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Lucky Adam Gordon

Adam Fallström Gordon had come to Mexico to collect material for a book.

He had recently made a big name as a writer of unusual adventure stories with authentic historical backgrounds. The adventures were the product of his mind, so it was background material for which he had come in search. But Fate plays many a strange trick and, before he was much older, he was soon to find himself, all against his will, the central figure in a series of situations more desperate than any he could have thought up.

He had arrived in Mexico City in the early hours of the previous morning and on this, his first evening, he was sampling high-life in the roof restaurant on the fourteenth floor of the Del Paseo Hotel. The big room was dimly lit; three sides of it consisted of plate-glass windows. Through them, owing to the crystal-clear air up there at seven thousand five hundred feet, could be seen the million twinkling lights that at night turned the city into a fairy-land stretching for miles.

A small band played soft, seductive music. Immaculate waiters moved softly from table to table occupied by fashionably-dressed women and prosperous-looking men. Although it was past eleven o’clock, most of them had only just started dinner—because upper-class Mexicans keep Spanish hours. Many of the women were strikingly good-looking. Here and there, a table light glinted on their diamonds, emeralds or rubies. It was a scene of grande-luxe that could not have been surpassed anywhere in Europe.

Adam Gordon was twenty-eight. As he looked about him while waiting for his first course of avocado pear filled with minute eels, he felt that in fourteen years he had come a long, long way from the poor fishing village on the east coast of Scotland where he had been born, and that, perhaps, his friends were right in nicknaming him ‘Lucky’ Gordon.

But none of them knew the whole of his story. They based their assessment of him on his recent good fortune and, no doubt, were a little envious of his physical attributes; for he had a good brain, a fine body and had never known a day’s illness. He was not a giant, but he stood six foot three in his socks, with broad shoulders, and his hands were so strong that he could bend an iron bar. He was fair-skinned and freckled, had pale-blue eyes a little on the small side, a straight nose, good teeth, and thick, red-gold hair which waved despite his efforts to brush it flat. His firm chin was also covered with short, crisp, red-gold hair, for he had grown a beard while doing his National Service in the Royal Navy and had decided to keep it. In his Navy days his mates had nicknamed him ‘the Viking’, and that had been truly apt, as he had inherited strong strains of Norse blood from both his mother and father.

From his late teens onward, wherever he went his striking appearance attracted the interest of girls and women. Several of them at nearby tables had been casting covert glances at him ever since he had entered the restaurant, but for some time past he had deliberately ignored such overtures. For him women, in the persons of both Polly and Mildred, had meant only brief periods of enjoyment followed by bitter disenchantment. Finding that absorption in his work enabled him to do without romantic attachments, he had made up his mind not to let himself become involved again.

Unlucky as he had been in love, he had certainly been lucky in other ways—extraordinarily lucky—because Fate had played him a number of really scurvy tricks that had looked like destroying for good any prospect of his advancement. Yet, after each had come an entirely unexpected break, lifting him from the rut in which it seemed he had foundered.

He had arrived in Mexico City only very late the previous night and had no introductions; so he was dining alone. While he drank his daiquiri cocktail he amused himself by recalling the strange seesaw of events which, interspersed with spells of desperate poverty, had now brought him to affluence.

                            

Adam’s father, Jamie Gordon, had come from Findhorn in Morayshire and had started life as a fisherman. Tall, strong and level-headed, he had made a useful hand on a trawler; but he had had only a rudimentary education, so he had expected to spend the whole of his working life at sea. But one day in Inverness he had met Gurda Fallström. She was there to see a lawyer, as her father had recently died and, having lost her mother when she was still in her teens, she had come into his estate.

Gurda was as fine and stalwart a woman as Jamie was a man and from that very first evening, when they had supped together off kippers and tea in the house of a mutual friend, they had known that they were made for each other. But Gurda was most averse to taking a husband who would frequently be away from her for considerable periods and, through being a fisherman, might at any time be drowned in a storm.

The estate she had inherited consisted only of an old house further north in Sutherland, not far from the estuary of the Helmsdale river, and a few hundred pounds. But a cousin of hers owned the fish-net factory in the nearby village of Portgower and it was arranged that Jamie should be given a job there.

The house was centuries old and perched on the very edge of a high cliff. It was much larger than Jamie had expected, for the Fallströms had once been comfortably off; so it contained numerous pieces of good, if worn, furniture and a collection of several hundred old books.

Jamie would have been happy to make his home with Gurda in a butte-and-ben, but to live with her in such surroundings was, to him, like being in the seventh heaven, and he worked at his new job with such a will that, within three years, he was made foreman at the net factory.

To add to their contentment the couple were blessed with five handsome and healthy children: two girls and three boys, of which Adam was the youngest and, in due course, the cleverest. His childhood in the house on the cliff could not have been happier and he was his mother’s favourite.

For this there was a special reason. Gurda was a very unusual person. Like many Scots she was that strange mixture of down-to-earth good sense and visionary subject to pyschic influences. But in her case this had developed into a definitely dual personality. Normally she was a practical, hardworking housewife, but at times she neglected everything and would sit dreaming for hours. During these periods it was evident that she was living in another world. She even talked to herself and recited long poems in a strange language which she told her family was ancient Norse.

The only explanation for these semi-trances seemed to be that in an earlier incarnation she had been the wife of a Viking chieftain and, in that role, had known such exceptional happiness that, from time to time, her spirit was drawn back to re-experience episodes in it. She was herself convinced of that and, although when she returned to normal she could recall these ‘dreams’ only hazily, she could describe what life had been like in the time of the Scandinavian Vikings.

Her husband and elder children—all rather unimaginative people—regarded ‘Mother’s day-dreams’ with mild amusement and never questioned her about her ‘other life’. But Adam, from the time he could think coherently, had been fascinated and never tired of sitting at her feet asking her about the Norsemen and the long ships in which they sailed each summer to plunder the coast towns of England, Ireland and France.

She told him of the long winters when there were only a few hours of daylight, the great storms that howled round the house and the softly-falling snow that made it impossible to travel for more than a short distance. But, snug in their houses, they saw the winter through: the men amusing themselves making fine wood-carvings of snake-heads for the prows of their ships, or hewing oars and tools to cultivate the land, while the women worked at their weaving or sewed the skins of trapped animals into fur hoods and jackets.

Then there were the evenings of celebration: Feast days sacred to the gods, weddings and the bloodings of a jarl’s new sword. The long tables weighed down with roast flesh and great flagons of heady mead; the recitation by the bards of past deeds of valour, sometimes drunken quarrels with drinking horns hurled, then bloody duels with the long swords to settle matters on the spot; but laughter and the joy of living; libations poured to the red-headed Thor—the god of victories and the Jupiter of the North—with the conviction that if his votaries died in battle they would go straight to his heaven of Valhalla and there drink mead out of the skulls of their enemies.

After a time, delighted with the boy’s interest, his mother had supplemented what she could tell him from her dreams by reading to him some of the old books she had inherited, which dealt with that period of history. Then, soon after his ninth birthday, Adam too began to have ‘dreams’. Not, to begin with, day-dreams like his mother, but vivid dreams at night. Whether he had inherited her ability to go back in time, or his dreams were a normal result of his absorption in the subject, it was impossible to say. But the former seemed probable because, during his dreams, he spoke and could understand the Norse language. On learning this, his mother began to teach him Norse, so that he could recite many of the old Icelandic runes. By then, too, he found that, occasionally, when sitting alone on the cliff or the river bank, he could see the many-oared ships of the raiders, send his mind back, and seem to become Ord - the golden-haired Viking commanding the approaching fleet.

He was already aware that, when the long winter ended and spring came again, a fever of restlessness seized the menfolk. All true-bred Norsemen were fighters born and bred. They cared nothing for agriculture and left the women and slaves to cultivate the few fields about their homes that would produce enough wheat for a supply of the small, hard loaves with a hole in the centre, that resembled doughnuts in shape.

For them there were the shimmering green seas, sometimes riding mountain-high; but then all the greater challenge to courage and endurance. Beyond them lay the lands of weak peoples, living in softer climes and, therefore, easily to be overcome. From them many things could be had for the taking: strange garments made of soft, shiny material, iron helmets, strings of blue beads and ornaments of gold.

Generally their forays were made against the nearer lands: Scotland, Ireland, England, the north coast of Germany; but many of Adam’s forbears and relatives had gone much further afield—to Spain, as he now realised, and by the Baltic rivers even down to Kiev in the Ukraine, to the shores of the Black Sea, and there made contact with the fabled peoples of the East who worshipped a prophet named Mohammet.

In the Norselands they had long worshipped Thor, Odin and Freyja, and, when a great chieftain died, buried him, his ship and many articles of value in the sacred bogs which, after some months, sucked them under and made them part of the earth. But by this time—about A.D. 950—certain fearless men, humble and austere, had occasionally come out of the South preaching a new religion.

It was of a Man-God who had allowed himself to be crucified so that others should be absolved of their sins. The story was difficult to believe; for it did not make sense that a god should submit himself to pain but, as a concession to the possible malice he might indulge in if ignored, they had begun to couple his name, when in danger, with that of Thor.

Then there came another strange development in Adam. Alternating with his night dreams of storm-tossed galleys at sea, burning villages in which he led his bearded henchmen to kill, rape and plunder, and the bleak, cold Norselands under winter snow, he found himself in utterly different surroundings. He was living in a country of mountains, volcanoes and vast forests where, down on the coast, there were palm trees, many exotic fruits and it was intensely hot. There were cities with great pyramids and splendid palaces. The people were brown-skinned, had hooked noses, black hair and high, sloping foreheads. They wore many-coloured cloaks with geometrical designs and, on days of celebration, the principal men among them put on gorgeous feather headdresses.

Where this other country could be he had no idea, and his mother was equally mystified; but he knew that he had been immensely happy there and infinitely preferred it to the harsh, primitive life led by the Vikings in the inhospitable North.

