He stood with one foot upon the rubber-covered step, deep in thought, then he turned to the waiting girl. “If there should come a man of unprepossessing appearance, whitish of hair and pallid of countenance, with a complexion suggestive of a whitewashed vault rather than of the sad lily--in fact, if the Johnny calls who came in an hour ago, you will tell him I am gone.” He spoke over his shoulder to the waiting housemaid. “Yes, sir,” she said, a little dazed. “Tell him I have been called away to--to Teheran.” “Yes, sir.” “On a diplomatic mission,” he added with relish. He stepped into the car, closing the door behind him. An errand-boy, basket on arm, stood fascinated in the centre of the side-walk, listening with open mouth. “I expect to be back,” he went on, reflecting with bent head, “in August or September, 1943--you will remember that?” “Yes, sir,” said the girl, visibly impressed, and Amber, with a smile and a nod, turned to the driver. “Home,” he said. “Beg pardon, sir?” “Borough High Street,” corrected Amber, and the car jerked forward. He drove eastward, crossed the river at London Bridge, and dismissed the taxi at St. George’s Church. With the little leather trunk containing his spare wardrobe, in his hand, he walked briskly up a broad street until he came to a narrow thoroughfare, which was bisected by a narrower and a meaner. He turned sharply to the left and, walking as one who knew his way, he came to the dingiest of the dingy houses in that unhappy street. 19, Redcow Court, was not especially inviting. There was a panel missing from the door, the passage was narrow and dirty, and a tortuous broken flight of stairs ran crookedly to the floors above. The house was filled with the everlasting noise of shrill voices, the voices of scolding women and fretful babies. At night there came a deeper note in the babel; many growling, harsh-spoken men talked. Sometimes they would shout angrily, and there were sounds of blows and women’s screams, and a frowsy little crowd, eager for sanguinary details, gathered at the door of No. 19. Amber went up the stairs two at a time, whistling cheerfully. He had to stop half-way up the second flight because two babies were playing perilously on the uncarpeted stairway. He placed them on a safer landing, stopped for a moment or two to talk to them, then continued his climb. On the topmost floor he came to the door of a room and knocked. There was no reply and he knocked again. “Come in,” said a stern voice, and Amber entered. The room was much better furnished than a stranger would expect. It was a sitting-room, communicating by an unexpected door with a smaller room.