i was walking down euston road when i was suddenly confronted by sinclair, usually the most undemonstrative of men.
“have you heard about tremayne?” he blurted out.
“why no, “ i replied. “i have not heard anything about tremayne. what is there to hear?”
“it’s dreadful! “ sinclair exclaimed. “positively dreadful1 the worst story in the history of the world.”
i hardly knew what to say to that, but before i could summon up a response, sinclair went on, “meet me at the club tonight and i will tell you all about it.”
“i will be sure to do that,” i replied, and sinclair went on his way.
leaving me in a state of some small curiosity, though, truth be told, i hardly knew tremayne, or had given him any thought since our schooldays.
the night was a dark and rainy one, and i set myself beside the fire at the club with a stiff brandy, and waited for sinclair.
but he did not show up, and as the fire burned low and was replenished and burned low again, i fell sleep in the chair.
when i awoke, i was assured by the steward that sinclair had not shown up.
so far as i knew, tremayne was not a member of the club, and when i enquired i was assured that no such gentleman was known to the staff or had made an appearance.
i went back the next two nights, with similar results, though on neither night did i wait quite so long for my unpunctual storyteller.
in fact, i never heard from or of sinclair again, or learned the dreadful fate of the unfortunate tremayne.
i did, however, develop a slight stiffness in my lower back, which i have never entirely lost.
