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for you,’ Franz said as the waiter, without waiting for the order, brought them two very dry sherries.
    ‘It might have been this morning,’ Craddock told him, ‘but after crossing London from King’s Cross I don’t mind admitting it’s a relief. Maybe I should have done it by stages, like a diver coming up from a great depth, but the noise and stink terrified me! I’m sorry for the Cockneys, though, they deserve a bit of glitter after putting up with this day and night.’
    ‘Come, you’re a Cockney yourself, Paul. You were born in Stepney and that’s within earshot of Bow, isn’t it?’
    ‘I’m not proud of it,’ Craddock said. ‘How the devil can you make decisions in such a hellish uproar?’
    ‘Far more expertly than I could make them beside the old rustic mill,’ Franz told him jovially, ‘for in London wits are whetted every time one crosses the street and as for this,’ he waved his hand in the general direction of Piccadilly, ‘this is nothing, my friend, to the midday congestion beyond Temple Bar, or south of the river on a weekday. We shall wait until evening before going there and drive back to my house in Sloane Street at sunset. You can stay here as arranged. I shall be busy except for today, but I imagine you have things to attend to.’
    He went on to talk of general matters, the food, the King’s chances of a recovery, the effect of his illness on the political scene, Paul’s wound and the post-hospital treatment prescribed for it, anything, Paul soon realised, to steer away from the subject of purchasing a Westcountry farm, but by now Paul had, to some extent, the measure of the man and felt reasonably secure in his affections, so that when the coffee and brandy had been served, and the waiter had ceased to make his swift, discreet dashes upon the table, he said, grinning, ‘Look here, Mr Zorndorff, if you think I’m an ass to have written that letter you can say so! You don’t have to avoid the subject, like a cat walking through puddles!’ Zorndorff twinkled, put on his avuncular look and replied, amiably, ‘There is a side to you that indicates a latent business acumen, my boy! You possess a quiet obstinacy wedded to a somewhat shattering directness of manner, a formidable combination under certain circumstances!’ He sipped and savoured his brandy, as Paul waited and then, carefully setting down the glass, he said seriously, ‘I hadn’t forgotten the letter and enclosures but before I even discuss it you must do something for me. A very small thing, but also an obligation of a kind, I think.’
    ‘Well?’
    ‘You must come down to the scrapyard. This evening, after my siesta. If you have really made up your mind to stick your nose in the dirt then you should give yourself the chance of deciding on the spot whether it is the three-per-cent-barring-acts-of-God dirt of a provincial farm, or the gilt-edged dirt of a bone yard! Afterwards? Afterwards we might get around to discussing your absurd proposition. Is that agreed?’
    ‘Certainly I’ll come to the yard with you. As a matter of fact I should like to, out of curiosity. I’ve never once been there, at least, not to my recollection.’
    ‘That,’ Zorndorff said, affably, ‘I already know, for your father fell into the error common to all artisans who have risen in the world. He was determined to ensure that his son wore a clean collar to work. This is very excellent brandy, but the flavour is a little elusive I think.’
    ‘Certainly no more so than you, Mr Zorndorff,’ Paul said, smiling, to which Zorndorff replied, ‘From now on, my boy, it would flatter me if you would address me as “Uncle Franz”. I have cohorts of indigent nephews but none, alas, with a float of five thousand and expectations.’
    The curious thing about this pronouncement, Paul noticed, was that, although larded with Zorndorff’s brand of laboured irony it was uttered in all sincerity.
    They paid off the cabby at Tower Bridge, walking