By the time Adam was fourteen, his older brothers and sisters were all working in the fishing-net factory; so the income of the family was, for people of their class and simple tastes, more than adequate. They all loved the roomy old house, had no desire to leave it for a city, and were leading a thoroughly contented life.

Only one worry nagged at Jamie from time to time. The base of the cliff on which the house stood was being eroded by the sea. During the greater part of each year he rarely thought about it, but on nights when the winter storms raged and great waves thundered on the beach below, causing the old house to shudder, he became troubled and felt they really ought to leave it for a safer home. Yet, owing to its precarious position, it would be next to impossible to find a purchaser, and with only a few hundred pounds put by they could not buy another. As they had always lived rent-free, even to rent a house would entail so considerable a charge on their income that they would have to give up many small luxuries to which they had long been accustomed. Still worse, instead of this roomy old home with its pleasant garden, the only sort of home they could afford would be a small one in the village.

Then, when the storm subsided, Jamie would dismiss his fears on the ground that the erosion had been going on for many years and was very slow; the house was at least two hundred years old and its foundations showed no sign of weakening. Since it had stood there for so long, there could be no real urgency about moving and resigning themselves to a greatly reduced scale of living. As spring came again each year the matter passed from his mind.

Yet at last there came the fatal night. In the roar of the storm even their nearest neighbours did not hear the cliff collapse. But in the morning the old house was gone. Jamie, Gurda, four of their children and all their possessions had disappeared into the ocean, leaving no trace that they had ever existed. Only Adam, by a fluke of Fate, survived. For the first time his world was shattered. At the age of fourteen he found himself alone, an orphan and nearly penniless.

                            

Adam’s escape was due to the fact that he occasionally spent a night with his mother’s sister, Aunt Flora Inglis. It being two days before Christmas, she had asked him over to receive his Christmas present and carry back those she had for his brothers and sisters.

Aunt Flora was a widow, and housekeeper to Lord Ruffan at the Castle, six miles up the river. There, to the envy of her relatives, she dwelt in ease and plenty. His Lordship was an Englishman and the estate had been acquired by his grandfather in the 1890s. He came to Scotland only for the shooting and fishing; so, for the greater part of the year, Aunt Flora was mistress of all she surveyed. Even when His Lordship was in residence, as he was an elderly bachelor there was no mistress to irritate her by requiring that she should alter any of her set ways. But she was a dour, efficient woman and gave short shrift to any housemaid or kitchen hand who was pert or lazy, so Lord Ruffan considered her a treasure.

When the terrible blow fell, Adam was for some days inconsolable; but, with the resilience of youth to changed circumstances, he soon began to take stock of his situation. Aunt Flora had written at once to Lord Ruffan, giving an account of the tragedy and asking permission to keep her nephew with her. His Lordship had replied after a few days giving his consent; so at least Adam had a home. But in other respects his prospects were bleak.

Not a single possession of his or his family had survived, except the clothes he stood up in, and his parents’ small nest-egg was seriously eaten into by payment of their debts and equipping him with a new outfit. Then, after some days, Mr. McPherson, who owned the fishing-net factory, had sent for him and Aunt Flora. As kindly as he could the old gentleman explained that, during the past ten years his business had suffered a serious decline, owing to competition from other factories which had more modern machinery. So, much as he would have liked to recognise Jamie Gordon’s long service by making adequate provision for his orphan, he could not afford to do more than allow the boy two pounds a week until he was seventeen when, should the business continue to survive, he would take him into it.

Adam did his best to appear grateful, but such a future had little appeal for him. He had not yet made up his mind what he wanted to do except, if possible, travel. He had heard enough about the hardships of his father’s early life to set him against making the sea his career, but he did feel that if he continued to do well at school he ought to be able to get a job that would enable him to see something of the world. With this in mind, he worked at his lessons harder than ever.

The life he led favoured his efforts, as it was, for a boy of his age, an exceptionally lonely one. Aunt Flora had no friends whose youngsters might have become playmates for Adam. In consequence he was never tempted to abandon his homework in order to play games with other boys and his main pleasure was to browse among the books in the fine library of the Castle. History was his favourite reading and he spent many a long, dark evening curled up in front of the fire in his aunt’s sitting room, absorbed in accounts of battles and rebellions which, to most of his contemporaries, were only dates that had laboriously to be memorised.

Lord Ruffan spent the spring of that year in Barbados and Jamaica, so he did not come up for the fishing. Adam was now and then allowed to go out with the ghillies and, early in March, took great delight in landing his first salmon from the Helmsdale. But a month later a much greater excitement was in store for him. One evening he was looking through some of the older books in the library when out of a calf-bound folio volume there fell a discoloured parchment.

On examining it, he found it to be a letter from one Ian MacGilray—whose family had for many generations owned the Castle—to his wife. It had been written from Edinburgh in 1745, the year of Prince Charles Edward’s attempt to regain the throne of Britain for the Stuarts. Hurriedly, it described the battle of Culloden in which the Pretender’s forces had been defeated by those of the Hanoverian King. The Stuart cause was lost and MacGilray, with other survivors, was fleeing for his life, hoping somehow to get to France. It was now feared that King George’s brutal English and German troops would overrun the whole of Scotland, paying special attention to the homes of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s adherents and looting them of everything of value that could be carried off. Before leaving the Castle to join the Prince’s army, as a precaution against defeat, the MacGilray had hidden the family treasure, and there followed directions to his wife whence to recover it when the troubles were over.

The language was obscure and only someone who knew the estate well would have been able to interpret it, but after considerable cogitation Adam decided that the place where the treasure had been hidden must be under one side of the arch that spanned a small bridge over a tributary of the Helmsdale. He did not expect for one moment that the treasure was still there; yet, all the same, he could hardly contain his impatience to go and see what traces he could find of the cache that had once held the plate of the MacGilrays, and perhaps even gold and jewels. The hours of school next day dragged interminably. At last he was home, had bolted his tea and was free to hurry the mile to the little bridge.

The spot was a deserted one on the edge of a wood and the bridge carried only a rough track used occasionally by farm carts and shooting brakes. Scrambling down the bank of the burn, he crawled under the low arch and looked about him, only to be disappointed. There was no romantic cavity in either wall and, as he peered in the semi-darkness at the moss-covered stones, he could see no unevenness suggesting that the hole had been hastily bricked up again.

It was not until two nights later that, thinking over the matter in bed, it occurred to him that several years had elapsed before the English had ceased to revenge themselves on the Jacobite nobility for the rebellion. During that time it would have remained unsafe to retrieve the treasure and the MacGilray’s wife might have died carrying the secret of its hiding-place with her to the grave.

Going downstairs to the library in his night clothes he hastily consulted the records of the family. Ian MacGilray had escaped to France and his wife had joined him there. He had been tried in his absence for taking up arms against his lawful Sovereign and his Castle and estates had been confiscated. The couple had never returned to Scotland and it was not until forty years later that a distant kinsman, who had married the daughter of a rich sugar nabob, had retrieved the estates for the family by purchase.

Again Adam had to disguise his excitement and impatience. It was not until Sunday afternoon that he could go to the little bridge. Kneeling on the narrow strip of dry earth, the sweat poured from him as he wielded a heavy hammer and a jemmy.

To prise free the first stone was far from easy, but once that was done, he was soon able to make an opening about eighteen inches square in the perished mortar. When he had found that, instead of earth, there was a hollow space behind the stones, his excitement rose to fever-pitch. Yet, on thrusting his hand into the hole it met only emptiness. For a further ten minutes he hammered away and wrenched out more small blocks of stone. Then his exertions were rewarded. Peering into the dark cavity he could make out a section of one side of a small, round-lidded, iron-bound chest.

Sitting back on his haunches he drew a deep breath and wondered what to do. Had his mother and father been alive he would have run to them with his amazing news. But Aunt Flora was another matter; so were the factor and the other men about the place. He had soon learned that they were suspicious of boys, regarding them as potential mischief-makers, and the reactions of these grown-ups were decidedly unpredictable. Swiftly he decided to keep his secret to himself.

It would not have been possible to get the chest out that day; so, reluctantly, he replaced the stones and returned to the Castle to clean himself up, eat his tea, then accompany his aunt to the Kirk for an evening service, of which he did not take in one word.

The next Sunday afternoon it poured with rain, so Aunt Flora would not let him go out. Somehow, he got through the following week. Then it was Sunday again and a fine afternoon.

To remove the stones was easy now, but when he attempted to pull the chest towards him the wood had become so rotten that it collapsed. Between the rusty iron bands at the nearer end there became visible a solid heap of precious objects: salvers, goblets and flagons of dull gold or silver, a jewel-hilted skirndhu, a necklace of small pearls and, from a burst bag, a trickle of gold pieces.

Adam examined some of them with awe, then put them back and replaced the stones that hid them from view. Again he wondered how he could best benefit from his wonderful find. If he took even a few of the coins there was no possible way in which he could dispose of them; and he felt sure that if he told his aunt about the treasure it would promptly be removed. He might be given a few pounds to put in his savings account and that would be the last he would hear of it.

During the next month he was able to spend three more Sunday afternoons under the little bridge, examining the treasure and packing it into small sacks. But he could still think of no way in which he could dispose of it to his own advantage.

Moreover, he felt certain that even if he could think of some means to sell it he had no right to do so. Obviously it was the property of the MacGilrays, if any of the family still existed, or, failing them, of Lord Ruffan as the present owner of the estate. Eventually he made up his mind that he must surrender it and hope that he would be treated generously as its discoverer.

