‘Indeed, you shall do no such thing!’ Joseph said. ‘We can’t have him wasting his money like that, can we, my dear? No, I think if you very much want it I shall have to charge myself with procuring you a copy. You shall have it for your birthday! How will that be?’

‘Thank you, Joseph, but my birthday is not until April, as you are very well aware, and I want the book now,’ Maud replied. ‘I shall write to Bodmin’s, and describe what the book looked like, and I daresay they will know the one I mean.’

Joseph patted her hand. ‘But, my dear, surely it was quite an old book? I’m afraid you are likely to find that it has been out of print for some years. I can see I shall have to prowl round second-hand bookshops on your behalf. Only be patient, and you shall have it, if I can possibly manage it! I shouldn’t worry about writing to Bodmin’s, if I were you: I’m quite sure they won’t be able to supply it.’

As Maud showed a tendency to argue the point, and he was already bored by the whole subject, Stephen lounged out of the room, just in time to meet Inspector Hemingway, coming away from the telephone-room. The Inspector’s eyes were bright with triumph, a circumstance which Stephen at once noticed. Stephen said: ‘You look remarkably pleased with yourself, Inspector. Found a valuable clue?’

‘The trouble with you, sir, is that you want to know too much,’ said Hemingway severely. ‘If you’re looking for Miss Clare, she went upstairs a couple of minutes ago.’

‘Don’t get waggish with me, I implore you! My temper isn’t proof against that kind of badinage. I am not looking for Miss Clare. I am escaping from the Empress of Austria.’

The Inspector smiled. ‘What, you aren’t going to tell me she’s got lost again?’

‘No; but in her present condition she’s of no use to my aunt, and as my aunt cannot recall the name of her author, we have now reached an impasse, discussion of which will very shortly clear this house of its guests. Of course, if you were any good as a detective, you would have discovered by this time who cast the Empress to the flames.’

‘Yes, that’s what Mrs Herriard as good as told me,’ said Hemingway. ‘I’m sorry I can’t see my way to obliging her, but there it is! my time’s not my own, as you might say. Why doesn’t she ask them at the library who wrote the book? They’ll be bound to know.’

‘Inspector,’ said Stephen, ‘you are a great man! During the whole course of our exhausting discussions, not one of us thought of that simple expedient. I don’t want to hear any more tit-bits about the Empress, but I shall pass on your advice to my aunt, partly because I feel mellow, and partly because my Uncle Joseph wants to hear about the Empress even less than I do, judging by his strenuous opposition to Aunt’s getting another copy of the book.’