Professor Leonard was cut from a far tougher cloth. He lectured and supervised in three subjects, he continued to offer his services as a college tutor, and he remained involved in a number of societies, some of which he had also founded. And all this while still finding time not only to write but to be published. By any standards it was a remarkable workload, and one he appeared to shoulder quite effortlessly.

    How did he manage it? He never hurried and was never late; he just loped about like a well-fed cat, giving off an air of slight distraction, as if his mind was always on higher things.

    He was deep in slumber when Adam entered his office. The first knock didn't rouse him, and when Adam poked his head around the door and saw him slumped in an armchair, a book on his lap, he knocked again, louder this time.

    Professor Leonard stirred, taking his bearings, taking in Adam. "I'm sorry, I must have nodded off." He closed the book and laid it aside. Adam noted that it was one of the professor's own works, on the sculpture of Mantegna.

    "No court in the land would convict you."

    Professor Leonard invited irreverence, he actively encouraged it, but for a moment Adam feared he had overstepped the mark.

    "That might be funnier, Mr. Strickland, if you'd ever bothered to read my book on Mantegna. Which reminds me—how is your serve?"

    "Excuse me?"

    "Well, the last time I saw you, you were cycling down King's Parade in something of a hurry. You were gripping two tennis rackets, and the young lady riding sidesaddle was gripping you." "Oh."