“I’m in.”

“All right,” said Alleyn. “Gibson!” The door opened. “I’m ready for Lord Charles, if he can come.”

Alleyn had grown accustomed to Lord Charles’s walk. It recalled vividly a year out of his own past. From 1919 to 1920 Alleyn’s youthful and speculative gaze had followed tail-coated figures hurrying with discretion through the labyrinths of diplomatic corridors. These figures had moved with the very gait of Lord Charles Lamprey and Alleyn wondered if at any time he had been among them. He came into the dining-room with this well-remembered air, taking out his eye-glass as he moved to the table. There was a kind of amateurish gravity about him, linked to an expression of guarded courtesy. He was one of those blond men at whose age it is difficult to guess. Somewhere, Alleyn thought, between forty-five and fifty.

“You will be glad to hear, sir,” said Alleyn, “that we have nearly finished for to-night.”

“Oh yes,” said Lord Charles. “Splendid. Hullo, Nigel. Still with us? That’s good.”

“He’s asked for an unofficial watching-brief,” Alleyn explained. “Subject, of course, to your approval.”

“Do you mind, Charles?” asked Nigel. “As you know, I’m Alleyn’s Watson. Of course, you’ll tell me if you’d rather I made myself scarce.”

“No, no,” said Lord Charles, “do stay. It was our suggestion. I’m afraid, Alleyn, that by this time you must have decided that we are a fantastically unconventional family.”

The old story, thought Alleyn. It seemed to him that the Lampreys showed great industry in underlining their eccentricity.

He said: “I think it was a very sensible suggestion, sir. Bathgate is remarkably well equipped as a liaison officer between the press, yourselves, and the police.” This remark met with a silence. Nigel fidgeted and Lord Charles looked blank. Alleyn said: “As far as your own movements are concerned we’ve got a complete statement. You didn’t leave the drawing-room from the time Lord Wutherwood arrived until the lift returned after the injury was inflicted?”

“No. I was there all the time.”

“Yes. Well, now, I think I must ask you for some account of your conversation with Lord Wutherwood after the others left you alone together.”

Lord Charles rested his right arm on the table, letting his hand hang from the wrist. His left hand was thrust into his trousers pocket. He looked a little as though he sat for a modish portrait. “Well, Alleyn,” he began, “from what my Aunt Kit tells me and from what I have already told you and Mr. Fox, I expect you will have guessed why my brother called to-day. I was in a desperate financial case and I appealed to my brother for help. This was the subject of our conversation. My appalling children tell me they overheard us. No doubt they have given you a highly coloured account.”

“I should like to have your own account, sir.”

“Would you? Well, I told Gabriel how things were and he—ah—he read me a pretty stiff lecture. I fully deserved it. I don’t know how it is but I have never been able to manage very well. I think I may plead that I’ve had extraordinarily bad luck. A little while ago things seemed to be most promising. I ventured into business with a very able partner but unfortunately, poor fellow, he became mentally deranged and—ah—was foolish enough to shoot himself.”