“I beg your pardon, sir; I took you for the doctor the gentlemen are expecting. Lady Kean is very ill. The doctors are holding a consultation upstairs. Sir Edward is at home, but I don’t know . . .” “I won’t trouble him now, of course,” said Fayre quickly. “I’m very sorry about this. When was she taken ill?” “Her ladyship had a heart attack yesterday evening soon after she arrived from the North. The doctor thinks the journey was too much for her. We are very anxious about her, sir.” The man looked genuinely distressed. Evidently Sybil Kean was of those who endear themselves to their servants. Fayre produced a card and scribbled the address of his club on it. “Tell Sir Edward that this will find me if I can be of any use. I’ll call again later in case there is better news.” As he went down the steps a car drove up, no doubt bearing the third doctor. His heart was very heavy as he made his way slowly back to his club. For the moment his mind was swept completely clear of the Draycott case and he could think of nothing but the Keans: the hushed house and the possibly fruitless consultation that was now taking place. Sybil Kean was the oldest of all his friends in England and he was very fond of her. Edward could, on occasion, exasperate him almost beyond endurance and he was an unsatisfactory companion in the sense that he gave little and asked for nothing where the ties of friendship were concerned, but Fayre had always both liked and admired him. He had struck him from the first as one of the loneliest beings in existence, a man fated to remain detached, too strong to invite sympathy and too engrossed in his own interests to offer it. Fayre pictured him, waiting alone for the verdict of the doctors, and wished he had had the courage to break in upon his privacy. He dined at the club and, after a fruitless attempt to enjoy a quiet cigar, was driven by sheer anxiety to return to Westminster. To his surprise he was told that Sir Edward wished to see him. “It was good of you to call, Hatter,” was Kean’s brief comment as he rose to greet him. His voice had lost none of its resonance, but Fayre thought he had never seen a man look so ill. His face was a grey mask and his eyes, bleak and lifeless, seemed literally to have receded into his head. Fayre cast a swift glance round the room. “Look here, old man,” he said, “have you dined?” Kean stared at him vaguely. The butler, who had been making up the fire and was about to leave the room, turned at his words. “Sir Edward made a very poor dinner, sir,” he ventured. Kean swung round on him impatiently; but he was too exhausted to act with his customary vigour and Fayre forestalled him. “Do you think you could raise a few sandwiches?” he asked the man pleasantly. “I see drinks are here.” The butler responded with alacrity. “Cook did cut some, sir, on the chance.”