"You know," she said, "this park is a kind of living history book. These trees were planted to commemorate the last-ditch stand of the First Monmouthshire Regiment between Wieltze and Verlorenhoek in 1915. Somewhere around a thousand men went into the line. Only a handful came out alive. But they did what they had to do. They stopped the German advance. Now, every spring, these trees are a cloud of blossom. I guess you couldn't find a lovelier memorial anywhere.

"That's how people are around here. When something big happens, they plant trees. Over there" — she pointed to the left — "another ring marks the arrival of the first U.S. naval contingent in World War II." Her voice changed. "And you're dead right, brother. We've got company."

The man in the sheepskin coat was bending down, ostentatiously studying the metal plaque that told of the coming of the American forces.

Beyond the may trees Illya saw a terrace thickly bordered by trees and bushes. He said, "Make for the steps. Move fast. When you get to the top, duck into the shrubbery."

Blodwen picked up the poodle and ran, with Illya close on her heels.

The shadower was taken by surprise. He straightened, and after a momentary hesitation pounded up the steps in pursuit. As he reached the top Illya stepped from behind the bushes and chopped down with an expert karate blow. The man crumpled. His head hit the pavement with a hollow sound, and he lay still.

Illya said, "Now, my friend, we'll see who you are."

He yanked open the sheepskin jacket and searched swiftly. The inside breast pocket of the man's hairy tweed sportcoat yielded a leather wallet and two envelopes. The wallet contained a driver's license in the name of John Carney, a few receipted bills and ten one-pound notes. The envelopes bore the inscription: John Carney, Esq., The Paddocks, Llandrillo, Merioneth. One contained a final demand for payment of water bills; the other, a bookmaker's account.

Illya memorized the name and address, then replaced the wallet and envelopes where he had found them. He put his hands under the man's armpits and dragged him to a bench. Then, with an effort, he hoisted him into a sitting position.

Blodwen, cuddling the poodle, emerged from the shelter of the trees. "Is he... ?" She let the sentence tail off apprehensively.

"Certainly not," Illya said indignantly. "I detest violence. He'll have a headache when he wakes, but that won't be for an hour or so. Meanwhile, I suggest we get out of here."

They made their way to the gates leading into Friars Road, climbed the hill and emerged by St. Wollo's Cathedra. Illya pointed to the bus stop. "Back to town?"

"No. We'd better go to my place. I have a feeling we'll be safer under cover for a while."

Blodwen's apartment was on the top floor of a stone-built Victorian house overlooking the Civic Center. The windows gave a view of distant green mountains marred by sprawling new suburbs. The living-room furniture was a comfortable mixture of good pieces and auction-mart bargains. There was a big stereo set in a teak cabinet and a television set with a twenty-three-inch screen. The wall-to-wall gray carpet gave evidence that the poodle had been hard to train.

Blodwen took off her coat and flung it on a Danish-type settee upholstered in royal blue fabric. In the tight black sweater and narrow-hipped pants she looked like a ballet dancer. Only, Illya amended with satisfaction, better built. She put a Mancini album on the turntable, flicked the switch, and opened a wall-cabinet. "Scotch, gin, vodka or rye?"

Illya settled himself in an elderly, chintz-covered armchair. "Scotch will be fine."

She went into the pint-size kitchen and returned with a bowl of ice cubes from the refrigerator. As she poured the drinks, she asked, "So what did you learn about our woolly chum?"

"I got his name and address. Wait. I'll have to write them down. The place reads like a new kind of instant cake mix."

He picked up a newspaper, scribbled in the margin and passed it to her.

She read aloud: "Llandrillo, Merioneth...That's interesting. Corwen's in Merioneth, too. It can't be coincidence."

She took an A.A. guide from a row of books on the mantel and thumbed the pages. "Here we are. Merioneth. Corwen is on the branch railway line from Ruabon to Barmouth. (That'll be closed down now, of course. Dear old Dr. Beeching, though you wouldn't know about him.) And — well, well! Would you believe it? Llandrillo just happens to be the next village along the line — only five miles away."

Illya took a thoughtful pull at his drink. "I think," he said slowly, "I had better take a look at your North Welsh countryside. It gets more interesting by the minute."

"Want me to come, too?"

He sighed. "You'll never know how much," he said. "But just for the moment you had better stay here and hold the fort. Meanwhile, I think we'll call for reinforcements."

"The legendary Mr. Solo?"

"Who else?"

She crossed the room and turned the volume control at the side of the television set. The screen swung away, revealing a black, military-type radio transmitter.

"Be my guest," she said.

Chapter Four

The battered Ford Zephyr trundled leisurely along through little villages with unpronounceable Welsh names and it was uphill all the way. There were frequent stops while Illya confirmed his map bearings and not a few unscheduled halts to let the engine get its breath back for another climb.

The car nosed into Corwen around five in the afternoon. Near the market place Illya found a large iron-mongery store bearing the improbable name of Jones. A friendly assistant inside directed him to the Cader Idris as being a hotel where they spoke English and took foreigners from across the border.

It was a comfortable, old-fashioned inn with a great deal of old oak, gleaming brass and a permanent smell of boiled cabbage. And it was tactically situated on High Street between a chapel hall and a cinema (Saturdays only). Smack, in fact, at the hub of Corwen's roaring night life.

Illya checked in, had a meal and went down to the hotel bar.

Trade was not booming but here was enough business to keep the wolf from the vestibule. Three or four natives who looked like farmers were arguing in Welsh over tankards. A couple of traveling salesmen were adding up the day's total of glass bead and trade gin and plotting new skullduggery for the morrow over glasses of whiskey hot. And sitting by himself at a table near the open fireplace was a character in hairy tweeds and a fold-weave tie with a flannel shirt to match. He had a plate of bread and cheese and a bottle of Guinness in front of him

Nobody paid much attention to Illya's entrance. The farmers returned his "good evening" with a hasty "nos da." The two salesmen looked up, nodded briefly and returned to their figuring. The tweedy man said nothing at all.

The landlord drew a pint of bitter and Illya retired with it to a corner. Something seemed to tell him the boys could get along without his company.

All the evening his eyes kept returning to the man near the fireplace. Despite the natty country suiting he looked out of his element. He had a shaggy mop of jet black hair and his lantern-jawed face was deeply lined. His brown eyes, when he looked up to order another bottle of stout, were sad yet with a look of burning in them. All in all Illya figured his right setting was one of those groups of artsy-craftsy eggheads who hang around Greenwich Village or London's Hampstead area.

At about nine o'clock he got up, muttered "nos da" to nobody in particular and went out.