“I’m going to change my solicitor,” said Mannering, put ting his hat and stick on the desk and clearing a corner for his feet. “Mind if I sit down ?”

Plender surveyed the size-ten shoes resting on his desk, shifted his gaze to Mannering’s quizzing eyes, and grinned.

“So you’re rattled enough to think of changing your solicitor?”

“Rattled, no. Careful, yes,” said Mannering. “And when I say change I mean cancel out entirely. Solicitors seem to me too solicitous.”

“H’m,” said Plender, “h’m. So you’re taking the last five thousand, are you ?”

“Yes, and putting it in a bank. It’s nice to feel you have my welfare at heart, Toby, but it’s a strain being the victim of good intentions.”

“I thought it would do it,” said Plender, half to himself. He was a small man, faultlessly dressed, with a hooked nose, a Punch of a chin, and a pair of disconcertingly direct grey eyes. At thirty-five Toby Plender had a reputation for being the smartest criminal lawyer in London, and he coupled this with the fact that he was nearly bald. His humour was dry when it was not caustic, and he shared with Jimmy Randall a regard for John Mannering and a growing concern for their friend’s recent activities.

“You thought it would do what?” asked Mannering.

“Make you think,” said Plender. “It’s time you did, John; time you thought hard, and stopped chucking away your cash.”

“D’you know,” said Mannering, “you and Jimmy should sing duets together — you both harp so on ancient ditties. Toby

Plender’s eyes were hard; he was taking this thing seriously, and Mannering’s flippancy annoyed him.

“Well?”

“Don’t try to reform me. I’ve had the itch for gambling since I was so high, and it’s been part of my make-up all the time, even though I kept it down for a while. So . . .”

“Supposing she’d married you ?” asked Plender.

“Supposing the dead could speak? They can’t. She didn’t. Have I made myself clear?”