Chapter FiveCyril Eversley put out a hand and touched the bell on his office table. Like everything else about him the hand was long and thin. If his cousin Brett looked like a Georgian squire, he himself had rather the air of a medieval scholar—a flowing robe and a skull-cap would have been much more appropriate than a modern suit. He was seven years older than Brett and the senior partner. No one would have guessed that they were related. Where Brett was dark and florid, Cyril had the thinning fair hair, the pallor, and slight stoop of a delicate man who leads a sedentary life. He might have been an artist, a scholar, a dilettante. He was, as a matter of fact, a little of all three. The rather charming water-colour drawing of his daughter Sylvia which faced him across the room was his ow
