Miss Sarah Fairhurst was as aggressive as her younger brother was the reverse. Tall, with penetrating blue eyes, and with greying hair tightly brushed back from a high, narrow forehead, she was the type of born spinster who nevertheless succeeds in lording it over the rest of mankind by sheer persistent unpleasantness.

“Why unreasonable?” asked Henry uneasily. He saw yet another squabble on the emotional horizon, and he had the mild man’s habitual dislike of squabbles.

“You distinctly promised me,” she said, “that you would be home to tea today. Quite distinctly, Henry. But there—when you get up in the West End with those disreputable literary friends of yours, what does your poor, lonely sister matter? Heaven knows what you do with yourself.” Miss Fairhurst’s tone hinted at unspeakable orgies.

“Still,” she continued, “if you do manage to get some work done which keeps us supplied in food, I suppose I must not grumble too much. Although I do think that, if there is any likelihood of your meeting some of your dreadful friends, you might do your best to let me know beforehand, so that the tea does not spoil in the pot while I wait endless hours for you.”

Rapidly Henry seized the olive-branch that was held out to him.

“As a matter of fact, my dear,” he said mildly, “I couldn’t help being late today.”

“No? What was it this time? A blonde or a brunette?” It was an accepted fiction with Miss Fairhurst that her brother spent all his leisure hours in the arms of attractive ladies with all the charms that she lacked.

“Neither. It was an inspector from Scotland Yard,” Henry explained.

“Scotland Yard. Rubbish!” exclaimed his sister emphatically. “What would Scotland Yard want with you? They only look after criminals, and with all your faults I have never suspected you of crime, my dear Henry, and neither, I am sure, has anyone else.”

“I am not a criminal, Sarah,” explained Henry with what he privately considered an air of quiet dignity, “but I was a witness to a crime—I was, as far as I can see, the sole witness to a murder.”

“Murder! Sole witness! My dear Henry, you’ll be getting all our throats cut in our beds.” Miss Fairhurst somehow contrived to give the impression that if her brother had become involved in such a disgraceful affair it was all his fault and would bring disgrace upon the house.

“The man died in the Reading Room at the British Museum,” Henry explained patiently, but his sister at first would have nothing of it.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” she said brusquely. “Drink your tea and don’t go dithering about things that you don’t understand.”

“All right,” said Henry, and did as he was told—as, to tell the truth, he always did with this formidable sister who had ordered him about since childhood, and who would apparently always continue to do so.