My cigar was lying unlit by my brandy glass; I handed it to him. “They’re wasted on me,” I said.

He smiled and put it in his cigar-case.

“You understand me, Joe.”

He patted me on the shoulder.

“Your father-in-law must think a lot about you,” he said. “He’ll think even more of you after tomorrow. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“There’s quite a lot,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter now.”

“Well, we’ll go into all that tomorrow, when we look at the draft contract. A most forbidding document, I may add.” He held out his hand. “Thank you again for a really admirable dinner. And now I’ll go home to bed and a nice mug of Ovaltine and an hour with Sherlock Holmes. . . . The pleasures of an old man . . .”

I hardly heard him. “What draft contract, sir?”

He put his hand to his mouth; the gesture was almost roguish. “I mustn’t tell you,” he said. “It’s Mr. Mottram’s decision. But it’ll be the contract that you’re really interested in, take my word for it.”

I looked at him dumbly.

After I’d put him in a taxi I went up to my room. I kicked off my shoes and loosened my collar and lay on the bed; it was the first moment that I’d had the chance to relax. The pain in my chest began to diminish; I was in, I was home and dry. I’d got the order. He’d played cat-and-mouse with me for a bit, because that was his nature; but I’d succeeded where other men had failed.

I ran my hand over my chin; it was six o’clock in the morning when I’d shaved last. A shower, a shave, a clean shirt, and a large Scotch on the rocks; and Jean was having a party. I hadn’t ex­pected to go to that party when she’d told me about it on Saturday; but neither had I expected to all but clinch the deal with Tiffield. I threw off my clothes and went into the bathroom; as the cold shower jerked my body back into well-being it suddenly occurred to me that there was nothing more I could reasonably wish for.