"Why do you think Titus Pompo is so careful to remain unseen and unknown?"
"I have often wondered."
Glawen provided the explanation.
At last Bodwyn Wook found his tongue.
"This may be the principal reason for Namour's hurry to leave. He is now demonstrated to be at least a passive co-conspirator in Ogmo Enterprises and the Thurben Island affair, and he would not escape stringent punishment: at least twenty years at Cape Journal. Perhaps worse. We will not see him at Araminta Station again. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a few melancholy details to arrange."
"At least Floreste will be drinking good wine' when the gas enters his cell."
"There are worse ways of dying. Do you have your information?"
"I am not allowed to look at it until sunset."
"It makes no difference now. Namour has flown the coop."
"Still, I'll honor Floreste's last wishes. I'd feel strange otherwise."
"Glawen, you are either overly sentimental or extremely superstitious, or both ... Upon reflection, perhaps here is the essential definition of 'honor."" "As to that, I can't say." Glawen turned away and departed the jail.
Glawen walked slowly down Wansey Way. Sunlight slanted through the trees along the riverbank, striking long pink blurs upon the road. Glawen looked over his shoulder. Syrene still hung its own diameter above the western hills; sunset was an hour away.
Glawen stopped to look into the Old Arbor. Late afternoon activity filled the air with the sound of lightheaned voices and muted laughter, somewhat at discord with Glawen's mood. In a far corner sat Kirdy, morose and alone, staring into nothingness.
Glawen had no present inclination for the Old Arbor. He continued down Wansey Way past the avenue leading up to Wook House, then a second similar avenue to Veder House, and a third to Clattuc House. Glawen paused and surveyed the familiar facade. Tomorrow he would look in to make sure that the work was going properly, without improvisations, shortcuts and that general scam ping of the job which Spanchetta would be sure to attempt.
His thoughts turned to Spanchetta. How intimately was she involved in Simonetta's machinations? How much, in fact, did she know? Certainly, with pious indignation, she would deny all knowledge. At the moment Glawen refused to so much as speculate. He looked toward Syrene, still a pink-orange globe not yet in contact with the hills. He tucked the envelope securely into the inside pocket of his jacket and continued down Wansey Way. He passed the lyceum, now still and quiet but reverberating with a multitude of memories. He looked across the river to the site of Floreste's projected new Orpheum. Floreste's account at the Bank of Mircea included Ogmo Enterprise funds, and Glawen laughed aloud.
The news of Floreste's final arrangements would bring consternation to Yipton.
Wansey Way joined Beach Road Highway. Glawen crossed the road and went down upon the beach. The surf was running high; a series of storms out at sea had generated massive swells; one after the other they rolled against the shore, to tumble and crash into foam.
Glawen went to stand where the sheets of hissing bubbles almost wet his feet. The envelope weighed in his pocket; he took it out and examined it on both sides, and read the inscription. The envelope was of excellent quality, fabricated of stiff glossy parchment, mottled tan and gray, of the sort used to enclose legal documents. Had Floreste intended to emphasize the significance of the message within? Hardly necessary, thought Glawen. Perhaps Floreste was merely indulging himself in a final dramatic flourish.
Or perhaps this was the only envelope he had on hand.
It made no great difference one way or the other, he thought, so long as the message within was explicit. Glawen forced his mind away from speculation and tucked the envelope back into the inner pocket of his jacket, and buttoned down the flap. He looked back at Syrene, now almost brushing the hills. At the edge of the road a man stood watching him. Glawen squinted against the sunlight, and his heart sank. The brooding posture was unmistakable. It was Kirdy, who apparently had followed him from the Old Arbor.
With careful steps Kirdy descended the slope from the road and picked his way across the sand, never taking his gaze from Glawen. Today he wore black garments: black breeches, low black boots, a black long-sleeved shirt and a broad-brimmed black hat. His pink face was set; his china-blue eyes were as empty as the eyes of a great dead fish.
Glawen looked right and left, up and down the beach. No other person was in sight. He and Kirdy were alone.
Glawen calculated his choices. The prudent course was to walk away, or, if necessary: run. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose from a confrontation with Kirdy.
Glawen sidled off along the beach. Kirdy altered his own course, angling to cut off Glawen's line of retreat, thus denning his intentions. They were sinister.
Kirdy moved closer on stealthy feet, as if by this tactic he hoped not to startle or alarm Glawen.
But Glawen's apprehensions were not so easily allayed and he continued to move away at a slant, down upon the wet sand where the footing was better, in the event that he chose to run--still a feasible if somewhat embarrassing option.
Glawen moved more briskly, but Kirdy sprang to cut him off.
Kirdy seemed to be grinning; the tips of his big white teeth were visible between his drawn-back lips.
Glawen halted. At his back a ponderous mass of water tumbled over with a thundering crash; foam surged up the shore.
Glawen had often played among the breakers and felt no fear of the surf. Kirdy, however, was a weak swimmer who hated and feared the sea; he must shortly tire of the game and depart, with whatever satisfaction he could find from having chased Glawen into the surf.
In fascination Glawen watched the twitching muscles in Kirdy's cheeks. Surely Kirdy would turn and march away rather than approach the dreadful deep water any more closely.
Kirdy indeed paused and gazed out over the sea. His jaw sagged and the grin abruptly left his face. The foam advanced, wetting Glawen's feet. Kirdy drew fastidiously back. The foam receded,;
leaving an expanse of clear wet sand which Kirdy found irresistible. He cast caution to the wind and charged in a lumbering rush, arms raised to grapple Glawen and bear him down to where he could be properly controlled and dealt with.
Glawen jumped back through the incoming surf and stopped to watch as the foam washed up over Kirdy's heavy shins. Kirdy frowned in vast distaste, but nevertheless splashed forward in graceless splayfooted jumps, convinced that finally Glawen was trapped where he dared retreat no farther. Glawen must now start to reason with him, or even to plead for moderation. That would be rich entertainment for a fact!
But Glawen was not yet ready to beg for mercy, and stood just beyond Kirdy's reach. Kirdy lunged, but again Glawen backed away, step by step, with the foam now swirling and bubbling around his legs. Kirdy splashed recklessly in pursuit. Glawen remained maddeningly a few yards beyond his reach. Would he never stop and take what was coming to him?
Close at his back was the dim deep water where one sank forever and at last, still living, became putrid gray slime!
Glawen seemed oblivious to the danger. But now he could go no farther! Kirdy moved grimly forward to catch him.
The new surge raced shoreward past Kirdy, wetting him to the belly. He stopped short. Glawen, now less than three yards to seaward, scooped water into Kirdy's face. Kirdy blinked and gave his head a furious shake.
The foam receded, sucking and pulling; Glawen and Kirdy were tugged a few steps down the beach. The water ebbed; Glawen stood close at hand, and Kirdy, maddened, made a spraddle-legged dive but came up short; Glawen had moved smartly away. Kirdy gained his footing, but now he had lost his hat.
A great swell toppled and crashed; Kirdy was distracted and awed. The foam thrust at Glawen; he braced his feet and held his position;