Early in August, life at the Castle began to stir. Aunt Flora received a letter from His Lordship, with orders to prepare rooms for ten guests who would be arriving on the 11th for the opening shoot on the 12th. He would be coming up on the 7th, to ensure that all was in readiness for his house party. Late on the afternoon of the 8th, Adam saw Lord Ruffan for the first time. He was a big, heavy man of over sixty, with a bucolic but kindly face that betrayed his reputed fondness for vintage port. Adam, in his best suit, was duly presented by Aunt Elora and, carefully coached by her, said his piece about how grateful he was to His Lordship for having given him a home.

Adam was already tall for his age, well set up and, with his crop of red-gold curls, a fine-looking youngster. Lord Ruffan regarded him for a moment out of slightly protuberant eyes, then patted him on the shoulder and said:

‘Glad to see you, young feller. Terrible thing about your family, but you’re welcome here. What do you intend to do in life?’

It was just the sort of opening that Adam had been hoping for. Swallowing hard, he replied, ‘Weel, sir. I … I’ve been wondering of ye’d allow me to ask your advice aboot that?’

‘Adam!’ his aunt reprimanded him sharply. ‘’Tis no’ for you to trouble His Lordship wi’ such matters.’

But Lord Ruffan waved aside her protest. ‘Easy on, Mrs. Inglis. I’d be glad to talk the boy’s future over with him. As I shall be dining alone tonight, he can come in afterwards and keep me company while I drink my port.’

A few hours later Adam was reminded of a book that his mother had read to him shortly before her death. Its title was Little Lord Fauntleroy. The only likeness to the setting of the book was the richly-furnished dining room with its oil paintings of bygone Lords and Ladies on the walls, the big, mahogany table shining in the candlelight, the silver and cut-glass on it. Edward—known as Teddy—Chiswick, fifth Viscount Ruffan, bulky, red-nosed, semi-bald, lounging back in his elbow chair at the head of the table, did not in the least resemble the dignified Earl of Dorincourt; and Adam, years older than the little velvet-clad Fauntleroy, was no blood relation but came of common clay.

Yet there he was, sitting at the long table in this great room with the powerful owner of the Castle: the great Lord whose casual word could spell happiness or misery for scores of dependants scattered for miles round.

At a gesture from Ruffan, Adam had seated himself gingerly on the edge of a chair. To his surprise the red-faced master of the Castle poured him a glass of wine, smiled at him and said, ‘Now, boy, drink that while you tell me about yourself.’

Adam gave a nervous smile and blurted out, ‘Et’s no me-self I wished to talk aboot, but I was agin saying so before the aunt.’ Then he produced the MacGilray’s letter, pushed it across the table and added, ‘I come on this in ye’er Lordship’s library.’

Taking the document Ruffan read it through, laid it down and said, ‘This is quite a find. Most interesting. Don’t know much about such things myself, but it must be worth a few pounds.’ He gave a sudden wink and went on, ‘You’re a smart boy to have brought it to me. Out to make a bit, eh? All right, we’ll look on it as yours and I’ll buy it from you, then send it to the Royal Stuart Society.’

‘Aye, but that’s not all,’ Adam burst out excitedly, and he fished out from his trouser pocket a gold coin that he had taken from the hoard for such an occasion.

‘God’s boots!’ exclaimed His Lordship, his brown eyes opening wide between their puffy rolls of flesh. ‘You don’t mean … ?’

‘Aye,’ Adam nodded. ‘The treasure’s still there: cups and flagons made o’ gold, some wi’ jewels, lots o’ siller, necklaces, rings an’ the like—a whole chest of it.’

‘Damn it, boy, this can’t be true! You’re pulling me leg,’ declared Ruffan suspiciously.

‘Nay! What’ud I gain by that?’ Adam protested. ‘’Tis the truth. How else could I ha’ come by this piece o’ gold?’

Teddy Ruffan suddenly sat forward, his eyes narrowed and alert, ‘And you’ve not told your aunt—nor anyone else?’

‘Nay, not a soul. I’d a feelin’ that ye’er Lordship might prefer it kept secret.’

‘And you were right. I give you full marks for that.’ For a long moment His Lordship stared at Adam in silence, endeavouring to assess his character and wondering whether he could be trusted. The youngster’s face was open and handsome, but far from foolish, and held a hint of shrewdness; so he said:

‘You’ve had the sense to hold your tongue about this. Can I rely on you to continue to keep it under your hat?’

‘Aye,’ Adam nodded vigorously. ‘Ye’er Lordship kens best what’s tae be done, an’ I’ll no’ breathe a word aboot the doin’.’

‘Good. Listen, then.’ Ruffan ran a pudgy hand over his thinning grey hair. ‘The stuff is treasure trove. If the MacGilrays who once owned this place had descendants I’d feel under an obligation to hand it over to them. But that branch is extinct; so as it’s on my property I consider I’ve a right to it. There are laws about treasure trove, though. The government takes the goods and the finder gets only a small percentage of their value. I’m not having that. We’ll go along to this place tomorrow morning and collect the goods. Then I’ll dispose of them privately—d’you see?’

Adam ‘saw’ and readily agreed.

‘Now,’ said His Lordship. ‘Help yourself to another glass of port and tell me what you want out of life.’

The generous wine loosened Adam’s tongue. He made no mention of his occasional visions, but spoke of his wish to see foreign countries and of the books he had read to improve his education. Ruffan was much impressed, particularly with Adam’s knowledge of early European history, about which he himself had only very sketchy ideas. An hour later he had decided that, the treasure apart, the boy would well repay looking after; and Adam, having skilfully evaded his aunt, made his way to bed, slightly muzzy but enormously elated at the outcome of his disclosure.

Next morning the beefy, bucolic-looking Englishman and the lithe, handsome Scottish lad made their way to the little bridge. While Ruffan sat on the bank of the burn, keeping watch in case anyone approached, Adam crawled back and forth bringing out the small sacks of treasure.

Ruffan examined each item. As he had anticipated, most of the articles Adam had taken for gold were only silver-gilt, while the gems were of indifferent quality and poorly cut; but, even so, owing to their age, they were collector’s pieces and, he estimated, worth several thousand pounds.

When the last piece had been put back into a sack, His Lordship, in a high good humour, winked at Adam and said, ‘Now, young feller, we’ve got to get the stuff back to the Castle without some Nosy Parker spotting us and becoming inquisitive. Early hours of the morning best time for that and to carry the lot I’ll need your help. Think you can keep awake till one o’clock, then get dressed and join me down in the library without anyone being the wiser?’

‘Aye.’ Adam beamed with delight at the thought of this adventure with his new friend. ‘I’ll be there. Ye’er Lordship can count on it.’

The expedition went off without a hitch, and when the treasure had been packed away in the Castle safe the conspirators had a glass of wine together. While they were drinking, Ruffan said:

‘I’m not as rich as people think, not by a long sight. Since the war these accursed taxes have made it devilish difficult for me to keep up this place, my home in Somerset and my flat in London. My heir won’t be able to, that’s certain. But he’s a dreary fellow, so I’ll never cut down to benefit him. Still, that’s beside the point. As things are, this haul is a very welcome windfall and I want to show my appreciation of what you’ve done. Any ideas?’

Adam took a deep breath and replied, ‘Could you run to a hundred pounds?’

His Lordship gave a cheerful laugh. ‘I could, but I think you deserve more than that.’

To Adam a hundred pounds was an immense sum and he had hardly dared ask for it. His eyes widened with excitement as Ruffan went on:

‘But there is a snag about my giving you a lump sum. As you are a minor we’d have to disclose it, and such a gift would be very difficult to explain. I’ve been thinking, though. You are a sensible chap and realise that a good education is the royal road to the trimmings that make life worth while. What do you say to my sending you to an English public school, then a university? No-one would question my doing that, because you’re bright enough to warrant it.’

Overwhelmed at the new future opened up to him, Adam stammered his thanks.

‘We’ll have to play this carefully, though,’ his benefactor resumed. ‘Got to show people I’m taking an interest in you. I tell you what. The guns arrive tomorrow for our first shoot on the Glorious 12th. I’ll take you out with me as an extra loader, and later let you have a crack at the birds yourself.’

So, during the rest of August, Adam was skilfully established as a youngster of whom His Lordship thought a lot, and early in September no-one at the Castle was greatly surprised when they learned that he was going to send him to school in England.

When first making the suggestion Ruffan had counted on the fact that his seat, Loudly Hall, was not far from Marlborough. As he was a Governor of that famous school, he should have no difficulty in getting Adam into it; but he had overlooked the fact that his protégé was over-age for entry. However, Teddy Ruffan was not a man to be put off easily and the headmaster was a broad-minded man with a very natural desire to have scholars who promised to do his school credit. In consequence, when he saw the excellent report sent in by Adam’s schoolmaster at Portgower, he was persuaded to take the boy.

Thus, towards the end of September, happy, excited and preening himself on the splendid new outfit with which His Lordship had provided him, Adam travelled south to become a denizen of an utterly different world from any he had known or dreamed of. But very soon he was to rue the day he had left his native Scotland.

It was not that his new companions deliberately bullied him, but he was a fish out of water. His background, upbringing and accent were all different from those of his companions and, after he had fought and thoroughly beaten a much older boy who laughed at his accent, he was regarded as dangerous and unpredictable, so was left strictly alone.

He had been used to loneliness, but not loneliness among a crowd of jostling, laughing boys; so for a time he was miserable. But at least there was one compensation; it threw him back upon his work, and his masters found him to be their star pupil. In addition, Marlborough has not only a truly splendid library; it has been indexed so thoroughly that all the ramifications of any subject can be found with ease. To Adam this proved an abiding joy and he spent most of his spare time there, reading voraciously: at first about the far-flung expeditions of the Norsemen and later about that other, tropical country, of which he still had occasional dreams. While looking through an illustrated History of Early Civilisations he had recognised this to be Mexico. In the library he also discovered Alexandre Dumas and Baroness Orczy and, between serious reading, he devoured their books with delight.

