“Where are you going?” said Diggle.

   “I was going home, sir,” said Luke, “I’m not very well this morning.”

   (For a Christian martyr he certainly did lie like sin.)

   “Don’t let it occur again,” said Diggle.

   He encountered Mabel in the hall of his house. She had a letter in her hand. She seemed surprised to see him, and very far from pleased.

   “What in goodness are you here for?” she said. “Forgotten something?”

   He set his teeth. In spite of discouragement, he was going to be very nice indeed.

   “I am afraid,” he said, “I rather forgot my manners at breakfast this morning. Sorry.”

   “I didn’t notice they were any worse than usual. You surely didn’t come back to say that?”

   “Oh, no. I thought we’d take a holiday together. Like old times, what? We’ll go for a nice long walk, and take a packet of sandwiches and——”

   “Oh, don’t be silly. I can’t possibly go out. Probably Mr. Doom Dagshaw is coming to lunch.”

   “He’s a damned sweep,” said Luke impulsively, and corrected himself. “I mean to say, he’s not a man whose society I’m particularly anxious to cultivate.”

   “How was I to know you would come barging in like this? I never wanted you to meet him.”

   More self-control needed.

   “I shall be perfectly pleasant and chatty to him,” said Luke resolutely.

   “This letter’s just come for you,” said Mabel. “The address is in Lady Tyburn’s handwriting.”

   He blushed profusely. His ears waved to and fro. Why on earth had not Jona warned him that this was going to happen?

   “Read it,” said Mabel.

   He glanced through it. It was very brief.

   “Well?” asked Mabel.

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