He has escaped. ‘Here you, Pottiswick. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. Clear water gave away to gray as she waded deeper, feeling her slippers on rock. Between him and the beach stood the sum of six hundred dollars. He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger.
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