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Updated: May 28, 2025
I will write you a couple of fake letters to back the card, you are in the watch trade. Pebblemarsh is the nearest town, only five miles down the road; there's a station there, but you'd better avoid that. There's a garage. You could get a car to London. If they nail you, scream like an excited Jew, produce your credentials, and if the worst comes to the worst refer to me and come back here.
Have you enough money?" "Lots," said Jones, "and I don't know in the least how to thank you for what you have done. I'd have been had, sure, wearing that hat and coat well, maybe we'll meet again." They parted at the gate, the hunted one taking the white, dusty road in the direction of Pebblemarsh, Kellerman watching till a bend hid him from view.
However, the hedgerows of the Pebblemarsh road gave up nothing but the odours of briar and woodbine, nothing pursued him but the twitter of birds and the songs of larks above the summer-drowsy fields. There is nothing much better to live in the memory than a real old English country road on a perfect summer afternoon, no pleasanter companion. Pebblemarsh is a town of some four thousand souls.
It possesses a dye factory. It once possessed the only really good trout stream in this part of the country, with the inevitable result, for in England when a really good trout stream is discovered a dye factory is always erected upon its banks. Pebblemarsh now only possesses a dye factory.
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