“Who is he?” I said.
“Don’t know, sir. Gives his name as Gorman. But he’s not our Mr. Gorman.”
“It may be Tim,” I said. “Does he look as if he had an artistic soul?”
“Couldn’t say, sir. Might have, sir. Artists is very various. Doesn’t seem to me, sir, as if his man looked after his clothes proper.”
“Must be Tim,” I said. “Show him in.”
“In here, sir?”
“Yes. And have an extra kidney cooked for breakfast.”
Tim came in very shyly and sat down on a chair near the door. He certainly did not look as if his clothes had been properly cared for. He was wearing the blue suit which I suspected was the best he owned. It was even more crumpled and worse creased than when I saw it down in Hertfordshire.
“I hope you don’t mind my coming here,” he said. “I didn’t like to go to Mr. Ascher, and I was afraid to go to Michael. He’d have been angry with me.”
“Has anything gone wrong with your apparatus? Smashed a mirror?”