10.30 a.m. Sam, clerk to Billy Tricker, turf-accountant, lifted the telephone to his ear and gave his employer’s name wearily.

“Mannering,” said the man at the other end of the wire. “A hundred Blackjack, at sevens, to win . . .”

“Can’t do it. Sixes.”

“All right, sixes. Double any to come with Feodora, at fives.”

“She’s up — sixes too. The lot?”

“Yes,” said Mannering.

“O.K.,” said Sam, and wearily summarised: “One hundred on Blackjack, 2.30, Lingfield, to win; any to come Feodora, 4 o’clock. Both sixes. Thanks, Mr M.”

11.30 a.m. “Yes, Mr Mannering, I’ve several of your cards. Just a moment, Mr Mannering, I’ll make a note . . .”

Florette, florist of Bond Street, pulled an order-pad towards her. She repeated Mannering’s order in an expressionless voice, but there was a smile on her lips, for in the past twelve months she had taken similar instructions from Mannering so many times that she was beginning to see the funny side of it.

“Four white roses — four dozen, I beg your pardon — to Miss Alice Vavasour, at 7 Queen’s Gate, and two dozen red carnations to Miss Madaline Sayer, at the Lenville Theatre. Yes, Mr Mannering; thank you, Mr Mannering.”

12.30 p.m. “But I really can’t, John; I’m rehearsing this afternoon, and I’ve two shows to-morrow — idiot !”

“Did I hear the renowned Miss Vavasour say “idiot”?” asked Mannering.

“Only over the telephone. No, I can’t. I’ll see you in the dressing-room. John, be a darling. Yes, lunch and tea the day after to-morrow. And, darling, the roses were exquisite, but you shouldn’t. . . . Idiot, how could I help it? You’ll try and come round to-night?”