Mister Brown and Mister Belling, the one fat and the other thin, sat side by side and stared solemnly at the green-jacketed army officer across the table. Neither Mister Belling nor Mister Brown liked what they saw. Their visitor—he was not exactly a client—was a tall man with black hair, a hard face and a scar on his cheek and, ominously, he looked like a man who was no stranger to scars. Mister Brown sighed and turned to stare at the rain falling on London’s Eastcheap. “It will be a bad harvest, Mister Belling,” he said heavily.

“I fear so, Mister Brown.”

“July!” Brown said. “July indeed! Yet it’s more like March!”

“A fire in July!” Mister Belling said. “Unheard of!”

The fire, a mean heap of sullen coals, burned in a blackened hearth above which hung a cavalry saber. It was the only decoration in the paneled room and hinted at the office’s military nature. Messrs Belling and Brown of Cheapside were army agents and their business was to look after the finances of officers who served abroad. They also acted as brokers for men wanting to buy or sell commissions, but this wet, chill July afternoon was bringing them no fees. “Alas!” Mister Brown spread his hands. His fingers were very white, plump and beautifully manicured. He flexed them as though he was about to play a harpsichord. “Alas,” he said again, looking at the green-jacketed officer who glowered from the opposite side of the table.

“It is the nature of your commission,” Mister Belling explained.

“Indeed it is,” Mister Brown intervened, “the nature, so to speak, of your commission.” He smiled ruefully.

“It’s as good as anyone else’s commission,” the officer said belligerently.

“Oh, better!” Mister Brown said cheerfully. “Would you not agree, Mister Belling?”