His visions of Mexico became ever more vivid. He saw it as a land of extraordinary contrasts: snow-capped mountains and rank vegetations only vaguely seen through the steam resulting from a tropical downpour; of architects whose mathematics were so exact that they could safely erect buildings the like of which had never been dreamed of in northern Europe, but which had still not devised the wheel that made many labours so infinitely easier; of a people to whom sunshine brought unbelievable plenty, yet whose hearts were filled with constant fear because it was arrid land, and rain to make the crops grow could be bought only by the sacrifice of young men and virgins to the ferocious gods who, through their priests, ruled the country.

In spite of its sinister, fanatical and dangerous priesthood, this country of sunshine, music and brown-skinned women held for Adam much more attraction than the bleak, rainswept northern lands with their people’s primitive way of life and their long, dull winters; so he made up his mind that, as soon as he possibly could, he would visit Mexico.

It was in his second summer at Marlborough that he was quite suddenly pulled out of his lonely, studious life. There had been an epidemic in the school which had struck several members of the cricket First Eleven. The epidemic was over, but its victims were still convalescing and the match of the year was due to be played. Adam was a good bat, but a poor bowler and weak on fielding; so, in spite of his height and strength, he had got no further than doing well in the Third Eleven. But it was batsmen that were needed. The Games Captain took a chance and included Adam in the side.

He was put in sixth wicket down when already there seemed no hope at all of Marlborough winning the match. Adam stayed the course, knocked up a hundred and five and carried his bat.

Towards the end of the match the excitement grew intense. Adam’s last hit was a boundary, winning the match for Marlborough by three runs. The watching boys streamed on to the pitch, cheering like mad, seized Adam, hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him in triumph back to the pavilion. The Games Captain wrung his hand and told him then and there that he was capped. From that moment he was looked on as a hero.

At the beginning of his last year he received another distinction. Like other public schools, Marlborough has its Literary Society, but it differs in that there it is an élite. At most colleges any boy who is interested in books may join and listen to the talks given by well-known writers who are invited down to address the Society; at Marlborough the membership is limited to twelve senior boys, and only they may do so.

For some time past, Adam had been contributing articles on sport to the school magazine and it had never even occurred to him that he might qualify for this honour. Then, for his own amusement, he wrote three short stories about a Viking. To his surprise and delight, when the next vacancy occurred, he was invited to become a member of the Society. The double crown of his cap for cricket and membership of the literary élite, coupled with his cheerful character and good looks, made him immensely popular and during his last terms no youth could have had a happier life.

In the holidays, too, he thoroughly enjoyed himself, for Lord Ruffan’s interest in him had continued. When in Scotland he took Adam fishing and shooting with him, and at other times had him to stay at Loudly Hall in Somerset; delighting to show him off to his friends as an example of what a public-school education could do.

He had changed during his time at Marlborough. His crop of unruly curls had been cut and coaxed into inoffensive waves, Ruffan’s tailor had clothed him suitably and nothing remained of his broad Scottish accent but a pleasant burr. All the rough corners had been rubbed off him and he felt at ease in any company.

Arrangements had been made for him to go up to Cambridge and, his ambitions having been fired by his membership of the Literary Society, he now hoped to become a professional writer, which would enable him to travel.

Then, three days after Adam left Marlborough for the last time, Teddy Ruffan had an apoplectic fit and died. Although it was not fully brought home to Adam for some days, for the second time the bottom had dropped out of his world.

                            

Greatly stricken, Adam attended the funeral of his bluff patron and there, for the first time, met the heir. He was a distant cousin and had nothing whatever in common with his predecessor, who had disliked and ignored him. The new heir was in his fifties, married and with six children. He acidly informed Adam at an interview they had some days later that his late cousin had left his affairs in a scandalous tangle and it was now emerging that he had played ducks and drakes with the family fortune.

As Adam regarded the narrow, bony face opposite him, with its little, pursed-up mouth, he did not feel particularly sorry for its owner, but he did feel a sudden uneasiness on his own account, and, as he soon learned, with ample justification.

It transpired that his late benefactor had left him five hundred pounds in his Will, but had made no provision for the completion of his education. Aunt Flora was to receive the life tenancy of a cottage and a small pension, but the Castle was to be sold; so he was to lose what he had come to regard as his home.

The new Lord Ruffan went on to say with oily smoothness, ‘On several occasions my cousin refused my pleas to help me with the education of my own children; so I am sure you would not expect me to pay for that of a young man like yourself who is not even a member of the family. It is regrettable that you may have to revise your plans for going up to Cambridge. But you have reached the age when you should have no difficulty in getting a job. I therefore suggest that you should set about finding one without delay.’

So that was that. The legacy and the little nest-egg that he still had in National Savings Certificates would certainly not see him through three years at Cambridge. The social background he had acquired, as almost one of the jovial Lord Ruffan’s family, had disappeared overnight. The only place that he might in future think of as home was the small cottage to be occupied by his dour Aunt Flora. He must try to get a job, and soon, but he had only the vaguest ideas how to set about it.

Sadly he packed his belongings and next morning said good-bye to Loudly Hall, where he had spent so many pleasant holidays, and went up to Scotland. Aunt Flora had received a letter from the Ruffan lawyers, but she was not unduly depressed. It seemed quite a possibility that whoever bought the Castle would be glad to reinstate her as housekeeper and she could then make a little extra money by letting the cottage. But Adam knew that with her limited resources there could be no question of her helping him to go through Cambridge.

Having assessed his qualifications for a job, he felt that he could almost certainly secure an appointment as a junior master in a private school. Then during the holidays he would have the time to write for magazines, and later start a novel; so he wrote to his ex-housemaster at Marlborough, stated his position and asked him to let him have testimonials to support an application for a post.

The housemaster replied cordially and sympathetically, but, instead of enclosing testimonials, said that he was consulting the Head, as he thought they might find him something better than the sort of job he had in mind.

Then his lucky star moved into the ascendant once again. He received a letter from the headmaster, who said they had been so concerned about his talents going to waste through not completing his education that they had persuaded the Dean of the University of Southampton to grant him a scholarship.

With no fees to pay, Teddy Ruffan’s legacy and his own savings would just see him through. In new heart and determined to do well, Adam went south again towards the end of that September, to become an undergraduate.

His three years at Southampton were uneventful. The students at the University had much more varied backgrounds than had the boys at Marlborough. Some came from rich homes, but a high proportion had to be as careful of their money as Adam; so his limited means placed him at no disadvantage. He soon had a group of pleasant friends, entered into many of the social activities and fully justified his sponsors’ expectations of him by achieving his B.A., and double Firsts in History and English Literature.

As a university student, his call-up had been deferred, but after graduating he had to do his National Service and went into the Navy. Having completed his initial training he was posted to a minesweeper, where his cheerful willingness soon made him popular with both his mess-mates and officers. It was that he grew his golden beard and was given the nickname of ‘the Viking’ but, although he enjoyed the life, he could not help feeling that he was getting nowhere with his ambitions to make a literary career for himself.

After a time he was given a course in W/T and became a proficient radio operator; then, for some reason he never discovered, he was transferred to Portsmouth and given a clerical job on the Admiral’s staff. There he found the work easy and in his off-duty hours was able to take full advantage of the excellent recreation provided, including the Saturday-night dances held in the big N.A.A.F.I. hall.

Since Adam had lost his sisters he had had little to do with girls and had known none intimately. His holidays from school had all been spent in the country, where he had admired a few girls he had chanced to meet, but had had no opportunity to follow up the acquaintance, and at Southampton University he had deliberately avoided the many girls who endeavoured to attract his attention, because he could not afford to take any of them out regularly. In consequence, at twenty-two he was very much shyer than most young men of his age, and it was only with some difficulty that his mates persuaded him to accompany them to his first Saturday-evening dance.

When he entered the hall his fine ‘Viking’ head towered over those of his companions and, within a few minutes, bright eyes were fixed upon it from all directions. A score of pretty girls began to badger his friends for an introduction and, when he apologetically explained that he would make a poor partner because he had been to very few dances, several girls eagerly volunteered to teach him the latest steps. Among them was Polly.

She was a curvaceous blonde with a big mouth, rather full, highly-coloured cheeks, a tip-tilted nose and green eyes. Her father owned an ironmongery shop in which she worked, but only for part of the day, as her mother had died some eighteen months before and she had since kept house for her father in the flat above the shop. All this Adam learned during the three dances he had with her and he thought her far more attractive than any of the other girls, so after their third dance, he asked if he might see her home.

Being as smitten with the handsome young giant as he was with her opulent charms, she readily assented and, ruthlessly cutting her obligation to the fellow who had brought her, suggested that they should slip away at once.

It was a fine, warm night and they walked through the almost deserted streets hand in hand, happily exchanging first confidences about themselves. In due course, to Adam’s surprise, she turned out of the street into a long, narrow alley between high brick walls with, here and there, wooden gates outside which dustbins stood. She then explained that when the shop was shut she always used the back entrance; then, fifty yards along the alley, she opened a gate and drew him through it.

The faint moonlight showed him that they were in a backyard, one side of which was stacked with corn-bins, chicken coops and other ironmonger’s stock-in-trade; the other was a flower border and between the two there was a small lawn. No sooner were they inside the gate than Polly put her arms round Adam’s neck, raised herself on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth. Her warm, moist lips instantly aroused a fire in him that had long been dormant. He responded avidly and for several minutes they clung together.

When at length, from sheer breathlessness, their kissing ceased, she whispered, ‘It’s early yet, let’s make ourselves comfortable.’ Then, breaking away from him, she walked over to a lean-to shed against the back of the house. There were some deck-chairs, two chintz-covered mattresses and half a dozen cushions in it. Grasping a mattress, she pulled it out. He took the other and they laid them side by side on the grass. As she began to arrange the cushions, he looked up a shade nervously at the blank, dark windows of the house and murmured:

‘What about your old man? Say he hears us and looks out?’

