The Trojan Horse

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I read the writing on the back of the visiting card and then turned it over to look at the name. Paul Severin, 155 Neath Street, Swansea. It seemed familiar. I looked once more at the writing on the back. ‘As a criminal court barrister you will know my name,’ it ran. ‘You will, therefore, realise how urgent it is that I should see you.’ The initials P. S. followed. Paul Severin — Swansea. The name and place went hand-in-hand in my memory.

And then suddenly I knew, and I told my clerk to get me the file of the Daily Express. It seemed incredible. Yet it was not altogether unnatural. I had specialised in the defence of criminals, and some success with what had been considered doomed men had given me a certain reputation. But it offended my sense of decorum, mainly, I think, because no one — least of all a barrister — likes to have his conscience set a problem.

When my clerk returned with the file, he said, ‘Won’t you see him, Mr Kilmartin? He seems very excited. It was all I could do to prevent him from coming right in after me.’

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