‘Lady Carrados’s gel? Is she fond of you?’

‘Yes.’

‘She seems a nice creature. You’re fortunate. Not one of these screeching rattles. She’ll wait for you.’

‘I won’t go.’

‘M’dear boy, I’m sorry, but you’ve no alternative.’

Donald’s face was white but two scarlet patches burned on his cheek-bones. His lips trembled. Suddenly he burst out violently.

‘You can keep your filthy money,’ he shouted. ‘By God, I’ll look after myself. I’ll borrow from someone who’s not a bloody complacent Edwardian relic and I’ll get a job and pay them back as I can.’

‘Jobs aren’t to be had for the asking. Come now—’

‘Oh, shut up!’ bawled Donald and flung out of the room.

Lord Robert stared at the door which his nephew had not neglected to slam. The room was very quiet. The fire settled down with a small whisper of ashes and Lord Robert’s clock ticked on the mantelpiece. It ticked very loudly. The plump figure, only half-lit by the lamp on the desk, was quite still, the head resting on the hand. Lord Robert sighed, a slight mournful sound. At last he pulled an envelope towards him and in his finicky writing addressed it to Captain Withers, Shackleton House, Leatherhead. Then he wrote a short note, folded a cheque into it and put them both in the envelope. He rang for his butler.

‘Has Mr Donald gone out?’

‘Yes, m’lord. He said he would not be returning.’

‘I see,’ said Lord Robert. ‘Thank you. Will you see that this letter is posted immediately?’

CHAPTER FOUR

Blackmail to Music

LORD ROBERT had sat on the blue sofa since two-fifteen but he was not tired of it. He enjoyed watching the patrons of music arriving and he amused himself with idle speculations on the subject of intellectual snobbishness. He also explored the blue sofa, sliding his hands cautiously over the surface of the seat and down between the seat and the arms. He had taken the precaution of leaving his gloves on a chair on the left of the sofa and a little behind it. A number of people came and spoke to him, among them Lady Carrados, who was looking tired.

‘You’re overdoing it, Evelyn,’ he told her. ‘You look charming—that’s a delightful gown, ain’t it?—but you’re too fragile, m’dear.’

‘I’m all right, Bunchy,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a nice way of telling a woman she’s getting older.’

‘No, I say! It wasn’t that. Matter of fact it rather suits you bein’ so fine-drawn, but you are too thin, you know. Where’s Bridgie?’

‘At a matinee.’

‘Evelyn, do you know if she sees anything of my nephew?’

‘Donald Potter? Yes. We’ve heard all about it, Bunchy.’

‘He’s written to his mother who no doubt is giving him money. I suppose you know he’s sharing rooms with some other feller?’

‘Yes. Bridgie sees him.’

‘Does Bridgie know where he is?’

‘I think so. She hasn’t told me.’

‘Is she fond of the boy, Evelyn?’

‘Yes.’