She gave a low laugh. ‘Don’t worry, ducks, his room’s at the front. Anyhow, he’s as deaf as a post and we have no one sleeping in. The char only comes in the mornings.’

During the hour that followed they lay closely embraced, exchanging fervid caresses in which Polly unashamedly took the lead. Adam had always supposed that nice girls gave themselves only when married or reluctantly seduced after most intense persuasion by their lovers; so Polly’s willingness was a revelation to him. But his mind was in such a turmoil that he put aside all scruples and met her advances with equal ardour.

It was all over very quickly and afterwards she said, ‘I … I’m afraid I excited you too much. Or … or could it be that you’ve never done it before?’

‘That’s right,’ he admitted. ‘I’m sorry if I disappointed you.’

‘No.’ She gave him a swift kiss. ‘I’m not worrying about that, because I’ve really fallen for you. But you’re such a handsome chap and you must have known lots of girls who would have been willing.’

Ashamed to tell her the truth, he murmured, ‘Well, yes, but not one like you. Not one I liked enough. And how about you?’

She sighed with pleasure at the compliment. ‘I feel flattered, then. About me—well, I was seduced when I was seventeen. It wasn’t very nice. Since then there have been two fellows. I was in love with both of them. I wouldn’t go with anyone except a steady that I really cared about. But I fell for you right away and … and I’ll be your girl if you want me.’

‘Want you!’ he repeated, seizing her in his arms again. ‘Of course I do! I think you’re wonderful … wonderful. And from now on I’m all yours.’

Adam’s youthful virility swiftly reasserting itself, shortly afterwards they again gave free rein to their passions, with much greater satisfaction to both parties. A quarter of an hour later they put away the mattresses and cushions, agreed that he was to take her to a movie the following afternoon and, after further prolonged embraces, parted. Adam walked back to barracks on air, feeling as good as if he had suddenly become a millionaire.

On the Sunday they held hands in the pictures, and had a meal in a café, where Adam stared gooey-eyed at his beloved across the table, hardly able to believe in his good fortune. Then they went out to the park and found a secluded spot sheltered by bushes and, when darkness fell, again made hectic love.

But when it came to arranging their next meeting, Adam was grievously disappointed. It suddenly emerged that Polly was a member of a large and united family; and that it had been a long-established custom for her to spend two or three evenings a week with aunts, uncles and numerous cousins. Still more surprising, he learned that she was a much cleverer and more earnest girl than he had had reason to suppose. The desire to improve herself had led her to attend courses at evening school on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and, after each session, she had to put in two hours or more in private study and writing up her notes, otherwise she could not hope to pass her exams.

In consequence, he had to wait impatiently until, at last, Saturday came again. They left the N.A.A.F.I. during the supper interval, Polly having assured Adam that her father was an early-to-bed man and would be snoring by ten o’clock. When they reached the backyard garden she pointed to a window on the first floor and said:

‘That’s my room. We’ll be much more comfy there. I’m going in by the door and up the stairs; but, deaf as he is, if he’s not yet dropped off he just might hear your heavy tread.’ She then pointed to a folding ladder that was leaning against the side of the shed, and added, ‘If you go up that, you can easily reach my window from the roof of the shed. Soon as I get upstairs, I’ll open it and you can climb in.’

His heart beating like a hammer, Adam followed her directions. As soon as he was in her room she pulled down the blind, switched on the light and began to undress. She had few clothes on and within a matter of minutes stood before him naked and smiling. It was the first time he had seen a girl in the nude and the sight took his breath away. With trembling hands he ripped off his own clothes and half carricd, half flung her on the bed. They were both healthy, strong and twenty-two years old. Neither of them seemed capable of exhausting the other and, until the small hours, between intervals to whisper endearments, stroke one another, entwine and kiss, they hit the high-spots of ecstasy.

Apart from the terrible frustration Adam felt at being able to revel with his divinity in her bed so seldom, their affaire continued happily for six weeks. Now and then she let him give her a meal between her evening classes and returning home to study, and on Sundays they could spend from midday until six o’clock together; but after that there was always a family party that he could not persuade her to give up, so it was only on Saturdays that, on returning early from the N.A.A.F.I. dances, he was able to mount the ladder that led to his especial Paradise.

That she had had other lovers in the past did not unduly trouble him. He had learned from her, much to his surprise, that in these ‘enlightened’ times most girls took it for granted that they were just as much entitled to have fun as were men, and that if one came upon a girl who was eighteen and still a virgin there must be something wrong with her.

The main ingredient of the spell that Polly cast upon him was her splendidly healthy young body and unfailing willingness to let him assuage his desire upon it. To intelligent conversation she could contribute next to nothing, but she was never cross, difficult or demanding; on the contrary she was placid by nature, warm-hearted, kind and generous, so that he was always happy in her company. He failed to comprehend that she was in fact ignorant, shallow and showed little evidence of the courses she was taking. Indeed, he thought of her as an angel in female form, worthy of worship for the happiness she had brought him.

His belated introduction to the joys of sexual love so obsessed him that he began to count the hours until Saturdays came round. Then a Saturday came when he was on the roster for duty. A few days before it, he pleaded with her to get out of her Sunday party; but in vain. It happened to coincide with her ‘Auntie Flo’s’ birthday party, so she could not possibly not be with them for that.

The thought of a whole fortnight having to elapse between his being able to clasp her yielding body in his arms was so devastating that, by Monday morning, exasperation had driven him to decide to pay her a visit that night; and to hell with her being too tired to make love after her evening class and work on her books.

Impatiently, he waited until well after ten o’clock then made his way to the yard-garden behind Polly’s home. There was no light from her window, so he rather hoped that she was already asleep. Then, if he crept in, he could give her a lovely surprise by waking her with a kiss. The folding ladder was in its usual place; a minute later he was on the roof of the shed. It was a warm, still night. Her window was open and with one easy heave of his strong arms he pulled himself up, got a leg over the sill and, turning sideways, slid inside.

‘Who’s that?’ came Polly’s startled voice from the direction of the bed.

‘It’s me, Adam,’ he replied in a whisper.

‘Then, Adam, whoever-you-are, get the hell out of here,’ a gruff voice said, and, next moment, the bedside light was switched on. It revealed Polly, her eyes wide, her mouth agape, sitting up in bed and, beside her, a hairy-chested Petty Officer whose name Adam knew to be Grimes.

‘So it’s you, Viking,’ Grimes said quite amiably. ‘Sorry about your disappointment, but you’ve got your dates wrong. Pretty Polly here always has a queue and I booked her for tonight a fortnight since.’

‘I …’ Adam stammered. ‘I didn’t know. I thought she was my girl. I … I love her.’

Grimes grinned. ‘So she led you up the garden path, eh? I get it. You’re her fancy boy and have your fun for free. Well, you’ve been darned lucky. To the rest of us she’s “Polly up the ladder and two pounds a go”.’

Polly gave a whimper, covered her face with her hands and, collapsing, buried it in the pillow.

For a moment Adam’s temper boiled. He was seized with the impulse to grab Grimes by the neck, haul him out of bed and throw him naked out of the window. But the facts were all too terribly clear. Grimes was not to blame for being in Polly’s bed and she made no attempt to deny that she was a whore. In that bed, where he had experienced such unalloyed delight, taking advantage of her father’s deafness, night after night she gave herself to a succession of different men for money. Stifling a sob he turned away, stumbled to the window, got through it, reached the yard and, half blinded by tears, staggered out into the alleyway. Twice unforeseen circumstances had robbed him of his prospects of advancement and now this new world of love had collapsed about his ears.

                            

Adam went no more to the Saturday dances and shunned his friends, suspecting that any or all of them were Polly’s ‘customers’. For a while his heartache was such that he could settle to nothing and was tortured nightly by visions of his ex-divinity doing with other sailors the things she had done with him: tall, short, young or horny-handed and hairy-chested like Petty Officer Grimes.

After a fortnight of this misanthropic existence he decided that he must either pull out of it or go mad; so he decided to divert his mind by writing a novel. Once he had forced himself to settle to this new occupation, he found it came easily. Soon he was immersed in his story and spent every free moment in the N.A.A.F.I. library, covering sheet after sheet of paper. The book was about the adventures of a Sea King whom he called Ord the Red-handed, and the knowledge he had acquired through his dreams and the books he had read enabled him to describe the life of those days with uncanny verisimilitude. With feverish absorption he wrote one hundred thousand words in eleven weeks and his finishing the book coincided, within a few days, with his release from National Service.

Out of his meagre savings he paid for the manuscript to be typed, then sent it to a publisher who, from the advertisements in the Sunday Times, he judged to be the most likely to accept it. But he was now jobless and had, somehow, to support himself.

Now that he had his B.A., he had little doubt that his friends at Marlborough would be able to secure him a post as a master at a good private school; but he had never much fancied the idea of becoming a teacher and the more practice he could get at writing in any form the better for his ambitions as an author; so he made the rounds of the Portsmouth papers seeking an opening as a reporter.

The result was like a douche of cold water. Overworked and cynical editors told him that reporters were not just taken on because they had been members of the Literary Society of a snob public school; they had to graduate as copy-boys who mixed the paste and ran errands for all and sundry, on a pay-chit that would not keep a grown man in cigarettes and drink.

His head bloody but unbowed, Adam put his wits to work and his scruples aside. He telephoned an old friend of his, Mrs. Burroughs, the housekeeper at Loudly Hall, and, having learned that His Lordship was not in residence, said that he would come out there to spend a few nights. On Loudly Hall notepaper he then wrote to the editors of the two leading Southampton newspapers. To both he said that he aspired to a career in journalism and that Lord Ruffan had suggested that his connections might enable him to make a useful contribution to the paper’s social column. His salary would be a secondary consideration, provided he was given reasonable expenses, as his main object was to gain experience. With both letters he enclosed the copies of Marlborough College Magazine in which his stories had appeared.

