Press photographers flashed their bulbs as the delegates arrived, flashed them as they assembled round the long table, flashed them again as the Minister arrived to make his opening speech. Then the journalists were asked to leave and the conference got down to business. While Rolls-Royces were still delivering important people to Lancaster House, Hugh Shrieve, his cold now much better, was himself conferring with Colin Hoggart of the Mallory Foundation. Hoggart was an energetic man of fifty-five, red-faced and bald, with a reputation for great efficiency. “I’m extremely glad to meet you, Mr Shrieve,” he said, with a firm handshake. “I’ve heard a lot about you and your problem recently. James Weatherby was telling me all about it last night, as a matter of fact, at the club.” Shrieve looked interested. He hadn’t seen Weatherby for over a week, though they had spoken several times on the phone. James had said he was fearfully busy, he hoped everything was going well, and he had no new information about what might or might not happen.
