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After two minutes the door was answered by a pleasant-looking woman in her mid-thirties.
'Is Mr Brent in?' asked Chadwick, and added without pause, 'It's about his article in the Courier.'
It was no lie, but enough to persuade Mrs Brent that the caller was from the office in Fleet Street. She smiled, turned, called 'Gaylord' down the hallway and turned back to Chadwick.
'He'll be here in a minute,' she said, and withdrew towards the sounds of small children somewhere in the house, leaving the door open. Chadwick waited.
A minute later Gaylord Brent himself appeared at the door in pastel linen slacks and pink shirt, an elegant man in his mid-forties.
'Yes?' he inquired.
'Mr Gaylord Brent?' asked Chadwick.
'Yes.'
Chadwick opened the cutting he carried in his hand and held it out.
'It's about this article you wrote in the Sunday Courier.'
Gaylord Brent studied the cutting for several seconds without touching it. His expression was of perplexity touched with petulance.
'This is about four weeks old,' he said. 'What about it?'
'I'm sorry to disturb you on a Sunday morning,' said Chadwick, 'but it's a risk it seems we must all take. You see, in this article you libelled me, and did so rather badly. It has hurt me considerably in my business and social life.'
The perplexity remained on Brent's face, but shifted to give way to an increased level of irritation.
'Who on earth are you?' he demanded.
'Oh, my apologies. The name is William Chadwick.'
Enlightenment came at last to Gaylord Brent on hearing the name, and the irritation took over completely.
'Now look here,' he said, 'you can't just come round to my house to complain. There are proper channels. You'll have to ask your lawyer to write ...'
'I did,' said Chadwick, 'but it did no good at all. I also tried to see the editor, but he wouldn't receive me. So I have come to you.'
'This is outrageous,' protested Gaylord Brent, making to close the door.
'You see, I have something for you,' said Chadwick mildly. Brent's hand on the door jamb paused.
'What?' he asked.
'This,' said Chadwick.
On the word, he raised his right hand, fist closed, and dotted Gaylord Brent firmly but not viciously on the tip of his nose. It was not the sort of blow to break the bone, or even damage the septum cartilage, but it caused Gaylord Brent to retreat a pace, emit a loud 'Ooooooh' and clap his hand to his nose. Water welled into his eyes and he began to sniff back the first trickle of blood. He stared at Chadwick for a second as if confronting a madman, then slammed the door. Chadwick heard steps running down the hallway.
He found his police constable at the corner of Heath Street, a young man enjoying the peace of the crisp morning, but otherwise somewhat bored.
'Officer,' said Chadwick as he came up to him, 'you had better come with me. An assault has been committed on a local resident.'
The young policeman perked up. 'Assault, sir?' he asked. 'Whereabouts?'
'Only two streets away,' said Chadwick. 'Please follow me.'
Without waiting to be asked more questions he beckoned the policeman with his forefinger, turned and set off at a brisk walk back the way he had come. Behind him he heard the policeman talking into his lapel radio and the thud of official boots.
The officer of the law caught up with Chadwick at the corner of the street in which the Brent family lived. To forestall more questions, Chadwick kept up his brisk pace, telling the policeman, 'Here it is, officer, at Number Thirty-Two.'
