The driveway from the house still led through the scrap and the sharp corner where the door had swung open was still there, perhaps a hundred meters away. If he went on his hands and knees, he thought, or crawled on his belly, he could reach it. He moved to the edge of the trees. And as he moved he felt as if a great shadow was falling over him, and then a crushing weight, so that he was pinned to the ground. He struggled and then lay still. Rough hands turned him over. He found himself looking into the dark, fathomless eyes of the man he had seen earlier, the rose still behind his ear. Owen could smell an oily perfume, and the man's voice when he spoke was low and strangely accented. "Now, Pretty," he said, "still yourself. Where is Pretty going? What is Pretty looking for? I think we must talk with Johnston. Johnston will know." 180 The Convoke was crowded, but there was little noise. Shadows from the fire danced round the ancient walls. The Mortmain was on a low table in front of the fire, gleaming softly.
