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The lone figure shuffled along the row of cages, hunched in his brown overcoat against a mountain wind as frigid as a bank manager’s stare. Making soft noises in his throat, he seemed to be conversing with the animals, soothing here, making chucking noises there, and occasionally reaching out to ruffle a furry pelt.

To an observer the effect was of someone attempting to calm the captive occupants, in turn finding comfort in the act.

And he was being observed.

So engrossed was he that he did not notice the two figures skulking behind him in the inky shadows.

A knowledgeable observer would have appreciated their skulking technique. They had it down pat. If there were a University of Skulking, these two would have been the chancellor and vice-chancellor, respectively, both writing textbooks on The Art of Skulking and collecting comfortable royalties from sales of the recommended set works.

- Are you sure that’s him? skulkmeister no. 1 asked. Not in words of course, since words (see chapter 2 of The Art of Skulking) invariably compromised a good skulk. You needed sign language (chapters seven through eleven) to be an expert skulker, and these two were the best.

- ‘Course I’m sure, skulkmeister no. 2 signed back. - I’d recognise him anywhere.

Inside the cages, the animals were showing signs of restlessness. Sniffing, pacing, pawing the bars.

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