“Well, dahling,” Marty said, hooking a fresh drink from a passing tray and depositing her empty glass at the same time, “according to Ronald Brett-Home…”

Ronald Brett-Home was a bit late, he knew. He finished tying his black tie. Gave it a final adjustment. He grimaced into the mirror.

If the truth were known, he rather dreaded the evening. There would he some sort of a rowdydow, of course. He was glad that American chap, Bart Digby, would be there. Efficient, these American operatives. Must really give the chaps credit. What was the name of that one during the war? Brunner, or something. Gestapo finished him there on the outskirts of Prague. Held them off, singlehanded. Sort of rearguard action, whilst Brett-Home escaped with the equipment. Damn good man.

He opened the bureau drawer and scowled down at the black Baretti. He supposed he’d better take it, in spite of the fact that it would bulge his pocket. Accurate guns those Italian fellows made. A bit light as to caliber, but frightfully accurate. He took the automatic up and slipped it into his trousers pocket.

He gave himself a final check in the mirror. He’d really have to get going. He’d already missed his date with Digby and would have to meet him at the party. Quit dreading this and get a move on, you know. If the truth were known, he was getting too old for this sort of thing. Should leave it to younger chaps. Twenty or twenty-five years ago, yes. He had been frightfully keen about doing in the enemy counter-espionage fellows, and that sort of thing. But, really now, a chap in his mid-forties should let them assign him to a desk. MI6 was all very fine, but the field work…

The bell rang. Ronald Brett-Home frowned and went to the door. He couldn’t imagine who…