We found Mr Pakrashi in his study, which was hidden behind the living-room. The sound of typing had already reached our ears. Now we saw a man sitting behind an ancient typewriter, which rested on a massive table, covered with green rexine. The table was placed on the right. On our left, as we stepped in, we saw three couches and a small round table. On this stood a chess board with all the chessmen in place, and a book on the game. The last thing my eyes fell on was a large dog, curled up and asleep in one corner of the room.

The man fitted Dinanath Babu’s description. A pipe hung from his mouth. He stopped typing upon our entry, and his eyes swept over us both. ‘Which one of you is Mr Mitter?’ he finally asked.

Perhaps it was his idea of a joke, but Feluda did not laugh. He answered civilly enough, ‘I am Pradosh Mitter. This is my cousin.’

‘How was I to know?’ said Mr Pakrashi. ‘Little boys have gone into so many different things … music, acting, painting; why, some have even become religious gurus! So your cousin here might well have been the great sleuth himself. But anyway, tell me why you’re here. What do you want from a man who’s never done anything other than mind his own business?’

Feluda was right. If ever a competition was held in irascibility, this man would have been a world champion.

‘Who did you say sent you here?’ he wanted to know.

‘Mr Lahiri mentioned your name. He arrived from Delhi three days ago. You and he travelled in the same compartment.’

‘I see. And is he the one whose attaché case got lost?’

‘Not lost. Merely mistaken for someone else’s.’

‘Careless fool. But why did he have to employ you to retrieve it? What precious object did it contain?’

‘There was nothing much, really, except an old manuscript. There is no other copy.’

I could tell why Feluda mentioned the manuscript. If he told Mr Pakrashi the real reason why he had been employed, no doubt Mr Pakrashi would have laughed in derision.

‘Manuscript?’ he asked somewhat suspiciously.

‘Yes. A travelogue written by Shambhucharan Bose. Mr Lahiri had read it on the train, then put it back in the case.’

‘Well, the man is not just a fool, he seems to be a liar, too. You see, although I had an upper berth, I spent most of the day sitting right next to him. He never read anything other than a newspaper and a Bengali magazine.’