CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
When Watters returned from the telegraph office, the package was on his desk, carefully wrapped in brown paper and with a folded and sealed note attached.
“Where did that come from?”
Shaw sounded weary. “A young lad handed it into the booking-in desk and said it was for you,”
Watters read the label. “If the mountain won’t come to Mohamed, then Mohamed must come to the mountain.”
“What the devil does that mean?” Shaw asked.
Watters smiled without explaining. He opened the package and removed a shining new billycock hat. “It’s from Mr Dobbie,” he said.
“That must have cost you, Sergeant,” Shaw said.
“Not a penny,” Watters tried it on. “A perfect fit,” he said. “I’ll have to thank Mr Dobbie.” He lifted his cane. “You get yourself some tea, Shaw. You look like you
