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of celebration is understandable, but I mustsay – a hundred and fifty pounds in four days is something outside my experience. We will have to have a little chat about it.’
    ‘Well, that’s rather the point. I’d like to do that, Mr Cunliffe. You see, I’ve sort of given up my job, and tend to be without visible means of support. There was quite a bit we didn’t go into when we met…’
    ‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘Come and see me in the morning about eleven o’clock.’
    ‘It’ll be O.K., will it, to draw a bit more?’
    ‘I am sure we can arrange something.’
    ‘Well, fine. See you tomorrow then.’
    ‘At eleven. Goodbye, Mr Whistler.’
    I stepped out of the box smiling vacuously with relief. The strain of keeping the news to myself and the nerve-racking mystery that had developed with Maura had conspired to start in my mind a terrifying suspicion that the whole thing was some immense practical joke. Little Cunliffe’s encouraging attitude – he had not struck me as the type to laugh off the disintegration of a hundred and fifty pounds in rather less than that number of hours – filled me with such elation that I walked back feeling about ten feet tall. For the first time I could really believe that Uncle Bela had left me a hundred and forty thousand pounds.
5
    ‘Mr Cunliffe is expecting you,’ Bunface said with a brisk bob and a smile the moment I opened the door. She hustled me in and bobbed out and little Cunliffe had slipped off his seat and was shaking me by the hand before I had properly adjusted my eyes to his level. All this was very satisfactory and I gave him a kindly good morning.
    ‘I didn’t think I would be seeing you again quite so soon,’ he said jovially.
    ‘No – ah – well,’ I said, not knowing quite whether I was the sheepish young gentleman or the mad young rip, but prepared to oblige with either.
    ‘Sit down, sit down. Cigarette?’

    Again he produced the massive case with one of his emphatic semaphore gestures and again I watched with fascination as he lit one himself and blew out a stream of smoke. He sat himself on the desk and crossed his little legs and looked at me quizzically.
    ‘This is a very high rate of spending, Mr Whistler. Don’t think I am criticizing – in my profession I have always found it impossible to predict or to judge other people’s appetites. But how exactly have you managed to get rid of it so soon? I thought at least a week, possibly two.’
    He was smiling, but not actually laughing. There was still no cue for the two characters waiting at my elbow so I said neutrally, ‘There were a few things I had to buy.’ I then told him exactly what I had spent.
    He made a note of it ‘Yes, I think I have a fair idea,’ he said slowly, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘And you say you have given up your job, too. Without ill-feeling, I hope?’
    I told him about it and he laughed heartily.
    ‘Yes, I can appreciate the situation. It is dear that you need money. I am sure we can come to some arrangement.’
    ‘I was thinking,’ I said tentatively, ‘of a regular weekly sum until I’ve sorted myself out a bit.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘I thought about twenty-five pounds a week would be reasonable – just until the legacy comes through.’
    He slipped off the desk and seated himself in the swivel chair. ‘Possibly,’ he said, judiciously. ‘I’m afraid I have a little shock for you, Mr Whistler. There is no legacy.’
    For a moment I had a wild idea that the ventriloquist had gone and that the doll had seized the opportunity to say all the terrible, lunatic things it could think of.
    I actually said, in a music-hall voice, ‘No legacy?’
    ‘I’m afraid not.’
    ‘But Uncle Bela…’
    ‘Is thriving, I dare say.’
    ‘But – but…’ I gazed at the little madman, practically speechless.’ What about the money? You gave me two hundred pounds.’

    ‘I lent it to you.’ He pressed a buzzer and, as Bunface popped in, said