VII Then Adam became Mr. Chatterbox. He and Nina were lunching at Espinosa’s and quarrelling half-heartedly when a businesslike, Eton-cropped woman came across to their table, whom Adam recognized as the social editress of the Daily Excess. “See here,” she said, “weren’t you over at the office with Balcairn the day he did himself in?” “Yes.” “Well, a pretty mess he’s let us in for. Sixty-two writs for libel up to date and more coming in. And that’s not the worst. Left me to do his jo…
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