The front door bell rang.

Jolly hurried to answer it, greeted the postman courteously, and was given a large bundle of letters and one packet which he did not examine. In fact he forewent his usual scrutiny of the post, for there came a summons from Rollison’s room.

“Jolly!”

“One moment, sir,” called Jolly.

He hurried into die kitchen, put the letters with the newspapers, wetted the tea, whisked the tray from the table and, in less than sixty seconds, opened the bedroom door.

“Good morning, sir.” He stepped towards the bedside table. “Your tea, sir. Your post. Your newspapers.”

“Ah,” said Rollison, his grey eyes kindling. He was lean and dark, with a thin dark moustache, and some people said that he was too good-looking and too conscious of his looks. “That helps. What do you think of the weather, Jolly?”

“Most unseasonal, sir, but it may clear before noon,” said Jolly, serenely, “I have often noticed, too, that when we have a wet September, October is usually a glorious month and November is almost spring-like. Would you like the fire switched on?”

“No,” said Rollison.

Jolly handed him the letters, including the package, and poured out tea. Rollison sat up in royal blue pyjamas decorated with silk lilies, his dark hair standing on end and his tanned face strikingly handsome. He switched on the lamp which was fitted to the wall above his head.

Your tea, sir,” said Jolly.

“Thanks.” Rollison took the cup, and picked up the letters one by one. “A bill, Jolly. A letter from Aunt Matilda. A letter from Alec Gregory—he probably wants me to go down on the farm for a few weeks.” He sipped his tea, continuing to turn the letters over. “Bill—receipt—bill—a letter from a man or woman who calls me Rawlison, posted in the East End—that might be interesting. Open it, Jolly.”