Troy and Mr Bard agreed and Miss Rickerby-Carrick repeated: “Lovely! Lovely!” on an ecstatic note.

“Pollock’s the name,” said the new arrival, easily. “Stan.” They murmured.

Mr Bard introduced himself and the ladies. Mr Pollock responded with sideway wags of his head.

“That’s the ticket,” he said. “No deception practised.”

Miss Rickerby-Carrick said: “Isn’t this going to be fun,” in a wildish tone that modulated into one of astonishment. Her gaze had shifted to the passenger from the second taxi who, with his back to the group, was settling his fare. He was exceedingly tall and very well-dressed at High Establishment level. Indeed his hat, houndstooth checked overcoat and impeccable brogues were in such a grand conservative style that it surprised—it almost shocked—Troy to observe that he seemed to be wearing black gloves like a Dickensian undertaker. Some yards distant, his bell-like voice rang out enormously. “Thank you. Good morning to you. Good morning.”

He lifted his suitcase and turned. His hat tilted a little forward: the brim shadowed his face but could not be seen to do so as the face itself was darker than a shadow: the latest arrival was a coloured man.

Miss Rickerby-Carrick gave out an ejaculation. Mr Bard after the briefest glance continued talking to Troy. Mr Pollock stared, faintly whistled and then turned aside with a shuttered face. The motor-cyclists for some private reason broke into ungentle laughter.

The newcomer advanced, lifted his hat generally and moved through the group to the wharf’s edge where he stood looking upstream towards the bend in the river: an incongruous but impressive and elegant figure against a broken background of river-craft, sliding water and buildings advertising themselves in a confusion of signs.

Troy said quickly: “That makes five of us, doesn’t it? Three more to come.”

“One of whom occupies that very affluent-looking car, no doubt,” said Mr Bard. “I tried to peer in as I came past but an open newspaper defeated me.”

“Male or female, did you gather?”

“Oh the former, the former. A large manicured hand. The chauffeur is one of the stony kind. Now what is your guess? We have a choice of two from our passenger list, haven’t we? Which do you think?” He just indicated the figure down by the river.

“Dr Natouche? Mr J. de B. Lazenby? Which is which?”

“I plump for J. de B. L. in the car,” Troy said. “It sounds so magnificent.”

“Do you? No: my fancy lies in the contrary field. I put Dr Natouche in the car. A specialist in some esoteric upper reaches of the more impenetrable branches of medicine. An astronomical consulting fee. And I fetch our friend on the wharf from Barbados. He owns a string of hotels and is called Jasper de Brabazon Lazenby. Shall we have a bet on it?”

“Well,” Troy said, “propose your bet.”

“If I win you have a drink with me before luncheon. If you win, I pay for the drinks.”

“Now then!” Troy exclaimed.

Mr Bard gave a little inward laugh.

“We shall see,” he said. “I think that I might—‘ He smiled at Troy and without completing his sentence walked down to the quay.

“Are you,” Troy could just hear him say, “joining us? I’m sure you must be.”

“In the Zodiac?” the great voice replied. “Yes. I am a passenger.”

“Shall we introduce ourselves?”

The others all strained to hear the exchange of names.

“Natouche.”

“Dr Natouche?”

“Quite so.”

Mr Bard sketched the very vaguest and least of bows in Troy’s direction.

“I’m Caley Bard,” he said.

“Ah. I too have seen the passenger list. Good morning, sir.”

“Do,” said Caley Bard, “come and meet the others. We have been getting to know each other.”

“Thank you. If you wish.”

They turned together. Mr Bard was a tall man but Dr Natouche diminished him. Behind them the river, crinkled by a breeze and dappled with discs of sunlight, played tricks with the two approaching figures. It exaggerated their size, rimmed them in a pulsing nimbus and distorted their movement. As they drew nearer, the pale man and the dark, Troy, bemused by this dazzle, thought: ‘There is no reason in the wide world why I should feel apprehensive. It will be all right unless Mr Pollock is bloody-minded or the Rickerby-Carrick hideously effusive. It must be all right.“ She glanced up the lane and there were the cyclists, stock-still except for their jaws: staring, staring. She held out her hand to Dr Natouche who was formal and bowed slightly over it. His head, uncovered, showed grey close-cut fuzz above the temples. His skin was not perfectly black but warmly dark with grape-coloured shadows. The bone structure of his face was exquisite.

“Mrs Alleyn,” said Dr Natouche.

Miss Rickerby-Carrick was, as Troy had feared she would be, excessive. She shook Dr Natouche’s hand up and down and laughed madly: “Oh-ho-ho,” she laughed, “how perfectly splendid.”

Mr Pollock kept his hands in his pockets and limped aside thus avoiding an introduction.

Since there seemed to be nothing else to talk about Troy hurriedly asked Dr Natouche if he had come by the London train. He said he had driven up from Liverpool, added a few generalities, gave her a smile and a slight inclination of his head, returned to the river and walked for some little distance along the wharves.

“Innit marvellous?” Mr Pollock asked of nobody in particular. “They don’t tell you so you can’t complain.”

“They?” wondered Miss Rickerby-Carrick. “Tell you? I don’t understand?”

“When you book in.” He jerked his head towards Dr Natouche. “What to expect.”

“Oh, but you mustn’t!” she whispered. “You mustn’t feel like that. Truly.”

“Meant to be class, this carry-on? Right? That’s what they tell you. Right? First class. Luxury accommodation. Not my idea of it. Not with that type of company. If I’d known one of that lot was included I wouldn’t have come at it. Straight, I wouldn’t.”

“How very odd of you,” said Mr Bard lightly.

“That’s your opinion,” Mr Pollock angrily rejoined. He turned towards Troy, hoping perhaps for an ally. “I reckon it’s an insult to the ladies,” he said.

“Oh, go along with you,” Troy returned as good-naturedly as she could manage, “it’s nothing of the sort. Is it, Miss Rickerby-Carrick?”

“Oh no. No. Indeed, no.”

“I know what I’m talking about,” Mr Pollock loudly asserted. Troy looked nervously at the distant figure on the riverage. “I own property. Once that sort settles in a district—look—it’s a slum. Easy as that.”

“Mr Pollock, this man is a doctor,” Troy said.

“You’re joking? Doctor? Of what?”

“Of medicine,” Mr Bard said. “You should consult your passenger-list, my dear fellow. He’s an MD.”

“You can tell people you’re anything,” Mr Pollock darkly declared. “Anything. I could tell them I was a bloody earl. Pardon the French, I’m sure.” He glared at Troy who was giggling. The shadow of a grin crept into his expression. “Not that they’d credit it,” he added. “But still.”

The young man on the motor-cycle sounded a derisive call on his siren. “Taa t’—ta ta ta. Ta-Taa.” He and his girl-friend were looking towards the bend in the river.

A river-craft had come into view. She was painted a dazzling white. A scarlet and green houseflag was mounted at her bows and the red ensign at her stern. Sunlight splashed her brass-work, red curtains glowed behind her saloon windows. As she drew towards her moorings her name could be seen, painted in gold letters along her bows.

The clock in a church tower above the river struck twelve.

“Here she is,” Mr Bard said. “Dead on time.”