For a few minutes tea continued in silence. Then Sarah spoke again.

“A man died in the Reading Room,” she said. “Wasn’t there another case like that a few months ago?”

“Another case?”

“Yes. Some lecturer or professor of something,” answered Miss Fairhurst vaguely. “I seem to remember reading about it. In the papers, you know, though of course one realises that they tell the most dreadful lies, and one can never be at all sure of the facts of the case.”

“Are you certain?” Henry put down his cup and gazed at his sister, fairly trembling with eagerness. “Can’t you remember any of the details, Sarah?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve got something more important to do than to spend my time worrying about silly people who get themselves murdered in public places like the British Museum Reading Room.”

“Was the other man murdered?” Henry could not restrain himself from asking these questions, though, knowing his sister as well as he did, he was perfectly aware that he could not really expect any satisfactory answers.

“How should I know?” she retorted. “As far as I remember, he died of heart failure, but quite possibly that was just the story that the papers told. Quite likely he was murdered, really, only they hushed it up. Maybe he was a relative of the Prime Minister, or the Chancellor of the Exchequer, or something, and they wanted to save money on death duties.” Miss Fairhurst’s ideas of the law and its complications were completely chaotic, and Henry, very wisely, did not attempt to argue with her on this score. He was intent on information, and thought that he should be able to get what he wanted from somewhere.

“I shall ring up Macgregor,” he announced. “Maybe he will be able to find the information for me before he comes home tonight.”

“That, I presume,” said Sarah, very much on her dignity, “means that there will be a third to dinner tonight, and I, my dear Henry, shall have the unpleasant duty of persuading cook that she can make a joint purchased for two go around for three.”

“And I’m sure,” said Henry, now desiring to smooth her down, “that you will do the duty very successfully, my dear Sarah. No one can handle difficult servants more effectively than you can.”

Angus Macgregor was a reporter on the Post-Chronicle, and as soon as dinner was over that night he produced a bulky bundle of press-cuttings from his pocket. He had long been a friend of Henry, and he often helped him with information culled from the organ of the Press for which he worked.

“Heaven knows what ye want this for, Henry, old man,” he said. “Seems a bit out of your usual line to me. Still, you know your own business best, and I’ve got the information you asked for.”