By return of post both editors said they would be pleased to give him an interview. Having talked with them he settled for a roving assignment on the Hampshire Post. His trouble then was that he knew no-one in Hampshire and only a few families in Somerset and Wiltshire. In each case the ‘County’ maintained its sublime exclusiveness. People ‘belonged’ by right of birth and long-owned estates, or they did not. Many of its members had abandoned their large houses for smaller ones in which they frequently did their own washing-up. But that did not prevent their firmly rejecting the overtures of the nouveau-riche who endeavoured to penetrate their circle. They were not intolerant and willingly accepted people who had distinguished themselves in government, science or the arts, whatever their origins, but they had an extreme dislike of publicity in any form, so, by becoming a newspaper man, Adam had automatically debarred himself from any participation in their activities.

It was not long before his editor realised that his contributions to the social column were limited to the doings of ‘café society’, who had week-end places in the country. But Adam’s writing was definitely good and his editor was loath to get rid of him. As it happened, the chief crime reporter on the paper had to go into hospital for a serious operation; so the editor asked Adam if he would like to take over as understudy to the number two, who had stepped into the senior man’s shoes.

Glad to be freed from the position he had obtained for himself on false pretences, and at this chance to gain experience in another branch of journalism, Adam readily agreed.

Apart from an occasional interesting assignment when his senior was otherwise occupied, he spent most of his time in magistrates’ courts writing up cases that had any unusual features and, where many men would have found boring the long hours spent there listening to trivial misdemeanours, he felt that he was gaining valuable knowledge of human character and frailties which would later be useful for his books. Then, after he had been so employed for some months, he had a letter telling him that his novel Across the Green Seas had been accepted for publication.

The contract was not a very good one, as it had not even occurred to him to seek out a literary agent; so the publisher was taking twenty-five per cent of all subsidiary rights: serialisation, film, TV and foreign—if any. But several people in the office assured him that he was very lucky to have had a first novel accepted anyhow, before it had been sent to a dozen or more publishers; so he went happily about his work, only at times a little frustrated by the knowledge that it must be many more months before the book appeared in print.

It was in the following winter that he was suddenly given cause to worry. He was on friendly terms with the police and by then, having his ear well to the ground about crime in Southampton, had been able to give them a tip which led to the arrest and conviction of a scrap dealer who acted as a ‘fence’ for a gang of youths who made a living by stealing lorry-loads of old iron. After the trial he received a letter printed in capitals, which read:

‘Us boys know you shopped old Fred. We don’t like your face and won’t have it round these parts. Unless you want it carved you’ll get out of So’ton and quick.’

He showed it to his editor and the police. Both said in effect, ‘It’s an occupational hazard, chum. But if you keep your eyes skinned and don’t go places late at night you ought to be all right.’

All went well for three weeks, then, at dusk one evening, as he was coming out of a pub in which he had been trying to get the lowdown on a safe robbery, the gang set upon him.

His size and strength saved him from the worst. He dealt with two youths who came at him with razor blades in a way that gave them cause to regret for many months that they had attacked him. But the others got him down and kicked him ruthlessly with their heavy boots until some sailors who were in the pub came to his rescue. He was still conscious and had succeeded in protecting his face and head, but his body was black and blue, two of his ribs were cracked and his right knee-cap so badly bashed that water on the knee resulted. For over a fortnight he was in hospital and before he was discharged he received another anonymous note:

‘You got off lightly. Next time we’ll do you proper. Get out of So’ton or else …’

During his vivid dreams when he lived the life of a Viking, Adam was a great fighter. Whirling aloft his mighty double-edged sword, he hewed his way with ferocious delight through groups of long-haired, skin-clad semi-savages striving to protect the coastal villages of Scotland and Ireland, or the better-clad but less warlike peasants of Romanised England. But he regarded these far memories as almost a form of fiction in which he was not responsible for the part he played, any more than a mild-mannered modern author who creates a ruthless secret agent. In his present personality he had inherited the gentle nature of his mother and abhorred all forms of violence. Occasionally his quick temper caused him to snap the heads off people who annoyed him, and once he had knocked down a fellow reporter; but he realised that his great strength could be dangerous and gradually learned to keep his temper under better control.

To be attacked by a gang was a different matter and he had the natural dislike of most men to exposing himself to injury if it could be avoided. So he went to his editor and said:

‘This isn’t good enough. I’m not prepared to remain here as a sitting duck for these young swine.’ Then he handed in his resignation.

The editor endeavoured to persuade him to stay on in some other capacity, but he replied. ‘No. They wouldn’t know that I’ve ceased to be a crime reporter, and I like my face. So I’m quitting.’

While in hospital, his dreams had become more frequent and had all been of Mexico, so he was now eager to spend even a short time in that country. To go there as a passenger was far beyond his means, but he decided to work his way there and made the rounds of the shipping offices. His time in the Navy qualified him to go as a seaman, but he knew that would mean a rough life in the fo’c’s’le and hoped, as an educated man, to get something better.

His enquiries were at first disappointing, as he found that no lines sailed direct from Southampton to Mexico. Then after a while he was offered a post as supercargo in a tramp that was sailing to Lisbon, the Canaries, Buenos Aires, then up to Rio, Recife, Caracas, Kingston Jamaica, Vera Cruz and New Orleans. The pay was modest and the ship shortly due to sail, so it was agreed that he should sign on only as far as Vera Cruz. From there he could pay his rail fare up to Mexico City and have enough money over to live modestly in the capital for a few weeks, or stay on longer if he could find a job. Two days later he had taken over the ship’s manifest and was on his way.

The voyage proved a pleasant change; the ship’s officers were a tough lot but friendly, and his duties of superintending the unloading and reloading of cargo in the ports light. In preparation for his stay in Mexico he had made up his mind to learn Spanish, so he had taken with him a small tape-recorder with a set of Spanish-teaching tapes, a Spanish grammar, a Spanish-English dictionary and copies of a novel by Ibañez in both English and Spanish. While at sea he was virtually a passenger, so he was able to spend many hours each day with his records and books, and by the time the ship reached Recife was confident that he knew enough of the language to converse, on simple matters.

But at Recife, in Brazil, again the hammer of Fate fell. On going ashore the Captain was informed by the Company’s agents that it had gone bankrupt. There was not even enough money to pay off the ship’s company. Adam was left stranded, with only a little over fifty pounds in cash, no job and thousands of miles from either Mexico or home.

                            

His weeks in Recife were some of the worst Adam had ever experienced. The shoddy port lies only eight degrees south of the equator. The moist heat is so terrible that a clean shirt is soaked with perspiration within a few minutes. People habitually carry towels with which to mop the sweat from their faces. The town is dreary beyond belief, its inhabitants Indians, the better-off having a dash of Portuguese blood, the majority ragged, dirty and half starving. After a week there Adam would willingly have signed on as a seaman in any ship bound for Mexico or England, to get away, but the agents had said that funds to pay off the ship’s company were being sent out, he had ten weeks’ wages owing to him and he was loath to forgo the best part of two hundred pounds; so he stayed on.

Meanwhile, he lived uncomfortably in a squalid seamen’s hostel, eking out his own money. That due from the Company still failed to arrive and, as time went on, he had to look at every cruzeiro twice.

He was near despair when one day he came upon an English newspaper. In it there was a review of Across the Green Seas, and it predicted a great success for the book. Realising that now his book had been published, he was due for the advance royalty on it, Adam used a good part of his remaining funds to send a cable to his publisher.

A week later an airmail letter reached him. The book was selling splendidly. To take advantage of its success it should be followed up with another next spring, so it was hoped that he had one well on the way to completion. His presence in England could be helpful in getting his name established. Money had been cabled to his credit at the American Express and he was urged to return home as soon as possible.

Overjoyed at this good news, Adam promptly moved to more comfortable quarters and booked a passage on a ship that was sailing for Liverpool the following week. Now he cursed himself for not having foreseen that, on the chance that his first book would do well, he ought to have another ready to send in; and for all the wasted hours he might have been working on it, instead of devoting his time to learning Spanish, then sitting about miserably in Recife.

Filled with enthusiasm, he went to work at once and roughed out a plot. It was based on his recent voyage and a love affair between a fictional First Mate in a ship and a young Brazilian girl passenger who was heiress to millions.

By the time he sailed he had written two chapters and on the voyage over he wrote a further six. Well before he arrived in England he had decided there was no point in his returning either to Scotland or Southampton, so he would live in London. When he arrived there the rents appalled him, but he settled for a bed-sitter, bathroom and kitchenette, which he felt he could afford, in Wandsworth. Then, living on eggs, tinned food and frequent brews of tea, he renewed his literary labours, working twelve hours a day.

Soon after his return he was taken to lunch by his publisher, an elderly gentleman with a benign countenance but cynical turn of mind, named Winters. From Mr. Winters, Adam learned the hard facts of authorship as a career. It was the worst paid of all professions. He must not be misled by the incomes made by such writers as Agatha Christie, Somerset Maugham, Dennis Wheatley, Ian Fleming, and a few others of that kind. They could be counted on the fingers of two hands. Over eighty new novels were published every week. Many of them had entailed two or three years’ work, but earned their authors only a few hundred pounds, because ninety per cent of their sales were to libraries, which meant that they received about two shillings’ royalty on a book that would be read by scores of people.

There was also the matter of ‘build-up’. However successful a first novel might be, unless it were filmed it would bring its author less than a leading barrister received for one case, or a Harley Street surgeon for two or three private operations. It was not until an author was established with eight or ten well-received books behind him, and a reasonable assurance that they would continue to be reprinted as paperbacks, that he could count on an income on the level of that of a bank manager in a not particularly rich suburban area.

