“You,” said Mr. Whipplestone, dead against his will, “must be the — the upstairs — ah — the—”

“That’s right, sir,” said the man. His wife smiled and made a slight bob. They were rather alike, being round-faced, apple-cheeked and blue-eyed, and were aged, he thought, about fifty-five.

“You are — I understand — ah — still — ah—”

“We’ve stayed on to set things to rights, sir. Mr. Sheridan’s kindly letting us remain until the end of the week. Gives us a chance to find another place, sir, if we’re not wanted here.”

“I understand you would be — ah—”

“Available, sir?” they both said quickly and the man added, “We’d be glad to stay on if the conditions suited. We’ve been here with the outgoing tenant six years, sir, and very happy with it. Name of Chubb, sir, references on request and the owner, Mr. Sheridan, below, would speak for us.”

“Quite, quite, quite!” said Mr. Whipplestone in a tearing hurry. “I — ah — I’ve come to no conclusion. On the contrary. Idle curiosity, really. However. In the event — the remote event of my — be very glad — but so far — nothing decided.”

“Yes, sir, of course. If you’d care to see upstairs, sir!”

“What!” shouted Mr. Whipplestone as if they’d fired a gun at him. “Oh. Thank you. Might as well, perhaps. Yes.”

“Excuse me, sir. I’ll just close the window.”

Mr. Whipplestone stood aside. The man laid his hand on the French window. It was a brisk movement, but it stopped as abruptly as if a moving film had turned into a still. The hand was motionless, the gaze was fixed, the mouth shut like a trap.

Mr. Whipplestone was startled. He looked down into the street and there, returning from his constitutional and attended by his dog and his bodyguard, was the Ambassador for Ng’ombwana. It was at him that the man Chubb stared. Something impelled Mr. Whipplestone to look at the woman. She had come close and she too, over her husband’s shoulder, stared at the Ambassador.