 When, about eight years ago, old Sir William Turton died, and his son Basil inherited the Turton Press, as well as the title, I can remember how they started laying bets around Fleet Street as to just how long it would be before some nice young woman managed to persuade the little fellow that she must look after him, that is to say, him and his money. The new Sir Basil Turton was maybe forty years old at the time, a bachelor, a man of mild and simple character, who up to then had shown no interest in anything at all, except his collection of modern paintings and sculpture. No woman had disturbed him, no scandal or gossip had ever touched his name. But now that he had become the proprietor of quite a large newspaper and magazine Empire, it was necessary for him to emerge from the calm of his father's country house and come up to London. Naturally, the vultures started gathering at once, and I believe that not only Fleet Street but very nearly the whole of the city was looking on eagerly as they scrambled for the body. It was slow motion, of course, deliberate and deadly slow motion, and therefore not so much like vultures, as a bunch of agile crabs clawing for a piece of horse-meat underwater. But to everyone's surprise, the little chap proved to be remarkably elusive, and the chase dragged on right through the spring and early summer of that year. I did not know Sir Basil personally, nor did I have any reason to feel friendly towards him. But I couldn't help taking the side of my own sex, and found myself cheering loudly every time he managed to get himself off the hook. Then, round about the beginning of August, apparently at some secret female signal, the girls declared a sort of truce among themselves while they went abroad, rested, and regrouped, and made fresh plans for the winter kill. This was a mistake, because precisely at that moment a dazzling creature called Natalia did something or other, whom nobody had heard of before, swept in from the continent, took Sir Basil firmly by the wrist, and led him off in a kind of swoon to the registry office at Caxton Hall, where she married him before anyone else, least of all the bridegroom, realised what was happening. You can imagine that the London ladies were indignant, and naturally they started disseminating a vast amount of fruity gossip about the new Lady Turton. That dirty poacher, they called her. But we don't have to go into that. In fact, for the purposes of this story, we can... Sample complete. Ready to continue?