Wolf was spared the necessity of any retort to this by the appearance of Roger Monk. The man came in without knocking and walked straight up to their table.

Wolf peered at him with quizzical screwed-up eyes. He couldn’t help recalling that explosion of homicidal hatred which he had listened to outside Lenty Cottage. But the gardener’s countenance was impassive now as a human-faced rock.

“Eh? What’s that, Monk? Speak up. Mr. Solent will not mind.”

“Weevil and young Torp, Sir, round at the back, Sir; asking for leave to fish in Lenty Pond, Sir.”

Monk uttered the words in a low, discreet, colourless voice.

Mr. Urquhart at once assumed a blustering great man’s tone of genial condescension, as if he were addressing himself to the youths in question.