His sister Ruth, an advanced hypochondriac, with the persistence of a missionary, continually pressed upon him strange boluses, pills and draughts. She made a practice of calling on him after dinner armed with chemist’s parcels and a store of maddening condolences and counsels. On Friday night he retreated to his study, begging his wife to tell Ruth, if she appeared, that he was extremely busy, and not to be interrupted. His wife looked at him for a moment.

“I shall ask Nash,” she said, “to say we are both out.”

He paused and then said uncomfortably:

“I don’t think I quite like—”

“I too,” said his wife, “find myself bored by Ruth.”

“Still, Cicely—after all she is exceedingly kind. Perhaps it would be better—”

“You will see her then?”

“No, damn it, I won’t.”

“Very well, Derek. I’ll tell Nash. Has your pain been worrying you lately?”

“Quite a lot, thank you.”

“That, of course, is why you are irritable. I think you are foolish not to see a doctor.”

“I think I told you I would call in John Phillips as soon as this Bill was through.”

“It’s for you to decide, of course. Shall I ask Nash to take your coffee into the study?”

“If you please.”

“Yes.” She had a curiously remote way of saying “Yes,” as though it was a sort of bored comment on everything he uttered. “Good night, Derek. I am going up early and won’t disturb you.”

“Good night, Cicely.”

She stepped towards him and waited. By some mischance his kiss fell upon her lips instead of her cheek. He almost felt he ought to apologise. However, she merely repeated “Good night” and he went off to his study.

Here his secretary Ronald Jameson awaited him. Jameson, just down from Oxford, was an eager but not too tiresomely earnest young man. He did his work well, and was intelligent. Normally, O’Callaghan found him tolerable and even likeable. To-night, the sight of his secretary irritated and depressed him.

“Well, Ronald?”

He sank down into his chair, and reached for a cigar.

“Sir John Phillips has rung up, sir, and would like to come and see you this evening if you are free.”

“Phillips? Has anyone been talking about me to Phillips? What does he want? Is it a professional visit?”

“I don’t think so, sir. Sir John didn’t mention your—indisposition.”

“Ring him up and say I’ll be delighted. Anything else?”

“These letters. There’s another of the threatening variety. I do wish, sir, that you’d let me talk to Scotland Yard.”

“No. Anything else?”

“Only one, marked personal. It’s on your desk.”

“Give it to me, will you?”