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now that the change has been made. In that case he would hide your camera lest he should be identified as the owner of the camera with the Toulon photographs in it. There is also the possibility,” he added dreamily, “that he might try to get his own camera back again. You must be on the watch for that.”
    “You don’t put this suggestion forward seriously?”
    He glanced at me coldly.
    “Believe me, my friend, if I had any alternative I should be glad. You do not seem to me very intelligent.”
    “But I am under arrest. Surely,” I said acidly, “you will not be able to persuade the Commissaire to release me?”
    “You will remain under arrest, but you will be released on parole. Only Köche knows of your arrest. We visited your room. He did not like it, but it was explained that it was anaffair of passports and that you had given permission. You will state that there was a misunderstanding and that you were detained by mistake. You will report to me by telephone here every morning. Telephone from the post office in the village. If you wish to find me at any other time you will telephone to the Commissaire.”
    “But I have to leave on Saturday morning for Paris. I am expected to start the new term on Monday.”
    “You will stay until you have permission to go. Also you will make no attempt to get into touch with anyone outside the Réserve except the police.”
    A sickening sense of helplessness crept over me.
    “I shall lose my job.”
    Beghin got up and stood over me.
    “Listen, Vadassy,” he said; and in his absurd voice there was an ugly note far more menacing than the Commissaire’s bluster. “You will stay at the Réserve until you are told to go. If you try to leave before then, you will be re-arrested and I shall make it my personal business to see that you are deported by steamer to Dubrovnik and that your dossier is handed to the Yugoslav police. And get this into your head. The quicker we find out who took those photographs the sooner you can go. But don’t try any tricks and don’t write any letters. Either you do what you are told or you will be deported. You will be very lucky if you avoid deportation, anyway. So be careful. You understand, eh?”
    I did—clearly.
    An hour later I walked back along the road from the Commissariat to the village. The Contax was slung over my shoulder. When I put my hand in my pocket I could feel a smallpiece of paper with a list of the guests at the Réserve typed on it.
    Köche was in his office when I got there. As I passed by to go to my room he came out. He was in blue jeans, sandals, and a
maillot
, and, to judge from his wet hair, had just been swimming. With his tall, thin, stooping figure and his sleepy manner he looked very unmanagerial.
    “Ah, Monsieur,” he said with a faint smile. “You are back. Nothing serious, I hope. The police came here this morning. They said they had your permission to take your passport.”
    I looked as disgruntled as I could.
    “No, nothing serious. A question of identity and a mistake which they took a fantastic time to discover. They were apologetic, but what can one do? The French police are wholly ridiculous.”
    He looked serious, professed amazement and indignation, complimented me on my forbearance. He was clearly unconvinced. I could scarcely blame him. I was feeling too weak to play the outraged citizen with any hope of success.
    “By the way, Monsieur,” he said casually, as I made for the stairs, “it is Saturday morning that you are leaving, I believe?”
    So he wanted to get rid of me. I affected to consider the question.
    “I had thought of doing so,” I said; “but I may decide to stay a day or two longer. That is,” I added, with a wintry smile, “if the police have no objection.”
    He hesitated barely a second.
    “A pleasure,” he said, but without enthusiasm.
    As I turned again to go, it may have been my fancy, but I thought that his eyes were on the camera.

4
    I find it difficult now to