“You’re about my height. Lend me the oldest tweed suit you’ve got.

 

Anything will do, so long as the colour is the opposite of the clothes I

destroyed this afternoon. Then show me a map of the neighbourhood and explain to

me the lie of the land. Lastly, if the police come seeking me, just show them

the car in the glen. If the other lot turn up, tell them I caught the south

express after your meeting.”

 

He did, or promised to do, all these things. I shaved off the remnants of my

moustache, and got inside an ancient suit of what I believe is called heather

mixture. The map gave me some notion of my whereabouts, and told me the two

things I wanted to know—where the main railway to the south could be joined, and

what were the wildest districts near at hand.