At nine-thirty Joseph Loveredge left the house
for the office of the old-established journal of which he was the
incorruptible and honoured City editor. At one-forty-five, having
left his office at one-thirty, Joseph Loveredge entered the
Autolycus Club and sat down to lunch. Everything else in Joseph's
life was arranged with similar preciseness, so far as was possible
with the duties of a City editor. Monday evening Joseph spent with
musical friends at Brixton. Friday was Joseph's theatre night. On
Tuesdays and Thursdays he was open to receive invitations out to
dinner; on Wednesdays and Saturdays he invited four friends to dine
with him at Regent's Park. On Sundays, whatever the season, Joseph
Loveredge took an excursion into the country. He had his regular
hours for reading, his regular hours for thinking. Whether in
Fleet Street, or the Tyrol, on the Thames, or in the Vatican, you
might recognise him from afar by his grey frock-coat, his patent-
leather boots, his brown felt hat, his lavender tie. The man was a
born bachelor. When the news of his engagement crept through the
smoky portals of the Autolycus Club nobody believed it.
"Impossible!" asserted Jack Herring. "I've known Joey's life for
fifteen years. Every five minutes is arranged for.
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