Gwen Pullen was sitting in the bar, drinking whisky, waiting for him. She was a middle-aged spinster, large-boned, a little clumsy, and shyness sometimes made her loud and hearty. She waved a large black handbag at him to attract his attention, and he wondered if it had been a mistake to ask her to come. He had hoped to sit, quiet and unnoticed, until he heard the voice he recognised as belonging to the girl he had telephoned earlier. Gwen, with her untidy shock of black hair and her dark-rimmed spectacles, being jolly and girlish, was hard to hide. He bought a drink and sat beside her.

“George,” she said. “My dear, how’s Molly? I’ve had Roger Pym on the telephone to me all day.”

“Were you able to help him?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Not with a skin. I’ve checked everything we have at the museum, and there’s nothing at all that fits the description of the bird you saw. Then I remembered seeing something in the journal of a rather tedious and unadventurous nineteenth-century explorer that came into my possession a couple of years ago. He led an expedition to the Aleutian Islands and recorded a colony of petrels extremely similar to the bird you saw.”

“With red feet?” George interrupted.

“Yes,” she said. “ Very definitely with red feet. He didn’t take any specimens—not because he was squeamish but because, I gather, he was a very poor shot. I don’t know of any more recent expeditions to the Aleutians—there’s nothing in the literature. The Island he mentioned is uninhabited and quite hard to get to. But it might be worth a visit. Roger Pym is already making plans, I think.”

“Yes,” George said, “ he would be.”

“I understand he found the bird,” Gwen said, “so I can understand why he’s excited. He’s already thinking of names, you know. Pym’s petrel sounds a bit pretentious, don’t you think?” George said nothing.

He stood up and led her towards the dining room. It was possible Franks’ mysterious girlfriend and her boss were already there. He chose a table at the far side of the room, so he had a view of the whole restaurant and anybody coming in or out. He sat Gwen with her face to the wall, hoping to make her slightly less conspicuous.

“What are you doing here anyway, George?” she asked. “Is it just about the bird? It wouldn’t have anything to do with Greg Franks, would it?”

“Did you know him?” George asked, surprised, in a low voice, hoping she would match the volume of hers to his.