The box was locked, but the key proved to be on the countess’s ring. I tackled lock and top cautiously; air, admitted to a formerly sealed container, can be destructive to items within. But it was clear that this box had been opened in the recent past. The lock had been oiled, and the lid lifted easily.

After a minute I turned to Schmidt, who was hovering.

“Nothing much,” I said, as casually as I was able. “A couple of old diaries and some account lists.”

Tony’s head came up. His nose was quivering.

“I’ll have a close look at them some other time,” I said, before he could speak. “Must be almost time for dinner. Shall we?”

I hated to put that box back in the Schrank. I didn’t trust Schmidt as far as I could throw him. Not nearly as far—I could have thrown him quite a distance. His shifty looks and inconsistent behavior were not proof of guilt; but whether he was witting or ignorant, my safest attitude was one of indifference to anything I found. I felt sure the metal box had once contained the letters which had been reprinted in The Peasants’ Revolt. Therefore someone had already searched its contents. And the box was as safe in the Schrank, under lock and key, as it was anywhere.

Having reached that conclusion, I was able to meet George’s smiling curiosity at dinner with relative calm. We fenced through the meal, with innuendoes falling thick and fast, and Tony glaring, and Blankenhagen watching all three of us as if he suspected our sanity. We had reached the coffee stage when Irma came to the table. As soon as I looked at her, I knew something was up.

“My aunt asks that you spend an hour with her this evening,” she said, addressing Tony.

“This evening? Sure… Is there any particular… I mean, why does she…?”

The girl’s face got even paler.

“I cannot say, Herr Professor. It is not for me…She asks the others to come also. Fräulein, Herr Nolan, and you, Herr Doktor Blankenhagen.”

Blankenhagen was watching her curiously.

“The Gräfin has not honored me before,” he said. “I think this is not a social occasion. I will come; but I too ask you, why?”

The repetition of the question was too much for Irma. She shook her head speechlessly and turned away.

“I think I know why,” I said coyly, as Blankenhagen, still on his feet, stared after her slim form.

“So do I,” said Tony, with a dismal groan.