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was surprised when he pulled through. I didn’t expect him to. He must have a remarkable constitution.’
    â€˜He was always very fit and healthy when I knew him,’ said Jack. ‘He grew up on a farm on the veldt, as I remember, and was always a great bloke for the outdoors. He hated being cooped up inside for too long.’
    The doctor nodded. ‘That would explain his rapid progress. If you’re able to provide good food and rest and he takes moderate exercise, I imagine a couple of weeks would see him completely recovered.’
    â€˜I’ll do my best,’ said Jack. ‘He can either live with me for the time being or I’ll see he gets into a convalescent home. It depends on my landlady to some extent, of course. I’ll have to see what she says, but in any event, he’ll be all right.’
    â€˜Well, Jack,’ said Rackham, as they turned out of the hospital into the Gray’s Inn Road. ‘It looks as if you’re going to have ample opportunity to ask George Lassiter what he did see in Mayfair.’
    Jack clicked his tongue. ‘I think I’ll leave what happened that night alone for the time being. I know you said he was ill but I had no idea he was so washed up. To be honest, after having seen him, Bill, and hearing what the doctor had to say, I think you’re probably right and he imagined the whole thing.’
    George was discharged from hospital on Monday and, exhausted by the move to Chandos Row, spent most of the day dozing. On Tuesday morning, however, he was so much brighter that he was able to get up, have a bath, and eat a very substantial breakfast.
    He sat in the brocaded armchair by the crackling fire, dressed in a spare pair of Jack’s pyjamas, wrapped in an old and hairy dressing gown. As a final domestic touch, the kitchen cat, Boots, had wandered in to greet the new arrival. George, who liked cats, had given her some of his breakfast kipper on a saucer and Boots, with deep approval, was now curled up on his knee, purring loudly.
    â€˜You’re honoured,’ said Jack from over the top of the newspaper. ‘Boots doesn’t take to everyone.’
    George smiled and idly scratched the top of the cat’s head, resulting in a fusillade of purring. ‘It’s nice here, Jack,’ he said.
    He’d scarcely taken in his surroundings yesterday but he’d had a good look round the sitting room this morning. It was full of colour. There was a blue-and-red Turkish carpet in front of the fire, comfortable chairs and a sofa with cushions in green, blue and yellow. The table where they had just had breakfast was covered with a crisp white cloth and paintings hung on the cream-coloured walls. There were a couple of a large country house with a river and trees, with masses of gusty white clouds, one of Jack’s favourite places of all. It was, Jack said, Hesperus, his aunt and uncle’s house in Sussex, where he had spent much of his childhood. ‘I go there for holidays,’ he added with a smile. ‘It’s nice to pretend I’m one of the idle rich from time to time.’
    The rest of the paintings were mainly, George guessed, of Mediterranean scenes, with big skies and a hot sun. He liked those; they reminded him of home. One, a striking study of a ruined white church set in dark pines against a brilliant sea, was signed with Jack’s name. George had had no idea he was an artist. There was a gramophone with a mixed selection of classical and jazz records underneath. A collection of silver sports cups, mainly for boxing, stood on the sideboard, together with an agreeable array of bottles and a soda siphon. A Spanish guitar stood propped against the bookcase. The bookcase itself occupied the alcove next to the window and was filled from floor to ceiling. The stuff on the higher shelves looked fairly deep: poetry and philosophy. Further down were the sort of books George thought he might like to read,