Mr. Campion's Lucky Day & Other Stories by Margery Allingham

man had to go up to him before his features were clearly visible, yet Knowles had recognised him the moment the man had entered his blurred vision, and now, as the butler peered into those striking features, small beads of perspiration appeared upon the high forehead above the perfect face, and Knowles’ plump hands were damp and clammy as the night wind from the square.
    However the quality of perfection is not lightly cast down. Knowles stood his ground and looked the newcomer glassily in the eye.
    Before that stare, as unnatural as his own, the visitor wavered and turned slightly, so that the old man saw his absence of collar and another very unpleasant thing about his chest and the shoulder of his coat.
    Still Knowles stood his ground and waited, as was his custom, for the visitor to speak first.
    “Take me up to Lady Susan, please, Knowles.”
    The butler stood perfectly still, his eyes, accustomed by long practice, focused upon those other eyes. The absence of collar and the other things Knowles no longer saw.
    “Lady Susan, sir?” he said, with just the right intonation of surprise. “Ah—surely you’re under some misapprehension, sir, if I may venture to say so?”
    “Don’t be a fool, Knowles.” The newcomer was angry. “You know perfectly well who I am—Captain Lester Phillips. You’ve admitted me a dozen times. Take me up to Lady Susan immediately, or must I go without you?”
    He made a movement, but in spite of an icy chill of apprehension Knowles stood firm. He gave his celebrated little cough.
    “I—ah—still think you’ve made a mistake, sir,” he said gently. “Lady Susan no longer lives here.”
    “No longer lives here?” The newcomer’s eyes wavered for a moment. “But I saw her here only two nights ago—only last Wednesday. You showed me up yourself.”
    He paused, and Knowles, seizing the advantage, spoke again.
    “Not last Wednesday, sir,” he said, calmly. “That was—ah—if you’ll forgive me saying so, some years ago, long before the family moved. I stayed with the house, sir. You’ll hardly come up and see Mr. Goldberger, sir?”
    “Mr. Goldberger?”
    “My new employer, sir.”
    “I see.”
    A bewildered expression had crept over the visitor’s pallid features. He looked lost, frightened. If it had not been for the absence of collar and those other things Knowles could have found it in his heart to sympathise with him. As it was, he ushered him gently towards the open door.
    On the threshold the stranger paused.
    “You don’t know where’s she living now?”
    “No, sir. I couldn’t say.” Knowles swallowed. “After the family migrated to Australia I lost touch with them, sir.”
    “Australia? Are you sure, Knowles?”
    Knowles’ eyes did not falter. “Australia, sir.”
    “How long have they been there?”
    “It must be nearly ten years, sir.”
    Just for a moment the visitor’s wild eyes rested upon the perfect face.
    “You don’t look changed, Knowles.”
    It was then, perhaps, that, in the face of the greatest danger, Knowles reached the highest peak of his perfection.
    “I never change, sir,” he said magnificently.
    “I see.”
    Without further ado the tall figure flung itself down the stone steps and strode out into the square, where the blue London night swallowed it.
    Knowles so far forgot himself as to watch until it disappeared. Then he closed the door and went slowly down to his pantry. Ignoring Harold’s inquiring glance, he passed on down the narrow room to his private cupboard, which he unlocked.
    The bottle of Napoleon brandy left to him by name in the will of his late lordship was brought forth. Knowles poured himself out a generous tot and swallowed most of it. Then he replaced the bottle, locked the cupboard, and, assuming his pince-nez, drew his own copy of the Daily Trumpet from its place among the silver-towels. The late news paragraph slipped in on the front page was not hard to find. Nearly every servant in the house had