It was a Friday, the day of publication of the local newspaper.

It had run to extravagant bills all over the place: "Wellingsford Hero honoured by the King.

Tragic End to Glorious Deeds." The word--Marigold's, I suppose--had gone round that I had visited the hero in London.

I was stopped half a dozen times on my way up the High Street by folks eager for personal details.

Outside Prettilove the hairdresser's I held quite a little reception, and instead of moving me on for blocking the traffic, as any of his London colleagues would have done, the local police sergeant sank his authority and by the side of a butcher's boy formed part of the assembly.
When I got to the Market Square, I saw Sir Anthony Fenimore's car standing outside the Town Hall.