THE OLYMPIC GAMES "Luttrell! Luttrell!" Sir Charles Hardiman stood in the corridor of his steam yacht and bawled the name through a closed door.

But no answer was returned from the other side of the door.

He turned the handle and went in.

The night was falling, but the cabin windows looked towards the north and the room was full of light and of a low and pleasant music.

For the tide tinkled and chattered against the ship's planks and, in the gardens of the town across the harbour, bands were playing.