The rest was gone.

When, Peregrine speculated, could this overwhelming solicitation have moved Mr. Ruby? In the eighties? He knew that Mr. Ruby had lived to within ten years of the turn of the century and in his heyday had bought, altered, restored and embellished The Dolphin, adding his plaster and jute caryatids, his swags, his supporting marine mammals and cornucopia, his touches of gilt and lollypink to the older and more modest elegance of wrought iron and unmolested surfaces. When did he make all these changes? Did he, upon his decline, sell The Dolphin and, if so, to whom? It was reputed to have been in use at the outbreak of the Second World War as a rag-dealer’s storehouse.

Who was the ground landlord now?

He confronted the main entrance and its great mortice lock for which he had no trouble in selecting the appropriate key. It was big enough to have hung at the girdle of one of Mr. Ruby’s very own stage-gaolers. The key went home and engaged but refused to turn. Why had Peregrine not asked the clerk to lend him an oil-can?

He struggled for some time and a voice at his back said, “Got it all on yer own, mate, aincher?”

Peregrine turned to discover a man wearing a peaked cap like a waterman’s and a shiny blue suit. He was a middle-aged man with a high colour, blue eyes and a look of cheeky equability.

“You want a touch of the old free-in-one,” he said. He had a gritty hoarseness in his voice. Peregrine gaped at him. “Oil, mate. Loobrication,” the man explained.

“Oh. Yes, indeed, I know I do.”

“What’s the story, anyway? Casing the joint?”

“I want to look at it,” Peregrine grunted. “Oh, damn, I’d better try the stage-door.”