‘It’s all right. If you’ll just let me up, I’ll find the aspirins.’ While Troy did this Miss Rickerby-Carrick whispered indefatigably. ‘You’ll wonder what it is. That thing. I’ll tell you. It’s a romantic story, no denying it. Never leaves me. You’ll be surprised,’ the strange whisper gustily confided. ‘No kidding. An heirloom. Honestly. My grandfather—surgeon—Czar—Fabergé. I promise you!’ Troy had found the aspirin.

‘Here they are. I really think you shouldn’t tell people about it, you know.’

‘Oh—but you!’

‘I wouldn’t—really. Why don’t you put it in safe-keeping?’

‘You’re talking like the insurance people.’

‘I can well believe it.’

‘It’s my Luck,’ said Miss Rickerby-Carrick. ‘That’s how I feel about it. I can’t be without my Luck. I did try once, and immediately fell down a flight of concrete steps. There, now!’

‘Well, I wouldn’t talk about it if I were you.’

‘That’s what Miss Hewson said.’

‘For Heaven’s sake!’ Troy exclaimed and gave up.

‘Well, she’s awfully interested in antiques.’

‘Have you shown it to her?’

She nodded coyly, wagging her ungainly head up and down and biting her lower lip. ‘You’ll never guess,’ she said, ‘what it is. The design I mean. Talk about coincidence!’ She put her face close to Troy’s and whispered. ‘In diamonds and emeralds and rubies. The Signs of the Zodiac. Now!’

‘Hadn’t you better go to bed?’ Troy asked wearily.

Miss Rickerby-Carrick stared fixedly at her and then bolted.

When Mrs Tretheway at eight o’clock brought her a cup of tea, Troy felt as if the incidents of the night had been part of her dreams. At breakfast Mr Pollock and the Hewsons had a muttering session about Miss Rickerby-Carrick, Caley Bard openly asked Troy if she was keen on ‘Eine Kleine Nacht Musik’ and Mr Lazenby told him not to be naughty. As usual Dr Natouche took no part in this general, if furtive, conversation. Miss Rickerby-Carrick herself retired at mid-morning to a corner of the deck where, snuffling dreadfully and looking greatly perturbed, she kept up her diary.