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The vestry door opened to the mews behind, and not to Golden Square. “But it is so difficult——” “Not at all,” he answered eagerly. Wow. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. “You found the cabochon? After all these years?” He asked, incredulous. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once.
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