And so, in the way these things have of occurring, John had been living for the last eight months in Solomon Dortmund’s apartment, two flights up in a proud brick building off the Edgware Road. It wasn’t large, but it was comfortable. Solly’s choice of pictures hung on the walls, and Solly’s umbrella lived in a stand by the front door. And Solomon had died of a heart attack in the bedroom, and John had done right by him, he was morally certain of that—arranged the funeral, invited the old man’s comrades, put money behind the bar. Had spent an evening in the company of strangers, all of whom remembered Solly fondly, and all of whom had wondered who he, Bachelor, was, precisely? Not a relative, surely. That “surely” contained a wealth of ethnic certainties. So no, John wasn’t a relative; was, rather, the son of a man with whom Solly had done business in the long-ago. The nature of this business was left vague, and those who had known that Solly, for all his gentle manners and kind habits, had once performed certain services for a certain Service, had nodded wisely, and left it at that. And afterwards John had returned to the flat, Solly’s keys in his pocket, Solly’s umbrella in his hand.