‘Don’t know. From some Theosophist woman who talked to the W.R.I, last autumn, I should think.’
Why should he mind Tommy’s knowing? There was nothing shameful about it. If he were a paralysed syphilitic he would accept Tommy’s help and sympathy. Why should he want to keep from Tommy’s knowledge the fact that he was sweating with terror because of something that didn’t exist? Perhaps he could cheat? Perhaps he could just ask Tommy to stop for a little while he admired the view?
Here was the birch wood. At least he had lasted that far.
He would make it the bit of road level with the bend of the river. He would make the excuse of having a look at the water. Much more plausible than looking at the view. Tommy would look with alacrity at a river and only with passive protest at a view.
About fifty seconds more. One, two, three, four….
Now.
‘We lost two sheep in that pool this winter,’ Tommy said, sweeping past the bend.
Too late.
What other excuse could he make? He was too near Clune now for excuses to be easy to find.
He could not even light a cigarette in case his hands were shaking too much.