“But your advertisement said ‘curiously qualified.’ Tell me, Mr—(business of consulting card)—ah, Pledger-Brown, in precisely what direction does your curious qualification lie?”

“I am the godson of Garter.”

“Godson of—?”

“Garter.”

“I do not understand.”

“Quite possibly not. But that is why you need me, you see. I mean, people who want genealogies erected and pedigrees searched don’t usually know these things. Americans in particular. I mean that my godfather is the Garter King of Arms.”

“What’s that?”

“He is the principal officer of the College of Heralds. I hope that one day, with luck, I may be a member of the College myself. But I must make a beginning somewhere, you see.”

“Somewhere? What do you imply by somewhere? You regard me as a starting-point, is that it? I would be rough material for your prentice-hand; is that what you mean?”

“Oh, dear me, no. But I must do some independent work before I can hope to get an official appointment, mustn’t I?”

“How should I know what you must do? What I want to know is whether there is any chance that you can undertake the job I want done and do it properly.”

“Well, Mr Staunton, I don’t think anybody will do it for you if you go on like this.”

“Like this? Like this? I don’t understand you. What fault have you to find with the way I have been going on, as you express it?”

Pledger-Brown was all mildness, and his smile was like a Victorian picture of a village maiden.

“Well, I mean playing Serjeant Buzfuz and treating me really quite rudely when I’ve only come in answer to your letter. You’re a law student, of course. I’ve looked you up, you see. And your father is a prominent Canadian industrialist. I suppose you want some ancestors. Well, perhaps I can find some for you. And I want the work, but not badly enough to be bullied about it. I mean, I am a beginner at genealogy, but I’ve studied it: you’re a beginner at the law, but you’ve studied it. So why are you being so horrid when we are on an even footing?”

So I stopped being horrid, and in quite a short time he had accepted a glass of sherry and was calling me Staunton and I was calling him Pledger-Brown, and we were discussing what might be done.

He was in his third year at Corpus, which I could almost have hit with a stone from my windows, because I was in Canterbury Quad at the rear of Christ Church. He was mad for genealogy and couldn’t wait to get at it, so he had advertised while he was still an undergraduate, and his anxiety for strict confidence was because his college would have been unsympathetic if they thought he was conducting any sort of business within their walls. He was obviously poor, but he had an air of breeding, and there was a strain of toughness in him that lay well below his wispy, maidenly ways. I took to him because he was as keen about his profession as I was about mine, and for anything I knew his diffidence may have been the professional manner of his kind. Soon he was cross-examining me.