"No," I said. "I'm no sorehead. Sure, there's some things here that somebody ought to look into--some day. But right now what I want is the cops off my neck. And I've been thinking. I'll dictate a letter; you write it--your lawyers know your handwriting. Tell them you were on the thin edge of a nervous breakdown--that's why all the artillery around your house--and you made up your mind suddenly to get away from it all. Tell them you don't want to be bothered, that's why you're travelling incognito, and that the northern mobster that came to see you was just stupid, not a killer. That ought to at least cool off the cops--" Foster looked thoughtful. "That's an excellent suggestion," he said. "Then we need merely to arrange for passage to England, and proceed with the investigation." "You don't get the idea," I said. "You can arrange things by mail so we get our hands on that dough of yours--" "Any such attempt would merely bring the police down on us," Foster said. "You've already pointed out the unwisdom of attempting to pass myself off as--myself." "There ought to be a way...." I said. "We have only one avenue of inquiry," Foster said. "We have no choice but to explore it. We'll take passage on a ship to England--" "What'll we use for money--and papers? It would cost hundreds. Unless--" I added, "--we worked our way. But that's no good. We'd still need passports--plus union cards and seamen's tickets." "Your friend," Foster said. "The one who prepares passports. Can't he produce the other papers as well?" "Yeah," I said. "I guess so. But it will cost us." "I'm sure we can find a way to pay," Foster said. "Will you see him--early in the morning?" I looked around the blowsy room. Hot night air stirred a geranium wilting in a tin can on the window sill. An odor of bad cooking and worse plumbing floated up from the street. "At least," I said, "it would mean getting out of here." CHAPTER V It was almost sundown when Foster and I pushed through the door to the saloon bar at the Ancient Sinner and found a corner table. I ordered a pint of mild-and-bitter and watched Foster spread out his maps and papers. Behind us, there was a murmur of conversation, and the thump of darts against a board. "When are you going to give up and admit we're wasting our time?" I said. "Two weeks of tramping over the same ground, and we end up in the same place; sitting in a country pub drinking warm beer." "We've hardly begun our investigation," Foster said mildly. "You keep saying that," I said. "But if there ever was anything in that rock-pile, it's long gone. The archaeologists have been digging over the site for years, and they haven't come up with anything." "They didn't know what to look for," Foster said. "They were searching for indications of religious significance, human sacrifice--that sort of thing."