It was a triumphant Peter Fallow who entered Leicester's that evening. Everyone at the Table, and scores more among those who packed that noisy bistro, even those who turned up their noses at The City Light, knew that it was he who had broken the McCoy case. Even St. John and Billy, who were seldom serious about anything other than one another's infidelities, offered congratulations with apparent sincerity. Sampson Reith, the London Daily Courier's political correspondent, who was out here for a few days, happened by the Table and told of his lunch with Irwin Gubner, deputy managing editor of The New York Times, who lamented that The City Light had the story practically to itself, which of course meant Peter Fallow, keeper and tender. Alex Britt-Withers sent over a vodka Southside, on the house, and it tasted so good Fallow ordered another. The tidal wave of approval was so great that Caroline smiled the first smile he'd had from her in a very long time. The only sour note was Nick Stopping. His approval was decidedly soft-spoken and halfhearted. Then Fallow realized that Nick, the Marxist-Leninist, the Oxford Sparticist, the Rousseau of the Third World, was no doubt consumed with jealousy. This was his sort of story, not this shallow comedian Fallow's -- —Fallow could now regard Nick's opinion of him with magnanimous amusement— -- and yet here was Fallow at the forefront, riding the freight train of History, while he, Stopping, was writing yet another piece for House & Garden on the latest Mrs. Posh's villa in Hobe Sound, or wherever.