On Monday Charvill had still not returned, and the major duly presented himself at Mrs Chalkney’s house in Grosvenor Square, thanking his stars that his friend Roding would not be there to spoil sport. He passed his arm under that of the constable, and drew him aside. “We are clerks in the same bank. He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image. “I wonder,” he said, “is there anything we could do to help you to get rid of him?” “Can you think of anything?” Anna answered. Then her white teeth gleamed, and her excuse for remaining any longer before that little marble table was gone.
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