F. GEORGE KAY, ROYAL MAIL Mr Sinclair struggled awake next morning. He knew that something really awful had befallen him the day before, and for a while he was content to lie in his bed and stare at the ceiling and keep memory at bay. His mouth felt like a gorilla’s armpit, and his forehead, like a furnace. But at last the full enormity of Jamie’s will crashed down on his tortured head. That Jamie, who had successfully kept up the appearance of being charitable all his life, getting himself elected to this and that board of orphanage or poor house without parting with so much as a farthing, should actually, finally, give it all away to charity out of sheer malicious spite was too much. Mr Sinclair closed his eyes and groaned aloud. And then a gentle hand bathed his fevered temples with cologne, and a quiet voice said, ‘Lie still, sir. I have made you a dish of tea.’ Mr Sinclair knocked away the hand and struggled up against the pillows. He could not remember getting to bed. He remembered opening the door to the prettiest female he had ever seen, and after that everything was blank.
