I sat on a hilltop and thought about my next move. I wasn't very happy, because although I had escaped, I was feeling very ill. The smoke had been very unpleasant, and the day on the roof had made things worse. I had a terrible headache, and my arm hurt so badly that I could not move it.

It was a clear, starry night and easy to find my way across the hills. I thought I was probably about thirty kilometres from Mr Turnbull's house, so I could not get there in one night. I would have to hide somewhere for the day. When it started to get light, I stopped to wash in a river and then knocked on the door of a small house. I told the woman who lived there that I had had a bad fall, and she could see that I was not well. She gave me some milk and whisky. She also gave me an old coat and hat of her husband's. I now looked like every other Scotsman, and felt safer.

I decided to go back to Mr Turnbull's house and find my clothes and Scudder's notebook. Then I would take a train to the south. The sooner I met Sir Harry's friend in the government, Sir Walter Bullivant, the better. I hoped he would believe my story, but, even if he did not, I would be safer with him, or even the British police, than with those men at the farmhouse.

"What are you doing here at this time on a Sunday morning?"

It started to rain, and I spent the afternoon under a rock. That night was the most miserable of all. There were no stars, and I got lost a least twice. I had about fifteen kilometres more to go, but I think I walked thirty. In the end, in the very early morning, in a thick fog, I knocked on Mr Turnbull's door.

Mr Turnbull opened the door wearing an old black suit and a tie. At first he did not recognize me.

My head was so bad that I could not answer for a moment, but then he recognized me, and saw that I was ill.

"Have you got my glasses?" he asked.

I realized that my malaria had come back. I had had malaria in Africa, and it returned sometimes, The smoke, my arm, the wet and the cold had probably not helped. Soon, Mr Turnbull was helping me into a bed.

I took them out of my pocket and gave them to him.

"You want your clothes," he said. "Come in. You're not looking well at all. Come and sit down."

He was a good friend, that roadman. He took care of me for ten days, until my fever had gone and my arm was much better. He went out to work every day, locking the door, and in the evening he sat by the fire. He asked no questions, but on some days he brought me a newspaper, and I saw that the excitement over the Langham Place murder was over.

One day he gave me my money back. "There's a lot of money there. You'd better count it and see if it's all there."

I slept on the train until early morning. Then I changed trains two or three times. At about eight o'clock in the evening I arrived at the small station at Artinswell, to the west of London. The road led through a wood into a green valley. Soon I came to a bridge and looked down into the river, whistling the song"Annie Laurie".

I walked the twenty kilometres to the station in a day. The train to London did not leave until night, so I rested in the heather until it arrived. I was very happy to be in the train, and on the way south.

A fisherman walked up from the river, and as he got near to me, he started to whistle the same song. He was a big man in old clothes and a wide hat. He smiled at me, and I looked at his kind, intelligent face.

I wanted to move as soon as possible, but it was not until the 12th of June that I felt well enough to go. I made Turnbull accept some money for my food, but it was difficult.

I did as he asked, and found the back door open and a servant waiting.

"It's a good idea to know your own name," he said, smiling.

"Look, over there, near those plants."

Then he pointed to a house by the river and said quietly,"Wait five minutes, then come to the back door." He walked

"No," I said. "I mean yes." I had forgotten the name I had given Sir Harry.

The servant left, and I sat down. I was very surprised, but also delighted, Sir Walter clearly believed that I was not a murderer, although when I looked at myself in the mirror, I thought I looked very much like one.

"Oh yes, I can see him now. He looks like a black stone."

I looked at him again and began to think that this kind, intelligent man would be a real ally at last.

He whistled again, then paused. "Your name's Twisdon, isn't it?"

"Come this way, sir," he said, and took me to a bedroom. There were clothes waiting for me, and shaving things. "There's a bathroom next door. Dinner is in half an hour."

"I can't see him," I said.

"The water's clear, isn't it?" he said. "Look at that big fish lying on the bottom. I've been trying to catch him all evening."

Sir Walter was waiting for me in the dining room. I decided I must tell him the truth about myself immediately.

I had a bath and shaved and put on the clothes. When I had finished, I looked in the mirror again. This time I saw a completely different young man.

"I must thank you very much, but I must make something clear," I said. "I'm not a murderer, but the police want me. If you'd like me to leave, I'll leave now."

He smiled. "That's all right. We won't let it stop us eating. Let's talk after dinner."

I told him the whole story, from the night I came home and found Scudder at my door. I told him what Scudder had told me about Karolides, and saw him smile once or twice. Then I told him about the murder, and the milkman, and Scotland, and Scudder's notebook.

The food and wine were excellent. After dinner we went to the sitting-room for coffee and he looked at me.

I've done what Harry asked me to do," he said. "He told me you'd tell me a story to wake me up it I did. So what is your story, Mr Hannay?"

I notoced that he was using my real name.

"The letter was written and posted on the 23rd. His letters usually went to Spaim and then Newcastle, so they took a week to arrive."

I said nothing about what I had read in Scudder's notes. Then I told him about my meeting with Sir Harry, and he laughed. My day as a roadman interested him. He made me describe the two men in the car, and seemed to be thinking hard. Then he laughed again at my adventure with Marmaduke Jopley. When I described the old man in the farmhouse, he stopped smiling.

"But he'd been dead for a week by then."

"You don't need to worry about the police," he said. "They don't want you any more."

"Old, bald, and hoods his eyes like a hawk. I don't like the sound of him. And you blew up his house. You're a brave man."

"How?"

"You've got it here?" he asked, and looked pleased when I took it from my pocket.

"No. But they know it's not you."

"Have they arrested the murderer?"

"Because I heard from Scudder. I knew him a bit. He was astrange man, but he was honest. I had a letter from him on the 31st of May."

I reached the end of my story. He stood up, by the fire, and looked down at me.

"What did he say?"

You can imagine that I felt ten times better. I was a free man, and my only enemies were my country's enemies.

"That he was in danger. He said he was living in Langham Place, and that he was with a good friend. I think he wanted to help you in case he was murdered. When I got the letter, I went to Scotland Yard and talked to the police."

"Now, let's see this notebook," said Sir Walter.

It took us an hour to work through it. I explained the code and he understood very quickly. When we had finished, he sat silent for a while.

"I don't understand all of this," he said at last. "He's right about one thing, and that is the meeting on the 15th. How can anyone have discovered about that? But all this about war and the Black Stone -- it's very strange. Scudder did like to make things seem important and exciting."

"The Black Stone," he repeated. "It's like a cheap detective story. And all this about Karolides can't be true. Karolides will be alive when we're both dead. No, Scudder's wrong there. There are some unpleasant things going on. Scudder found something out and got killed for it. But all this about stealing the Navy's war plans…I can't really believe it."

"There's a telephone call from London for you, sir."

Sir Walter went out. He came back five minutes later with a white face. "I apologize to Scudder," he whispered, and then looked at me. "Karolides was shot dead at seven o'clock this evening."

Just then, the servant came into the room.