It was still the best hotel in Latchford, though now enlarged and shyly in-trend. Its pale, aloof, but agreeable face had once met the coaches arriving from London; as they crossed the bridge, after the perils of the heath, they saw first this haven, waiting to welcome them. Well, the bypass had ended all that, while at the same time mysteriously increasing the town traffic. But the Sun had survived this technological alchemy. It remained the place into which the locals booked Gently. Over lunch, to which Gently had invited him, Metfield found the Yard man a silent companion. He ate with a stolid, impenetrable composure, and stared out of the window between courses. They took coffee in the lounge, where Gently lit his pipe, and Metfield a modest Panatella; but it was not till the second cup that Gently condescended to unbend. Then he regarded the local man with a twinkling, hazel eye. ‘Do you think we should contemplate a Third Force?’ Metfield’s Panatella slipped a notch. ‘How do you mean, sir?’ Gently blew a ring.
