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           Wewentintothesmoking-roomwhereacard-tablewassetout,andIwasofferedthingstosmokeanddrink.Itookmyplaceatthetableinakindofdream.Thewindowwasopenandthemoonwasfloodingthecliffsandseawithagreattideofyellowlight.Therewasmoonshine,too,inmyhead.Thethreehadrecoveredtheircomposure,andweretalkingeasily—justthekindofslangytalkyouwillhearinanygolfclub-house.Imusthavecutarumfigure,sittingthereknittingmybrowswithmyeyeswandering.

           Mypartnerwastheyoungdarkone.Iplayafairhandatbridge,butImusthavebeenrankbadthatnight.Theysawthattheyhadgotmepuzzled,andthatputthemmorethaneverattheirease.Ikeptlookingattheirfaces,buttheyconveyednothingtome.Itwasnotthattheylookeddifferent;theyweredifferent.IclungdesperatelytothewordsofPeterPienaar.

           Thensomethingawokeme.

           Theoldmanlaiddownhishandtolightacigar.Hedidn’tpickitupatonce,butsatbackforamomentinhischair,withhisfingerstappingonhisknees.

           ItwasthemovementIrememberedwhenIhadstoodbeforehiminthemoorlandfarm,withthepistolsofhisservantsbehindme.

           Alittlething,lastingonlyasecond,andtheoddswereathousandtoonethatImighthavehadmyeyesonmycardsatthetimeandmissedit.ButIdidn’t,and,inaflash,theairseemedtoclear.Someshadowliftedfrommybrain,andIwaslookingatthethreemenwithfullandabsoluterecognition.

           Theclockonthemantelpiecestruckteno’clock.