Stafford looked round. There was nothing more that he could do. He passed down the stairs into the street and jumped on to the motor-cycle which had brought him to the scene.
Sir Stanley Belcom lived in Cavendish Place, and Stafford had been a frequent visitor to the house. Sir Stanley was a childless widower, who was wont to complain that he kept up his huge establishment in order to justify the employment of his huge staff of servants. Stafford suspected him of being something of a sybarite. His dinners were famous, his cellar was one of the best in London and because of his acquaintances and friendships in the artistic sets, he was something of a dabbler in the arts he patronised.
The door was opened and an uncomfortable-looking butler was waiting on the step to receive Stafford.
"You'll find Sir Stanley in the library, sir," he said.
Despite his sorrow, Stafford could not help smiling at this attempt on the part of an English servant to offer the conventional greeting in spite of the hour.
"I'm afraid we've got you up early, Perkins," he said.
"Not at all, sir."
The man's stout face creased in a smile.
"Sir Stanley's a rare gentleman for getting up in the middle of the night and ordering a meal."
Stafford found his grey-haired chief, arrayed in a flowered silk dressing-gown, balancing bread on an electric toaster.