In Clarges Street they were joined by Sir John Fortescue, an austere patrician, and although some years his senior, a close friend of Richard’s. They fell behind the chair, and Fortescue took Richard’s proffered arm.

“I did not see you at White’s today, John?”

“No. I had some business with my lawyer. I suppose you did not stumble across my poor brother?”

“Frank? I did not⁠—but why the ‘poor’?”

Fortescue shrugged slightly.

“I think the lad is demented,” he said. “He was to have made one of March’s supper-party last night, but at four o’clock received a communication from heaven knows whom which threw him into a state of unrest. What must he do but hurry off without a word of explanation. Since then I have not set eyes on him, but his man tells me he went to meet a friend. Damned unusual of him is all I have to say.”

“Very strange. Do you expect to see him tonight?”