‘And no real need to come, either,’ Mr. Blearney went on. ‘Just keeping my eye on a touring show that’s here at the local flea pit.’

‘One of your shows?’ Charles asked.

‘In a manner of speaking, yes. I’m not the backer, but I’m acting for the backer. We’ve been getting rumours that the zip’s gone out of it. Comics need some new gags, chorus could do with a rest—you know the sort of thing.’

Charles tried to look as if he knew the sort of thing. They drank some more of their whisky.

‘I shall have to—well, Gawd, look who’s here,’ said Mr. Blearney suddenly. ‘Come on over, Bernard,’ he shouted, ‘hey, Veronica, come on over, both of you! It’s Uncle Arthur.’

Charles looked up, a sudden intuition smashing into the pit of his stomach. Walking over to them, with smiles of recognition directed at Mr. Blearney, were the Rodericks.

Men have been known to commit suicide by standing in front of a train. In such cases there must have been an interval of time—say, between one and three seconds—when the suicide stood between the metals, firmly planted on his feet in the path of the engine, with every nerve and muscle braced for the shocking impact. Such a degree of tension is probably unique, and not to be approached in everyday life. But Charles approached it now. As he jerked to his feet, every muscle went rigid in the violent attempt to stop himself from trembling or falling down.

‘Well, well, you gadabouts!’ roared Mr. Blearney, delighted. ‘I’d forgotten you’d be back from Monte by now! How’s the old Med. looking? Blue for a boy, eh? How’s the old Casino, eh, Bernard?’

‘We didn’t go into the Casino,’ purred Mr. Roderick, humorously. ‘Roulette isn’t one of my diversions, you should know that, Arthur.’

‘I should know that! Me?’ Mr. Blearney rasped in mock horror, turning to Charles with a ludicrous air of injured innocence. ‘What should I know of his diversions! Me that’s led such a quiet life! By the way,’ he continued, dropping into what, for him, was a normal tone, ‘I don’t suppose you know each other—this is Bernard and Veronica Roderick, old friends of mine—this is, er, I don’t believe you gave me your name, anyway, I met this young man in the train just now, and I’ve taken a big fancy to him already.’

‘My name’s Charles Lumley.’

Clumsy, oafish performance! When a touch of sparkle, a gay rejoinder to old Blearney’s maunderings, a crisp epigram, perhaps (already) a well-turned compliment—when these things were imperiously demanded by the situation, all he could do was to stand stiffly, his arms rigidly held at an unnatural angle from his sides, and mumble out his name.