The Evil Shepherd

Francis Ledsam, alert, well-satisfied with himself and the world, the echo of a little buzz of congratulations still in his ears, paused on the steps of the modern Temple of Justice to light a cigarette before calling for a taxi to take him to his club. Visions of a whisky and soda - his throat was a little parched - and a rubber of easy-going bridge at his favourite table, were already before his eyes. A woman who had followed him from the Court touched him on the shoulder. "Can I speak to you for a moment, Mr. Ledsam?" The barrister frowned slightly as he swung around to confront his questioner. It was such a familiar form of address. "What do you want?" he asked, a little curtly.