II
Ginger¹ sat opposite me at a table in the White Cockatoo where we hadmet for a drink. She looked refreshingly² the same as she had looked atMuch Deeping—a tousled mop of red hair, an engaging freckled³ face andalert green eyes. She was wearing her London artistic⁴ livery of skintightpants, a Sloppy⁵ Joe jersey⁶ and black woollen stockings—but otherwise shewas the same Ginger. I liked her very much.
“I’ve had to do a lot of work to track you down,” I said. “Your surnameand your address and your telephone number—all unknown. I’ve got aproblem.”
“That’s what my daily always says. It usually means that I have to buyher a new saucepan scourer⁷ or a carpet brush, or something dull.”
“You don’t have to buy anything,” I assured her.
Then I told her. It didn’t take quite so long as the story I had told to Her-mia, because she was already familiar with the Pale Horse and its occu-pants. I averted⁸ my eyes from her as I finished the tale. I didn’t want to seeher reaction. I didn’t want to see indulgent amusement, or stark⁹ incredu-lity. The whole thing sounded more idiotic¹⁰ than ever. No one (except Mrs.
Dane Calthrop) could possibly feel about it as I felt. I drew patterns on theplastic tabletop with a stray fork.
Ginger’s voice came briskly.
“That’s all, is it?”
“That’s all,” I admitted.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“You think— I should do something about it?”

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