Yet he had known so many.

He believed—certainly he hoped—that all of them remembered their association with him with no regret at all.

He—

The telephone on the desk rang.

“And in time, too,” he said aloud. “I’m becoming positively maudlin.” He lifted the receiver. “This is Richard Rollison.”

“Good morning, Mr. Rollison,” said a woman with a most attractive voice. “You won’t know me. Though I have written to you. I would very much like to talk things over with you personally! May I?”

He said, without any noticeable hesitation. “Is it an urgent matter?”

“I think it might be.”

“Then in half-an-hour’s time?” suggested Rollison. “Or else this afternoon.”

“I’m at the Mayfair Hotel,” the woman said. “And in half-an-hour would suit me splendidly. Thank you.” And just when he thought she would ring off without introducing herself, she went on : “My name is Smith. Naomi Smith.”

Smith, mused Rollison as he put down the receiver; Smith, Jones, Robinson or Brown, what did it matter? One assumed name was as effective as another. Naomi was not likely to be assumed, however. That had a ring of authenticity.

He moved towards the kitchen. The door which led to it was closed, suggesting that Jolly was preparing a lunch which would send an aroma into the flat if the door were open, so he closed it behind him, and tip-toed towards the kitchen, passing the main bathroom door on one side and the spare bedroom door on the other. Beyond these was his room; and further beyond was a passage leading to Jolly’s room and the kitchen.

This door, too, was closed.

“Onions,” hazarded the Toff, as he turned the handle.

Lo! Onions were, indeed, frying, and giving off a splendid aroma. “Splendid’—the woman on the telephone had said—”Splendidly’, a rather unusual word in those particular circumstances. “Very well’ would have been more appropriate.