Barrington-Ley was twenty years older than his wife, a man of fifty-five who looked no more, than forty. He was of medium height, lean and wiry. He had been frequently consulted by the Government during financial crises. As far as Rollison knew his reputation was blameless. Like his wife he was a prominent worker for various charities.

Hilda was his second wife. He had a daughter of twenty-nine, named Gwendoline, a good-looking, earnest, serious-minded girl, often dubbed a blue stocking. Rollison remembered the deep, rollicking laugh which came from her occasionally, a laugh which was quite unexpected from someone usually so sober and who gave the impress on of lacking a sense of humour. There was, Rollison believed, a great affection between Gwendoline and Hilda. One other thing sprang to mind: the Barrington-Leys were often in the public-eye, but there was nothing about them on to which scandalous tongues could batten.

Rollison reached the house, which stood in its own grounds, a Georgian residence combining all that was best of the period and containing nothing of the worst. The wrought-iron gates were open, leading to a drive with a shubbery on either side, and in front of the main entrance stood a Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce. As Rollison reached it Barrington-Ley came hurrying from the house. Rollison could not remember a time when the banker was not in a hurry. The tails of his mackintosh were flying and on his handsome face there was a look of great intensity—that, again, was usual; he always gave the impression that he was carrying a great load of responsibility. His bright blue eyes reflected a sudden, unexpected beam of sunshine, which made him blink, but in spite of that he saw Rollison and pulled up short as the chauffeur opened the car door.

“Hallo, Rollison! I didn’t expect you.”