‘And you might ask them, Harold, while you’re about it,’ Mr Period quite shouted after him, ‘what they did with my cigarette-case.’

‘What?’ the retreating voice asked.

‘Lady Barsington’s card case. Cigarettes.’

There was a shocked pause. Mr Cartell returned, half in and half out of an overcoat, and a tweed hat cocked over one eye.

‘What do you mean, P.P.? Surely you don’t suggest …’

‘God knows! But ask them. Ask!’

IV

Desirée, Lady Bantling (ex-Cartell, factually Dodds), sat smiling to herself in her drawing-room. She smoked incessantly and listened to Moppett Ralston and Leonard Leiss and it would have been impossible for anyone to say what she thought of them. Her ravaged face, with its extravagant make-up, and her mop of orange hair made a flagrant statement against the green background of her chair. She was possibly not unamused.

Moppett was explaining how interested Leonard was in art and what a lot he knew about the great portrait painters.

‘So I do hope,’ Moppett was saying, ‘you don’t think it too boring and bold of us to ask if we may look. Leonard said you would, but I said we’d risk it and if we might just see the pictures and creep away again –?’

‘Yes, do,’ Desirée said. ‘They’re all Bantling ancestors. Gentlemen in skin-tight breeches, and ladies with high foreheads and smashing bosoms. Andrew could tell you all about them, but he seems to have disappeared. I’m afraid I’ve got to help poor Bimbo make up pieces of poetry for a treasure hunt and in any case I don’t know anything about them. I want my pictures to be modern and gay and, if possible, rude.’

‘And of course, you’re so right, Lady Bantling,’ Leonard said eagerly. He leant forward with his head on one side sending little waves of hair-oil towards her. Desirée watched him and accepted everything he said without comment. When he had talked himself to an ingratiating standstill, she remarked that, after all, she didn’t really think she was all that interested in painting.

‘Andrew has done a portrait of me which I do quite fancy,’ she said. ‘I look like the third witch in Macbeth before she gave up trying to make the best of herself. Hallo, my darling, how’s your Muse?’

Bimbo had come in. He threw an extremely cold glance at Leonard.

‘My Muse,’ he said, ‘is bitching on me. You must help me, Desirée; there ought to be at least seven clues and it’s more amusing if they rhyme.’

‘Can we help?’ Moppett suggested. ‘Leonard’s quite good at really improper ones. What are they for?’

‘A treasure hunt,’ he said, without looking at her.

‘Treasure hunts are my vintage,’ Desirée said. ‘I thought it might be fun to revive them. So we’re having one tonight.’