As we moved away I saw the Turkish policeman pick it up and put it inside his cap.
We returned by the long street on the crest of the hill.

There was a man selling oranges on a tray, and Blenkiron stopped to look at them.

I noticed that the man shuffled fifteen into a cluster.

Blenkiron felt the oranges, as if to see that they were sound, and pushed two aside.
The man instantly restored them to the group, never raising his eyes.
'This ain't the time of year to buy fruit,' said Blenkiron as we passed on.

'Those oranges are rotten as medlars.' We were almost on our own doorstep before I guessed the meaning of the business.
'Is your morning's work finished ?' I said.
'Our morning's walk ?' he asked innocently.
'I said "work".' He smiled blandly.