‘Keep him covered,’ he murmured. ‘Prenderby, old boy, you’d better walk behind us. We don’t know what their little game is yet.’
They advanced slowly – absurdly, Abbershaw could not help thinking – on that vast open salting, miles from anywhere.
Whitby was still the harassed, scared-looking little man who had come to ask Abbershaw for his assistance on that fateful night at Black Dudley. He was, if anything, a little more composed now than then, and he greeted them affably.
‘Well, here we are, aren’t we?’ he said, and paused. ‘What do you want?’
Martin Watt opened his mouth to speak; he had a very clear notion of what he wanted and was anxious to explain it.
Abbershaw cut him short, however.
‘A word or two of conversation, Doctor,’ he said.
The little man blinked at him dubiously.
‘Why, yes, of course,’ he said, ‘of course. I should hate to disappoint you. You’ve come a long way for it, haven’t you?’
He was so patently nervous that in spite of themselves they could not get away from the thought that they were very unfairly matched.