He strode through the door with an air of authority. ‘Evening, Roberts.’ He was glad to have remembered the doorman’s name; he was good with names, a trick that was part of his extensive charm.

‘Good evening, sir.’ Roberts was clearly disconcerted that he couldn’t repay the compliment and so compensated by making conversation as Howard signed in; an illegible squiggle that couldn’t be traced. ‘It’s quiet tonight, sir.’

‘I imagine it is.’

‘Many of the gentlemen have already left town to start their training.’

‘Indeed.’

Howard picked up a newspaper from the table by the door to signal that the conversation was over and headed to the lounge; he ordered double malt, no water, and sat by the fire. The doorman was correct: the club was noticeably quieter than on any of the previous occasions he’d visited. Some fellow was playing a piano in another room, the tinkling notes drifting through with the soft murmur of the voices of two or three of the older chaps and the clink of ice against glass; there was an absence of raucous laughter or bandying of obnoxious or exciting opinions. The place felt deserted.

‘Howard Henderson, isn’t it?’

The voice, authoritative with a slight northern twang that made it friendly, was immediately recognisable. He nodded. ‘Mr Clarke.’

‘Basil, please.’ The newspaperman held out his hand for Howard to shake. His grip was firm and brief. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down opposite Howard. Howard felt uncertain about this intrusion; he couldn’t decide if he wanted company or to be left alone. On their last encounter he’d found Clarke a disappointment; he’d been trivial, frivolous and not worthy of his exciting reputation. His conversation starter tonight was predictable too. ‘Damned quiet in here.’

‘Isn’t it.’

‘All gone to war.’

‘It appears so.’

They fell silent. On their last encounter Howard had been invited here as Warrington’s esteemed guest; he’d felt valued, important, admired, although it was awkward to recall that he had cocked up the opportunity somewhat by refusing to go with the flow. Warrington was sure Howard had offended Clarke. Howard thought of the manager’s mounting irritation. Was it building towards an outright rejection of him? He had to consider the possibility that his position at the theatre was unsteady. Things were changing fast. He decided he had better make amends with the newspaperman; it was what Warrington would want.

‘My manager, Mr Warrington, felt that I’d offended you when we met last.’

‘Did he now?’

‘You know, because I implied you should be writing something more important than an article about pretty girls.’

‘You didn’t imply it.’

‘Quite, I said it.’ Howard sighed, wondering why he had been fool enough to remind Clarke of the incident. ‘Offence wasn’t my intention.’

‘It wasn’t the result. You made a valid point. I like a man who knows his mind.’ Before Howard could revel in this compliment, Clarke added, ‘It was in truth the reality check I needed. I’m off myself tomorrow.’