Now, as he walked idly out of the park and turned into a street just off Lower Regent Street, he read the plates in the doorways of the solid Victorian buildings, and was stopped by one particularly shining and beautiful and, to judge by its unscratched nature, new, that said PFC, 1st Floor. In smaller capitals, which descended finally to upper and lower case, the plate said PATRIOTIC FELLOWSHIP CIRCLE for Preserving the Bonds of Empire. He remembered the man with the Adam’s apple, the moment outside the house when Anthea had looked at him without acknowledgement. On the first floor there was a room that said ‘Private’, and another with a glass door lettered in black, ‘Enquiries. Please Knock and Enter.’ He knocked and entered. A woman in her forties, with wisps of grey hair hanging down on either side of a red shapeless face, was busy at a typewriter. She looked up in a manner that he guessed was permanently flustered. ‘Can I help you?’ ‘Perhaps you can. I wanted to find out something about the objects of the Fellowship.’ ‘Yes, yes.
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