Chapter 41

But as the miles slipped behind him he realised with horror that his memory was playing him false. He could not get the bits to fit in; what he had reeled off so smoothly twenty-four hours ago now came out in idiotic shreds and patches. He felt himself slipping into a worse funk than he had ever known in all his tempestuous days. . . . For a moment he thought of throwing up the sponge. He might engineer a breakdown--it would have to be a bad spill, for the day was yet young--and so deprive Muirtown of the presence …