"He has heard of it, sir," said Jim, and forthwith told the specialist of what had befallen him.
Sir Savile bit his moustache.
"No hope of a reprieve, I suppose?"
"No hope whatever, I fear," said Jim.
Sir Savile hailed a cab. "I'm due at Harley Street in fifteen minutes, but I can talk to you on the way."
He laid his hand kindly on the Long 'Un's arm as the cab approached them, and to Jim's credit be it said that he felt, at that moment, that he had more good friends than he deserved to have.
"Practically," said Sir Savile, as the cab sped westwards, "you want a billet?"
Jim ruefully acknowledged that he couldn't live on air.
"You want a billet? Good. I've got one for you."
He pulled a letter out of his pocket.