He had hardly taken his hand off the bell when the door was opened and, without waiting for his inquiry as to whether Lady Kean was at home, the butler stood aside for him to pass into the hall.
“Sir William is waiting for you, sir, if you’ll step up,” he said.
“Sir William?” repeated Fayre, puzzled. “Isn’t this Sir Edward Kean’s?”
For a moment the man seemed taken aback; then he realized his mistake.
“I beg your pardon, sir; I took you for the doctor the gentlemen are expecting. Lady Kean is very ill. The doctors are holding a consultation upstairs. Sir Edward is at home, but I don’t know . . .”
“I won’t trouble him now, of course,” said Fayre quickly. “I’m very sorry about this. When was she taken ill?”
“Her ladyship had a heart attack yesterday evening soon after she arrived from the North. The doctor thinks the journey was too much for her. We are very anxious about her, sir.”
The man looked genuinely distressed. Evidently Sybil Kean was of those who endear themselves to their servants.
Fayre produced a card and scribbled the address of his club on it.
“Tell Sir Edward that this will find me if I can be of any use. I’ll call again later in case there is better news.”