“Er—no one’s fallen down and broken their neck,” Scoop said in his slightly rueful, half-jesting way. “But— I—er—I’d like a talk with you, Pop. Er—Dad. Er—I mean, not with the family. It—er—well, Mummy’s been a bit—er—well, impatient lately and I—er—”

“We can have a drink, or a meal, or you can come here,” Roger said quietly. “I can telephone your mother and say I’ll be late.”

“Well, no need for that, anyhow,” said Scoop. “She’s gone to the pictures with Richard and Lindy, and won’t be back until elevenish. So home would do fine tonight.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” promised Roger.

He was outside and in his car within five minutes, and within twenty was at one end of Bell Street, Chelsea, the street where he and Janet had lived since their marriage, nearly thirty years ago. At one end was the wide thoroughfare of King’s Road, at the other another street which led to the Chelsea Embankment. There was a drizzle over the Thames and everywhere; the flowers and grass in the front gardens looked as if they were covered with dew; roofs and windows, fences and railings were all smeared with moisture; it was a most depressing day for May.

Roger parked out of sight of his house; he did not want to be early. If he knew Martin, the boy would be preparing a simple meal, and would like to have everything ready. He was not yet anxious, for Martin sometimes made mountains out of molehills, but he was eager to know what this S.O.S. was about. If it were something that could not be discussed about in the family, it might indeed be a cause for anxiety, for Janet got on remarkably well with her two sons.

One thing had been obvious from the moment he had heard that Janet was out with Richard and his girl-friend. Richard had deliberately taken his mother off to allow Scoop to have this “personal talk”.