Prologue¹
I
In every club there is a club bore. The Coronation Club was no exception, and the fact that an airraid was in progress made no difference to normal procedure.
Major Porter, late Indian Army, rustled² his newspaper and cleared his throat. Every one avoidedhis eye, but it was no use.
“I see they’ve got the announcement of Gordon Cloade’s death in the Times,” he said.
“Discreetly put, of course. On Oct. 5th, result of enemy action. No address given. As a matter offact it was just round the corner from my little place. One of those big houses on top of CampdenHill. I can tell you it shook me up a bit. I’m a Warden³, you know. Cloade had only just got backfrom the States. He’d been over on that Government Purchase business. Got married while he wasover there. A young widow—young enough to be his daughter. Mrs. Underhay. As a matter of factI knew her first husband out in Nigeria.”
Major Porter paused. Nobody displayed any interest or asked him to continue. Newspapers wereheld up sedulously⁴ in front of faces, but it took more than that to discourage Major Porter. Healways had long histories to relate, mostly about people whom nobody knew.
“Interesting,” said Major Porter, firmly, his eyes fixed⁵ absently on a pair of extremely pointedpatent-leather shoes—a type of foot-wear of which he profoundly disapproved⁶. “As I said, I’m aWarden. Funny business this blast. Never know what it’s going to do. Blew the basement in andripped off the roof. First floor practically wasn’t touched. Six people in the house. Three servants:
married couple and a housemaid, Gordon Cloade, his wife and the wife’s brother. They were alldown in the basement except the wife’s brother—ex-Commando fellow—he preferred his owncomfortable bedroom on the first floor—and by Jove, he escaped with a few bruises⁸. The threeservants were all killed by blast—Gordon Cloade must have been worth well over a million.”

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