It was understood here and there in Sunbury that he had times of drinking rather hard. Indeed, the fact had been dwelt on by one or two tolerant or daring souls who ventured to speak a word for his wife. She had always quickly and willingly given her services as pianist at local entertainments. Perhaps because, with all her brisk self-possession, she must have been hungry for friends. She played exceptionally well, with some real style and with an almost perverse touch of humour. She was quick, crisp, capable. She disliked banality. To the initiated her playing of Chopin was a joy. The sentimentalists said that she had technique but no feeling. She could really play Bach. And I think she was the most accomplished accompanist that ever lived in Sunbury; certainly the best within my memory.
'Say'—thus Mr Henderson now—'you're Henry Calverly, aren't you?'
'Yes.'
'Well, I'd like to know what you're doing here.'
'I told you. I came for this hat.'
'Your hat?'
'Didn't you see the initials?'
'No. I noticed the hat there. Why didn't you come in the front way? What's all this burglar business?'
Henry didn't answer.
'I'll have to ask you to answer that question. You seem to forget that this is my house.'