And it was at that point in my speculations that something came to me. The most vague series of word-associations and connotations drifted across the back of my mind and vanished like smoke; something connecting Eliot, and Donne, and dust, and my little soliloquy, flickered into a shaped and disappeared. And that shape had been important, something to do with Michael Ashbury ... Something to do with Michael Ashbury's death ... I couldn't think. I finished the last of my beer and got up with a sudden movement ... "Mee-OW," said Jezebel malevolently. "Sorry, puss." Dust, that was one of the operative words. Dust came into it somewhere. MY FEET ALONG THE MOONLIT DUST ... DUST HAS CLOSED HELEN'S EYE ... Yes, that was nearer ... ROAD TO DUSTY DEATH ... Something about dust from heaven, how did it go? No, that wasn't it at all. Dust, dust, dust, dust, dust, dust ... No good. It had been there and it had gone, just like Michael Ashbury. It had come, and had left me.