Mr. Winters went on to advise that no author could count on a first success as warrant for taking up full-time authorship. Far better get a steady job, even if it meant producing one book every two years, instead of two or three. Then, after a period, it would emerge whether the author was really a big-shot and could afford only to write for a living, or whether he was one of the thousands who gave all their leisure to providing entertainment for the public for a sum per book that could not have got them two minutes in a cinema.

All this was new to Adam and he protested indignantly that the reading public should be made to pay at least a halfpenny per copy for every book they took out of the Free Libraries. Mr. Winters shrugged his shoulders, laughed and replied:

‘A. P. Herbert and others have been trying for years to get a law to that effect through Parliament. But they are lone voices crying in the wilderness. The big-shot politicians don’t give a damn for justice. All they think about is whether or not a measure might cost their party votes; and to make the British masses pay even a trifle for their reading would. So full-time authors, except those in the first rank, continue to eke out their existence on a few hundred a year, and most of our M.P.s couldn’t care less. Now, my friend, Across the Green Seas has done exceptionally well for a first novel, but if you are wise you will get yourself a steady job.’

Considerably chastened, Adam returned to Wandsworth. On the voyage home he had had pleasant day-dreams of being received in England as a literary lion, invited here and there as the guest of honour and hearing his name on everyone’s lips. Now it emerged that that did not happen after just one successful book, and he might even have to get some other form of regular work to support himself. But, apart from journalism, he had no experience or qualifications which would get him a reasonably well-paid post. Rather than become a drudge on a pittance, he decided to spend his days and nights flogging his talent for all he was worth.

Imbued with the new, fervid flame of creation he turned out story after story and scores of articles on topical subjects. Some were bad, some indifferent, but enough had something in them for several Fleet Street editors to become interested. Within three months he had established a connection and was earning just sufficient money to keep his head above water.

It was at that time that a new element entered his life in the person of Mildred Soames.

He met her at a party given by his publishers. Far from being the ‘lion’ at it, he was just ‘one of our authors’. But Mildred had read his book and showed wide-eyed interest in him. She was a dark, slim, fine-boned young woman with small, well-chiselled features and would have been nearly beautiful in a classic way had it not been for her protruding teeth. Physically and mentally she was the very antithesis of Polly and the only attraction she had for Adam was her evident enthusiasm about his work. Pleasantly flattered as he was at finding her to be a ‘fan’, he did not take her praise very seriously until it emerged that her husband was the firm’s representative in the northern counties, and that for some years past she had been reading manuscripts and advising on their acceptance or rejection.

Her husband was not at the party and she went on to convey that, as he had to spend the greater part of the year on his rounds of the booksellers in the north, she led a rather dreary life. This emboldened Adam to suggest that if she had no other plans she might care to go on somewhere with him to dinner. She accepted with alacrity and when he confessed with some embarrassment that he knew very little about London restaurants she suggested a place in Chelsea at which they dined snugly but inexpensively.

By the time they were having coffee the small, dark, intense Mildred was extracting from her large, shy, Viking-like companion full particulars of his ambitions, circumstances and present impecunity. Promptly she offered her assistance. She read not only for his publisher but also for several magazines, so was in a position to introduce his work to their editors.

This necessitated their meeting again on numerous occasions: at first over a drink or for dinner, then in her Chelsea flat. On the third occasion he went there he found that her husband had returned to London on one of his monthly visits to report sales. His name was Bertie and he proved to be a short, fat, jovial-faced man. Mildred had already told Adam that, as Bertie was seldom at home, he made no objection to her having friendships with other men, so he had heard from her all about her new ‘literary discovery’ and gave Adam a hearty welcome.

In fact Adam found it embarrassingly hearty, for the exuberant Bertie not only plied him with much more gin than he was used to, but slapped him on the back, referred to him as his wife’s new ‘boy friend’ and proceeded to launch into his latest repertoire of questionable stories.

Mildred, failing to head him off, looked down her well-modelled little nose with obvious disapproval, and it was evident to Adam that any great affection that might once have existed between the couple had long since been dissipated.

At their next meeting Mildred confided to Adam that she had good reason to believe that Bertie was unfaithful to her during his absences in the north, and that they continued together only as a matter of convenience. He liked to be able to return to a comfortable home of his own to which he could invite his friends, while she was the gainer by the generous allowance he made her and by living in a better flat than she could otherwise have afforded.

Meanwhile, as the manuscript of Adam’s second book had not yet gone to press, she had been through it with a tooth-comb, cutting out many of the passages about the sea and expanding those concerning the love interest. He did not approve all her alterations, but accepted them because she assured him that she knew best. People, she said, did not want to read long descriptions of tempests and ill-feeling between ship’s officers; they had, to her mind, a childlike absorption in sexual urges and the moves that eventually led to people getting into bed together.

Nine months later, owing largely to Mildred’s connections, Adam was making quite a good income. It was not spectacular and, with Scottish caution, he refused to abandon his bed-sitter in Wandsworth for better quarters; but he had been able to refurnish his seedy wardrobe with new and smarter clothes and, more and more frequently, take Mildred out to dinner and a theatre or movie.

At last the big day came when The Sea and the Siren was published. That night, to celebrate, they dined and danced at the Savoy. Afterwards he took her back to her flat and went in for a last drink. It was a very long time since he had had his affaire with Polly and in recent months he had increasingly toyed with the idea of trying to find a girl whom he could care for and who would be willing to take him as her lover. Mildred had given him the impression that she despised that sort of thing, and he had never even kissed her. But that night both of them had drunk much more than they were accustomed to carry. On a sudden impulse he put his arms round her as they sat on the sofa. She protested, but only feebly. His caresses did not seem to rouse her and she refused his plea to undress and allow him to go to bed with her, but, eventually, still on the sofa, she let him have his way.

In the small hours of the morning he walked back from Chelsea to Wandsworth. He felt none of the elation he had experienced after his first night with Polly; only a relaxed feeling and a vague uneasiness about how the thing he had started might develop.

Next morning he sent flowers. Later that day Mildred telephoned her thanks and asked him to come in for a drink the following evening. By then he had recovered sufficiently to feel better about things. He thought it probable that Mildred’s lack of enthusiasm was due to Bertie’s having mishandled matters on their honeymoon, as it was said that many women suffered from a lasting reaction on that account. But he had again acquired a mistress, and one who shared all his interests, made a charming companion and had an apparently complaisant, virtually absentee husband; so, given time and patience, he felt that the future could hold much happiness for them both.

When he arrived at the Soames’ flat, Mildred opened the door to him. Her large eyes were intense, her prominent teeth flashed in a sudden, rather coy, smile and she said in a low voice:

‘Come in, darling. Bertie’s back from the north for a few nights, and I’ve told him about us.’

For a few seconds Adam did not take in the implications of what she had said. Then he was seized with an impulse to turn and run. But by that time he was inside and advancing towards the open door of the sitting room with Mildred blocking his retreat.

A moment later he was confronting the rotund Bertie, who gave him a look more of pain than anger, and said with a shake of his head, ‘I wouldn’t have believed it of you, young feller. You didn’t strike me as that sort, and I thought Mil was content to go on as things were. I suppose it’s largely my fault for not having insisted on her coming up to Manchester so that I could be with her much more frequently. But there it is. These things do happen, and Mil tells me that you’ve fallen for one another. Well, I’m not one to stand in the way of other people’s happiness. She can have her divorce and I’m sure you’ll do the right thing by the little woman.’

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Adam stammered, ‘Yes … oh, yes. Of course.’ Upon which Bertie suddenly became quite cheerful, began to mix Martinis for the three of them and declared:

‘That’s settled, then. I’m glad we can all remain friends. All we have to do now is to work out ways and means so that we can get things tidied up with a minimum of fuss and bother.’

It then transpired that Bertie was willing to give Mildred ‘grounds’ on the understanding that she made no claim for alimony and that, apart from her personal possessions, he retained the contents of the flat. He added, with disarming generosity, that until the divorce came through he would remain in the north, so Adam was welcome to move into the flat if he wished.

They then shelved the subject, made a determined pretence that it had never arisen and, with somewhat forced cheerfulness, dined together at a nearby restaurant.

Adam got away as soon as he decently could, and walked home with his mind in a whirl. Later, lying in bed, he made a fairly shrewd appreciation of the situation. The full-blooded and gregarious Bertie was thoroughly tired of his earnest and puritanical-minded wife; he had, therefore, jumped at this chance to be rid of her at no financial loss to himself. She, too, was thoroughly tired of him and, as his future held no particular promise, had seized on this opportunity to swap him for an author who was a potential best-seller and in due course, might become a distinguished and wealthy husband.

Much as Adam took pleasure in Mildred’s company, he was not in the least in love with her and he had no wish to be married to anyone. Yet it seemed that, like it or not, he had landed himself with her. Short of cutting loose and disappearing, he saw no way to evade the course that was being thrust upon him. She had become his main contact with the editors who provided him with a living. Moreover, having been taken off his guard, instead of having had the courage to make his feelings about her clear, he had rashly promised Bertie to do the right thing by the ‘little woman’.

Greatly troubled, he eventually fell asleep, vaguely hoping that something might arise that would enable him to wriggle out of his obligation.

But next morning the ground was cut from beneath his feet. Mildred arrived at his lodging, kissed him with unexpected fervour and took charge of matters. She said that Bertie had gone, so Adam could move into her flat.

In vain he protested that to do so might queer the divorce and that her good name would suffer with her neighbours. Mildred replied that in these days there were so many divorces that the King’s Proctor had not the means to investigate one per cent of them and that, as she and Adam were to be married as soon as the divorce was through, her neighbours were quite liberal-minded enough to look on them as turtle-doves rather than as adulterers. She then made Adam pay his landlady a week’s rent in lieu of notice, packed his belongings for him and carried him off.

Once they had settled down, Adam was much happier than he had expected to be. He enjoyed many small comforts that he had previously lacked, and in bed, although she was no Polly, Mildred gave herself to him willingly. Having had little experience of sleeping with women he accepted it that her limitations were normal in contrast to Polly’s, whose amorous abandon he now put down to her having been a nymphomaniac.

