It was one of those increasingly rare, fine summer days when Richard Gwilier left his car in the multi-storey car park and made his way on foot through the few short streets to the appointed restaurant. It was lunch hour, and being the commercial area of the city, it was crowded. But the walk improved his appetite in more ways than one. Threading his way through the shirt-sleeved, summer-frocked and purposeful crowds, past jewellers and furriers and expensive car showrooms, and ridiculous but equally expensive fashion shops, reminded him that there were a great many people in the world with a great many desires, and a great deal of money, and precious little sense. It reaffirmed to him that if he kept his wits about him, he would find a place where his ambition could spread itself and lead
