Just then Edmund knocked on the door and came in. He looked green around the gills.

“Hullo, brother,” said Charles. “Feeling badly?”

“Awful.”

“Did eating help?”

“Don’t even mention food, I beg of you,” said Edmund. “I would rather face Attila the Hun than a plate of toast.”

Charles laughed. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Molly had the heart to take the boys out earlier. Not even a word of reproach. What a treasure she is.” A sentimental look came into Edmund’s eyes.

“Do you have meetings today?”

“Not until five o’clock or so. The Prime Minister has remained in town.”

“You said last night.”

“I need to sharpen up before then, to be sure. Perhaps I’ll go back to sleep.”

“The wisest course,” Charles assured him.

“Then I’ll have a bath and try to put myself into some decent shape. At the moment I feel like the offspring of a human being and a puddle on the floor.”

“Have you seen the papers, by the way?”

“What happened?”

“Two journalists were murdered last night-opposite sides of town within just a few minutes of each other.”

“Oh yes? Well, you’ve other things to concentrate on at the moment.”

“I do, I know,” said Charles rather glumly. “I wrote Jenkins, though.”

Edmund stopped pacing, and his face took on a stern aspect. “Many people are counting on you, Charles,” he said. “Not to mention your country.”

“Yes.”

“You should spend this month before you go up to Stirrington meeting with politicians, granting interviews, strategizing with James Hilary.” Hilary was a bright young star in the firmament of Liberal politics and a friend of Charles’s, one of those who had entreated him to stand for Parliament. “This time can be quite as productive as any you spend in Durham.”