Nevertheless, after some months their initial contentment was to be marred by increasingly bad news from the literary front. Adam’s second book proved a flop. It had been well subscribed; but the reviews ranged from indifferent to downright bad, and in its first three months it sold less than thirty per cent of the copies that Across the Green Seas had in the same period.

Mildred railed against the critics and remained convinced that Adam had the makings of a best-seller. Together they laboured on his third book in which, for background, he used his experiences as a crime reporter in Southampton. Again she insisted on inserting lush passages describing the hero’s affaires with several young women. Reluctantly he accepted them, while marvelling that a woman who could write of sexual encounters with such gusto should, herself, be comparatively cold.

This was more than ever borne in on him after the divorce came through. They were married quietly a week later at Chelsea Town Hall, and moved to a smaller flat in the same neighbourhood which they had been decorating and furnishing as their new home. That night, although they had had only half a dozen friends in for drinks, she declared herself too tired to let him make love to her. And from then on their relations in that way steadily worsened.

Mildred began to suffer from migraines and backache. When Adam became sufficiently wrought up to press her she submitted; but reluctantly, and with the air of a martyr, so that he was left with the guilty feeling that he had behaved like a brute. Clearly she derived no enjoyment from it and for him it became only a hard-won temporary satisfaction. Bitterly, he came to the conclusion that she had exerted herself to give him pleasure before their marriage only to keep him on the hook. Twice when she flatly refused him he lost his temper, seized her with his big hands by the shoulders and shook her until her teeth chattered, then took her by force; but afterwards he was thoroughly ashamed of himself and begged her forgiveness.

A fortnight after he sent in the manuscript of his third novel, Mr. Winters asked him to lunch at the Garrick, and there took him to task. Over the coffee he said:

‘We are taking After Dusk in Southampton because the success of your first novel will still enable your name on a book to show us a margin of profit. But it’s not going to get you anywhere. Now tell me, how much of it is you and how much is Mildred?’

Adam admitted that Mildred had had a considerable hand in it, particularly with the love sequences.

Mr. Winters gave his cynical grin. ‘I thought as much, and to you as an author your wife is a menace. She is a competent reader and good enough to recognise the big stuff when she sees it; hence her appreciation of your first novel. But her real flair is for light romance: the triangle fiction that goes down well with young girls and frustrated spinsters. Its sales are entirely to the libraries and its authors are almost unknown. But the ones that Mildred picks always show a profit. Not much, but it is bread-and-butter publishing that helps to keep the firm going. Some writers are naturals at turning out such trash. But you are not, and your new book is neither flesh, fowl nor good red herring. Snap out of it, dear boy. Go home and tell Mildred to put her head in a pudding cloth, then sit down to it and write me a really good book.’

Adam knew inside himself that his publisher was right. When he got home he sugared the pill as well as he could, but gave Mildred an expurgated version of what Mr. Winters had said. The result was a blinding row. She accused him of gross ingratitude and added, he felt without any justification, that his failure to produce really good books was due to his obsession with lust.

They patched up their quarrel, but the rift between them widened. Mildred would let him sleep with her only when he had taken her out to dinner and deliberately filled her up with liquor until she was three parts tight. Meanwhile he set to work on another novel and refused to show her a page of it.

The new book was a sequel to Across the Green Seas. While writing his last two novels, and particularly since the beginning of his association with Mildred, his strange dream parade of life among the Norsemen had occurred only at long intervals; but now that his mind was once more engaged on the subject they again became quite frequent and proved invaluable.

The lofty barn-like house on the shores of East Gotland became as real to him as his Chelsea flat. It was one great room, the beams of the roof supported by two rows of tall posts. At one end there was a partition beyond which, through the dark cold winters, were housed the cattle; but only the prize beasts from which they would breed new herds. The rest were slaughtered in the autumn and salted or smoked for the months when it was difficult to procure food. Round the inner sides of the house there were stalls made from wattle. In one, with a stone surround, was the fire that was never allowed to go out. But there was no chimney to the house, only a hole in the roof; and when a high wind was blowing the smoke was beaten back, making one’s eyes smart. Another stall had a row of pegs on which to hang their furs, although during the coldest months they never took them off. There were no cupboards, but in one cubicle there was a row of shelves to hold the cooking pots with their crude designs and the drinking horns. In the place of honour, on the top shelf, stood his glass mug; a thick piece with a design of a strange animal man called a leopard miraculously depicted on one side. It was said to have come from a great city far to the southward on the inland sea, named Rome, and had cost him twenty head of cattle. Apart from his great five-foot-long, double-edged sword, which he had christened ‘the Avenger’, the mug was his most precious possession.

So absorbed did he become by this transmission of far memory that he could think of little else; so the book progressed most satisfactorily, but a price had to be paid for that. During the past two years he had formed the practice of writing alternately a chapter of a book, then a short story or a few articles. Now he could not bring himself to break off from his novel, with the result that after three or four months his income began to fall off.

The advance on his last book had not fully covered the furnishing of their flat. Many of the items had been obtained on hire purchase and the instalments had to be met. Mildred was still receiving her fees for reading manuscripts, but they were sufficient only to pay for her clothes and help out with the housekeeping. Neither of them had any capital or relatives who they could ask for a loan. Seeing the red light, she both badgered and pleaded with him to put the book aside and get down to more immediately remunerative work. He knew that she was right, but he was now near to hating her and her nagging brought out the obstinate streak in him. With perverse pleasure, he flatly refused.

Then there came a bolt from the blue. Mildred, to her fury, found herself to be pregnant. Adam did his best to console and comfort her, but she laid the blame on him and lashed him with her tongue until any pleasure he might have taken at the thought of becoming a father was destroyed by the knowledge that he was now tied to Mildred more firmly than ever. On top of that he was acutely harassed by the knowledge that having to maintain a child would prove an additional drain on their already strained finances.

His only consolation was that he had finished his book and was well on with revising it. Ten days later he was able to send it in and give his mind to devising plots for short stories. But writing the book had taken so much out of him that his imagination seemed to have dried up. He should, he knew, have had at least a fortnight’s complete change and rest, but a holiday was out of the question: they could not possibly afford it. By driving himself mercilessly he succeeded in turning out about two thousand words a day, but he knew the writing to be of indifferent quality and was further depressed, although not surprised, that half the stuff he sent in was turned down.

The six months that followed were an ever-increasing nightmare. Mildred had a bad pregnancy and mounting fears of the ordeal she could not escape. Vindictively, she took it out of Adam, abusing him both as the cause of her sickness and about the sad falling off in the standard of his work. For as long as he could each day he now shut himself away from her, doing his writing at a small table in the bathroom, but they had to meet for meals and share their bed at night. In such an atmosphere his work deteriorated further. He found himself incapable of writing stories acceptable to good magazines and even from lesser papers the ratio of rejection slips for his articles steadily increased.

A time came when his bank manager refused him a further overdraft; so, in desperation, he asked Mr. Winters for an advance on his unpublished book. Winters pointed out that After Dusk in Southampton had proved an even worse flop than The Sea and the Siren and that both books had outstanding balances against them; so, with the firm, Adam was already well ‘in the red’. But he admitted that his reader’s reports on the new book Chronicles of Ord were encouraging and, somewhat grudgingly, let him have two hundred pounds.

In overdue hire-purchase instalments and other liabilities the two hundred pounds melted away overnight. For some time past Adam had been unable to take Mildred out to dinner or a movie, even once a week. They scraped and tried to save by getting rid of their cleaning woman. The additional work thrown upon Mildred made her still more shrewish; although she hardly attempted to cope with it, with the result that the flat became a pig-sty. Bills continued to roll in, but only an occasional cheque for a few guineas from an editor, and the bank manager became difficult, insisting that Adam’s overdraft must be substantially reduced.

By early summer the position had become desperate: the grocer and Adam’s tailor were both threatening to take proceedings unless their accounts were paid; he could not even find the next quarter’s rent. Worked out, harassed almost beyond endurance, flagellated day and night by Mildred’s viperish tongue, utterly miserable, he realised that unless something absolutely unexpected happened he would be made bankrupt.

The absolutely unexpected did happen. Mildred was knocked down by a car in the King’s Road and killed. That same afternoon, an hour before Adam learned that he was a widower, Mr. Winters telephoned. He had sold the British serial rights in Chronicle of Ord for a thousand pounds.

After that the thing snowballed. An American publisher took the book, United States serial rights were sold for five thousand dollars. When the book was published in the autumn it went right to the top in the best-seller lists. It won Adam the Atlantic Prize and was a huge success in the United States. The film rights were sold and translation rights to half a dozen countries; editors were begging Adam to let them have at any price he liked to name the short stories they had rejected. A year after Mildred’s death a Company that Adam had formed to exploit his copyrights had bought him a Jaguar and paid for him to live in a suite at the Ritz.

Lucky Adam Gordon. He had survived when the rest of his family had perished. Lucky Gordon, although the son of a poor Scottish net-maker, he had been sent to one of England’s finest public schools. Lucky Gordon, against all reasonable possibility at the time, he had been through a good university. Lucky Gordon, with his first book he had made a name for himself. Lucky Gordon, Fate had relieved him of a wife whom he had come to hate. Lucky Gordon, with his fourth book he had hit the high-spots and as an author was now the envy of the literary world. Lucky Gordon, that winter he was able to travel de luxe to Mexico, the warm, exotic, wonderful land of which he had for so long had dreams and longed to see.

But parts of his road to riches had been far harder than people knew, and several times it had seemed that his luck had deserted him for good. As he finished his daiquiri and his eyes again roved over the well-dressed men and lovely women dining in the roof restaurant of the Del Paseo, he wondered a shade uneasily for how long his present luck was going to last.