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By Root 8904 0

recognized, to some fraction of his being? And he saw dimly too how Yvonne's arrival, the snake in the garden, his quarrel with Laruelle and later with Hugh and Yvonne, the infernal machine, the encounter with Señora Gregorio, the finding of the letters, and much beside, how all the events of the day indeed had been as indifferent tufts of grass he had half-heartedly clutched at or stones loosed on his downward flight, which were still showering on him from above. The Consul produced his blue package of cigarettes with the wings on them: Alas! He raised his head again; no, he was where he was, there was nowhere to fly to. And it was as if a black dog had settled on his back, pressing him to his seat.

The Chief of Gardens and the Chief of Rostrums were still waiting by the telephone, perhaps for the right number. Probably they would be calling the Inspector-General: but what if they'd forgotten him, the Consul--what if they weren't phoning about him at all? He remembered his dark glasses he had removed to read Yvonne's letters and, some fatuous notion of disguise crossing his mind, put them on. Behind him the Chief of Municipality was still engrossed; now once more, he could go. With the aid of his dark glasses, what could be simpler? He could go--only he needed another drink; one for the road. Moreover he realized he was wedged in by a solid mass of people and that, to make matters worse, a man sitting at the bar next him wearing a dirty sombrero on the back of his head and a cartridge belt hanging low down his trousers had clutched him by the arm affectionately; it was the pimp, the stool pigeon, of the mingitorio. Hunched in almost precisely the same posture as before, he had apparently been talking to him for the last five minutes.

"My friend for my," he was babbling. "All dees men nothing for you, or for me. All dees men--nothing for you, or for me! All dees men, son of a bitch... Sure, you Englisman!" He clutched the Consul's arm more firmly. "All my! Mexican men: all tine Englisman, my friend, Mexican! I don't care son of a bitch American: no good for you, or for me, my Mexican all tine, all tine, all tine--eh?--"

The Consul withdrew his arm but was immediately clutched on his left by a man of uncertain nationality, cross-eyed with drink, who resembled a sailor. "You limey," he stated flatly, swivelled round his stool. "I'm from the county of Pope," yelled this unknown man, very slowly, putting his arm now through the Consul's. "What do you think? Mozart was the man what writ the Bible. You're here to the off down there. Man here, on the earth, shall be equal. And let there be tranquillity. Tranquillity means peace. Peace on earth, of all men--"

The Consul freed himself: the pimp clutched him again. Almost for succour, he gazed about him. The Chief of Municipality was still engaged. In the bar the Chief of Rostrums was telephoning once more; Sanabria stood at his elbow directing. Squeezed against the pimp's chair another man the Consul took for American, who was continually squinting over his shoulder as though expecting somebody, was saying to no one in especial: "Winchester! Hell, that's something else. Don't tell me. Righto! The Black Swan is in Winchester. They captured me on the German side of the camp and at the same side of the place where they captured me is a girls' school. A girl teacher. She gave it to me. And you can take it. And you can have it."

"Ah," said the pimp, still clutching the Consul. He was speaking across him, half to the sailor. "My friend--was a matter for you? My looking for you all tine. My England man, all tine, all tine, sure, sure. Excu. This man telling me my friend for you all tine. You like he?--This man very much money. This man--right or wrong, sure; Mexican is my friend or Ingles. American god damn son of a bitch for you or for me, or for any tine."

The Consul was drinking with these macabre people inextricably. When he gazed round on this occasion he met, cognizant of him, the Chief of Municipality's hard little cruel eyes. He gave up trying to understand what the illiterate