At last, Grice said: “A toff is a toff, of course.”

“You’re a great help,” said Rollison heavily. “Nothing.”

“What?”

“I have been up to nothing which might interest you.”

“That is the one thing about you I would never believe,” retorted Grice. “You can’t expect me to believe it, either.”

“Bill,” Rollison said, pleadingly, “be more specific, will you? It has been one of those mornings. I can’t get any sense out of anybody and least of all from myself. What makes you think I have been ‘up to something’?”

Again there was a pause, doubtless while Grice decided whether he was stalling or whether he was genuinely baffled. Rollison made himself more comfortable in his chair. Suddenly, Grice said: “Just a minute, Rolly,” and Rollison held on, hearing voices in the background; someone had come in Grice’s office. This time Rollison felt the stirring of impatience; he seemed to have done nothing but hold on at the telephone all the morning. The delay was very short, and Grice came back in a stronger voice: “What do you know of a man named Thomas G. or C. Loman?”

Rollison sat bolt upright in his chair.

“And don’t say ‘nothing’,” Grice almost barked.

“Bill,” said Rollison, faintly, “I know next to nothing. An American newspaperman named Selly called from New York this morning and asked me if I were expecting a visit from a man named Loman. I answered truly : I was not. He then wanted to know if I knew any Loman.

I answered as truly : I did not. He added that Loman hails from the city of Tucson, in —”

“I know where he hails from,” interrupted Grice. “Is this gospel, Rolly ? You really don’t know him?”

“Until this morning I had never heard of him. I couldn’t have placed Tucson with any accuracy on a map, either.”