Chapter Seven
O n the evening of 19th November Canon Pennyfather had finished an early dinner at the Athenaeum, he had noddedto one or two friends, had had a pleasant acrimonious¹ discussion on some crucial points of the dating of the Dead SeaScrolls and now, glancing at his watch, saw that it was time to leave to catch his plane to Lucerne. As he passedthrough the hall he was greeted by one more friend: Dr. Whittaker of the SOAS, who said cheerfully:
“How are you, Pennyfather? Haven’t seen you for a long time. How did you get on at the Congress? Any points ofinterest come up?”
“I am sure there will be.”
“Just come back from it, haven’t you?”
“No, no, I am on my way there. I’m catching² a plane this evening.”
“Oh I see.” Whittaker looked slightly puzzled. “Somehow or other I thought the Congress was today.”
“No, no. Tomorrow, the 19th.”
Canon Pennyfather passed out through the door while his friend, looking after him, was just saying:
“But my dear chap, today is the 19th, isn’t it?”
Canon Pennyfather, however, had gone beyond earshot. He picked up a taxi in Pall³ Mall, and was driven to the airterminal in Kensington. There was quite a fair crowd this evening. Presenting himself at the desk it at last came to histurn. He managed to produce ticket and passport and other necessities for the journey. The girl behind the desk, aboutto stamp these credentials⁴, paused abruptly⁵.
“I beg your pardon, sir, this seems to be the wrong ticket.”
“The wrong ticket? No, no, that is quite right. Flight one hundred and—well, I can’t really read without my glasses—one hundred and something to Lucerne.”
“It’s the date, sir. This is dated Wednesday the 18th.”
“No, no, surely. At least—I mean—today is Wednesday the 18th.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Today is the 19th.”
“The 19th!” The Canon was dismayed. He fished out a small diary, turning the pages eagerly. In the end he had tobe convinced. Today was the 19th. The plane he had meant to catch had gone yesterday.

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