“I like that chap,” said Tommy.  “He’s got no silly side about him.  Joyce always said he was a good sort.”

He stopped on the pavement, and with his usual serene disregard for the respectabilities proceeded to fill and light a huge briar pipe.

“What’s the programme now?” he inquired.  “I’m just dying for some grub.”

“We’ll get a taxi and run down to the flat and pick up Joyce,” I said.  “Then we’ll come back to the Cafe Royal and have the best lunch that’s ever been eaten in London.”

Tommy indulged in one of his deep chuckles.

“If anyone’s expecting me in Downing Street before six o’clock,” he observed, “I rather think he’s backed a loser.”

It was not until we were in a taxi, and speeding rapidly past the House of Commons, that I broached the painful subject of George.

“I don’t know what to do,” I said.  “If he’s at his house, he has been arrested by now, and if he isn’t the police will probably find him before I shall.  It will break my heart if I don’t get hold of him for five minutes.”

Tommy grunted sympathetically.  “It’s just on the cards,” he said, “that Joyce might know where he is.”

Faint as the chance seemed, it was sufficient to cheer me up a little, and for the rest of the drive we discussed the important question of what we should have for lunch.  After a week of sardines and tinned tongue I found it a most inspiring topic.

As we reached the Chelsea Embankment a happy idea presented itself to me.  “I tell you what, Tommy,” I said.  “We won’t go and knock at Joyce’s flat.  Let’s slip round at the back, as we did before, and take her by surprise.”

“Right you are,” he said.  “She’s probably left the studio door open.  She generally does on a hot afternoon like this.”

The taxi drew up at Florence Court, and telling the driver to wait for us, we Walked down the passage and turned into Tommy’s flat.  There were several letters for him lying on the floor inside, and while he stopped to pick them up, I passed on through the studio and out into the little glass-covered corridor at the back.

It was quite a short way along to Joyce’s studio, and from where I was I could see that her door was slightly ajar.  I stepped quietly, so as not to make any noise, and I had covered perhaps half the distance, when suddenly I pulled up in my tracks as if I had been turned into stone.  For a moment I stood there without moving or even breathing.  A couple of yards away on the other side of the door I could hear two people talking.  One of them was Joyce; the other—­the other—­well, if I had been lying half-unconscious on my death-bed I think I should have recognized that voice!

There was a sound behind me, and whipping noiselessly round I was just in time to signal to Tommy that he must keep absolutely quiet.  Then with my heart beating like a drum I crept stealthily forward until I was within a few inches of the open door.  I was shaking all over with a delight that I could hardly control.