“No, he hated it. I don’t believe he could swim. Tony, are you mad, or am I? Or is this a new game?”

Antony squeezed his arm.

“Dear old Bill,” he said. “It’s a game. What a game! And the answer is Cartwright in Wimpole Street.”

They walked in silence for half a mile or so along the road to Woodham. Bill tried two or three times to get his friend to talk, but Antony had only grunted in reply. He was just going to make another attempt, when Antony came to a sudden stop and turned to him anxiously.

“I wonder if you’d do something for me,” he said, looking at him with some doubt.

“What sort of thing?”

“Well, it’s really dashed important. It’s just the one thing I want now.”

Bill was suddenly enthusiastic again.