CHAPTER EIGHT
Jim was sitting in front of the fire in his flat in Portland Place. He had dined alone and was now smoking a cigar.
He was much older-looking than a year before. There were lines on his forehead and round his eyes that had not been there when he and Fiona had been so happy together.
There was even a suspicion of grey hairs just over his ears and his expression was one of intense seriousness as he stared at the flames that were eating up the log laid across them.
The clock struck ten and he rang the bell for his servant.
“Bring the drinks,” he said when the man appeared. “I am expecting Dr. Morton shortly, and after that I shall not require you anymore.”
“Very good, sir.”
The man brought in a small table and a moment later appeared with a silver tray heavily laden with
