Digby scanned the busy street for likely candidates. Half the men passing were wearing day clothes—business suits and homburgs. Some were, like him, already in evening dress, prepared for one of the succession of end-of-term celebrations that seemed to start earlier and earlier these days. This would be the last of the year’s Friends’ dinners. He’d had a glimpse of the menu—impressed by the wine that Fanshawe was proposing, he was looking forward to it. He’d finished his academic year—a damned hard one, in fact—and was ready to indulge in a little relaxation, hilarity and good sport. It had been agreed that he should take the part of lead hound tonight. Perhaps he could teach the old fuddy-duddies a few new steps? He was on his mettle!

What had Rendlesham told him? “Watch out for an army greatcoat, an unkempt, tramp-like appearance and—mind what you say. You’re not to frighten him off. It is vital that this one attend. He’s very special, remember?” Digby shuddered. It didn’t sound very promising. How did one greet a tramp in a friendly manner? His usual technique on encountering one such obstructing the pavement was to move him out of his way with the vigorous application of the point of one of his highly polished Oxfords. Digby presented an impressive figure with his wide shoulders and prematurely gnarled hands acquired from years of rowing. People of all ranks of society instinctively made way for him. The thought of communicating with a vagrant was giving him pause. A “Wotcher, mate!” and “’ello, me old mucker!” were the only verbal exchanges between down-and-outs he’d ever heard.

“I say! You must be he! My Hermes? Indeed, my Hermes Psychopompos?”

At the tap on the shoulder, Digby whirled around to face the stranger, whose silent approach he’d missed. The owner of the gravelly, educated voice. “Hermes who?” he heard himself blurting.

“Hermes Psychopompos. My divine guide to the Underworld. I believe that’s where we’re bound? May I present myself? For this evening, I’m Noël Coward. Not my choice of alter ego, but the whimsical jeu d’esprit of your man Rendlesham. I suspect he was not being altogether kind! May I present your card?”