Friday nights went on in their usual pattern. But one day in November, when I was having tea with George, I found him heavy and preoccupied. I tried to amuse him. Once or twice he smiled, but in a mechanical and distracted way. Then I asked: ‘Is there a case? Can I help?’ ‘There’s nothing on,’ said George. He picked up the evening paper and began to read. Abruptly he said, a moment later: ‘Martineau’s letting his mania run away with him.’ ‘Has anything happened?’ ‘I found out yesterday,’ George said, ‘that he was asking someone to value his share in the firm.’ ‘You actually think he’s going to sell?’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t think even Martineau would get it valued for sheer enjoyment,’ said George. ‘Unless he’s madder than we think.’ His optimism had vanished now. ‘I thought he was a bit more settled,’ I said. ‘After he was headed off the plays.’ ‘You can’t tell with him,’ said George.
