Michael nodded. He walked down the flagged passage into the garden, and, as he did so, slipped a Browning from his hip, pressed down the safety-catch, and dropped the pistol into his jacket pocket.
He disappeared, and five minutes later Knebworth saw him pacing the garden path, and went out to him.
“Did you see anything?”
“Nothing in the garden. You must have been mistaken.”
“But didn’t you see him?”
Michael hesitated.
“I thought I saw something,” he said with an assumption of carelessness. “When are you going to shoot those night pictures of yours?”
“You saw something, Brixan—was it a face?”
Mike Brixan nodded.