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across the wet fields to The Parson’s Nose, already preoccupied with the problems of his mission. Septimus and his buxom wife greeted and made much of him and he found that they had given him the best bedroom.
    He spent a happy hour playing darts in the tap-room with his village acquaintances before confronting the kind of dinner for which Septimus was famous. Then he read for a while before turning in, full of an unhurried contentment. The book was Walden which he never tired of; a little India-paper edition which he always carried when he was out in the wilds and out of which he had evolved a laborious private code for keeping in touch with Dombey. Indeed he had first selected the book as a code-book, only to fall under its spell after many re-readings in solitary places.
    He lay for a long time that night in the darkness, listening to the deep stillness of the English countryside and gathering himself together for the new mission which he knew would tax his resources to the utmost. Somewhere a nightingale sang softly, with a magical lazy clarity. The scent of honeysuckle came in at the open windows, and he could hear the soft whisper of rain in the leaves outside the window-sill. Ah! the familiar luxury of England! Why was one such a fool, to trade it against the chances of a nameless grave in an Asiatic swamp or on a Bosnian mountain?
    For a wild moment he thought of ringing Dombey up and telling him: “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going on to the retired list for good. I’ll stay right here in Ravenswood until I die.” The longing was so great that he even rose on one elbow in the dark and reached out towards the telephone by his bed; but he knew in his heart of hearts that he would never lift the receiver off its hook. He must go on this new mission. Yet to assuage the thought of telephoning he got out of bed and rang up Boris. The wig-maker’s voice sounded remote and crackly, and was half-submerged in a buzz of talk. “I have some friends here,” he explained. “But your fancy dress is delivered this morning. I hope it fits you. Sbogom, my dear fellow.”
    â€œ Sbogom ,” said Methuen and the word (“Go with God”) took him back once more to those remote mountain fastnesses where the golden eagle brooded and where the deep swift rivers rushed between wooded banks on their way to the sea. Smiling, he fell asleep.

CHAPTER FOUR
    The Journey Begins

    L ondon in the grey early morning looked unbelievably lovely. From the window of his loitering taxi Methuen let his eye rest briefly and lovingly on the familiar landmarks etched from the grey morning mist and felt once more the nostalgic tug of England which always afflicted him most when he was about to leave her. Passing St. James’s Park he cried: “Stop a moment,” and for a few minutes walked on the green grass beside the road. There was a heavy dew, even for early June, and as he stood looking around him Big Ben struck imperiously from the misty confines of the river.
    When he reached Victoria he found he had some time in hand and swallowed a dreadful cup of tea in the buffet as he read an early morning edition. An item caught his eye for a moment among the general welter of type. “Yugoslav exiles to buy submarine.” It was an item barely four lines in length which stated that the exiled Royalists in Paris had completed negotiations for the purchase of a submarine from Argentina. There did not seem to be any particular significance in it. A submarine would be of little use to an exiled government which owned neither Army or Navy. Did they blithely imagine that they were going to sail about the Mediterranean potting at Communist shipping in the Adriatic?
    He was extremely touched to find Dombey waiting for him at the barrier, looking more than ever like an owl and wrapped in a huge vague overcoat. “I wanted to see you off,” he said. “I am really touched, Dombey,” said