CHAPTER TWOTyrome Strome was having breakfast on the terrace outside his chalet.
He had risen early, as he always did, and was finding the cool of the morning with the sunshine paler than it would be later in the day an enchantment.
He had always loved the vivid colours of the Mediterranean and he thought, as he had often done before, that nothing could be more attractive than the view from his chalet, the tinkle of a fountain in the garden below and the exotic blossom climbing over the balustrade in front of him.
He had gone to sleep thinking of his sister’s problems with regard to her son, but had slept deeply and dreamlessly and this morning he felt vividly aware of his good health and high spirits.
Part of it, he knew, was relief from no longer being oppressed by the seriousness of
