It was a duplicate of the one on Foster's finger.
The publican pulled the battered Morris Minor to the side of the highway and set the brake.
"This is as close as we best take the machine," he said. We got out, looked across the rolling plain where the megaliths of Stonehenge loomed against the last glow of sunset.
The publican rummaged in the boot, produced a ragged blanket and two long four-cell flashlights, gave one to Foster and the other to me. "Do nae use the electric torches until I tell ye," he said, "lest the whole county see there's folks abroad here." We watched as he draped the blanket over a barbed wire fence, clambered over, and started across the barren field. Foster and I followed, not talking.
The plain was deserted. A few lonely lights showed on a distant slope. It was a dark night with no moon. I could hardly see the ground ahead. A car moved along a distant road, its headlights bobbing.
We moved past the outer ring of stones, skirting fallen slabs twenty feet long.
"We'll break our necks," I said. "Let's have one of the flashlights."
"Not yet," Foster whispered.
Our guide paused; we came up to him.