"so," said Tavish, "isn't it about time you told us why you're here? it's obvious you didn't expect to find Sam, or, who was it? Monty? so how come you're here?" but Geneviève shook her head, "I don't know, I received a letter, dated 1868, from London, I don't know how it ever reached me, but it was adventitious," and Sam nodded, "that was me," he said, "no, I didn't send it, but when I found it, I forwarded it to you, I've been keeping tabs on you since the last time, I knew you were in Hanna Barbera, under that name you used before, Lollobello Montecello—which indicated to me that you must be pretty war-weary—so I was able to send it on," and Geneviève glanced at him, "did you add the co-ordinates of the Portal?" at which Sam grinned, accentuating his similarity to a parsnip, in spite of the sprusado of his dress—shirt, chinos, deck-shoes attesting to his having acquired better taste than he ever displayed while she had known him and she wondered, is there a Mrs Sam—and he said, quite casually "well, I thought it would be safer for you here, if MacFarlane is looking for you," he gave her a penetrating look which made her feel uneasy, and she wondered if she could ever trust him, after what had happened in Benghazi all those decades before, when there was nothing impeccable about his morality, loyalty or fidelity.