In silken pyjamas, and propped up on his pillows, Mr. Larry Hughes toyed with coffee and toast, the while he lazily scanned the Daily Mail with its account of the Streetly House robbery. A soft-footed valet was busy in an adjoining dressing-room.
“A light-grey suit, if you please, Tom. And tell Williams to have the Rolls ready not a minute later than twelve.”
“Very good, sir. Will you be in to lunch?”
“I’m doubtful. There’s racing on at Kempton, and I may run down.” Hughes pushed aside the tray and sprang lightly out of bed. “Bath ready?”
“Quite ready, sir.”
“All right. Be back in ten minutes.”