then looked up into Jolly’s eyes.

“Why?” he asked.

“Mr Kemp would not explain the reason for his call, sir,” said Jolly. “He insisted that he is prepared to wait all night to see you, if needs be.”

The manservant looked as if he were fighting a losing battle with dyspepsia. His appearance often gave rise to the baseless accusation that the Toff—by which soubriquet the Hon Richard Rollison was widely known—had dubbed his man Jolly, inspired by some whimsical fancy to give him a cheerful name to offset his gloomy expression.

“Is that all?” asked Rollison.

“If you are asking me to give you my impressions of Mr Kemp,” said Jolly, cautiously, “I would say that he is in a state of great agitation. He is a large young man, sir.”

“We don’t know him, do we?” asked Rollison.

“I haven’t met him before,” said Jolly, “but when I was in the district a few weeks ago, I understood that a new curate had arrived at St Guy’s. You may recall that the vicar, the Reverend Cartwright, is seriously ill and that the curacy has been vacant for some time.”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Kemp has certainly taken on a handful.”

“He looks as though he is beginning to realise it,” said Jolly.

Rollison smiled drily but he was interested and sent Jolly to tell the Rev Kemp that he would see him soon.

He wore a silk dressing-gown of duck-egg blue and maroon-coloured pyjamas and slippers; gifts from aunts.