to polish the Bentley on wet Sunday afternoons. There in the garage

with rain pattering on the glass cupola above them (the place had once been a coach-house with a

few old bridles still hanging on the walls) he imbibed the code of the English gentleman which

was Glodstone's special mania. He had already merged Richard Hannay, Bulldog Drummond and every

other upstanding hero, including James Bond, into a single figure in his mind and had conferred

their virtues on Mr Glodstone. In fact, his reading had gone further than Gloddie's which stopped

around 1930. James Bond was one such character. Glodstone wasn't too sure about Bond.
    'The thing is,' he told Peregrine one afternoon when they had unstrapped the bonnet of the

Bentley and were polishing the great engine, 'The thing is with Bond that he's not your everyday

decent chap who gets caught up in an adventure quite by chance. He's a sort of paid government

employee and anyway his attitude to women's pretty rotten and sordid. And he's always flying

about and gambling and generally living it up. Not a gentleman, what?'
    'No sir,' said Peregrine and struck Bond off his list.
    Glodstone sat down on the running-board and took out his pipe. 'I mean to say, it's his job to

deal with crime. The damned fellow is a professional. He's told what to do and he has official

backing. Now the real thing isn't like that. It happens accidentally. A chap is driving along and

he stops for a breather and he sees murder done and naturally he has to do something about it,

and by Jove he does. Takes the swine on outside the law and if he gets caught that's the luck of

the draw. And another thing is, he's as fit as a fiddle and he sticks to the countryside which he

knows like the back of his hand and your genuine crooks don't. That's the way it really