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Chapter 3

           IpicturedaflightacrosstheKalaharitoGermanAfrica,thecrackling,parchingdays,thewonderfulblue-velvetnights.Idescribedanattackonmylifeonthevoyagehome,andImadeareallyhorridaffairofthePortlandPlacemurder.“You’relookingforadventure,”Icried;“well,you’vefoundithere.Thedevilsareafterme,andthepoliceareafterthem.It’saracethatImeantowin.”

           “ByGod!”hewhispered,drawinghisbreathinsharply,“itisallpureRiderHaggardandConanDoyle.”

           “Youbelieveme,”Isaidgratefully.

           “OfcourseIdo,”andheheldouthishand.“Ibelieveeverythingoutofthecommon.Theonlythingtodistrustisthenormal.”

           Hewasveryyoung,buthewasthemanformymoney.

           “Ithinkthey’reoffmytrackforthemoment,butImustliecloseforacoupleofdays.Canyoutakemein?”

           Hecaughtmyelbowinhiseagernessanddrewmetowardsthehouse.“Youcanlieassnughereasifyouwereinamoss-hole.I’llseethatnobodyblabs,either.Andyou’llgivemesomemorematerialaboutyouradventures?”

           AsIenteredtheinnporchIheardfromfaroffthebeatofanengine.TheresilhouettedagainsttheduskyWestwasmyfriend,themonoplane.

           Hegavemearoomatthebackofthehouse,withafineoutlookovertheplateau,andhemademefreeofhisownstudy,whichwasstackedwithcheapeditionsofhisfavouriteauthors.Ineversawthegrandmother,soIguessedshewasbedridden.AnoldwomancalledMargitbroughtmemymeals,andtheinnkeeperwasaroundmeatallhours.

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