“Clever Robin,” said Henry. “But it won’t do much good, you know. You can’t wipe away murder.”

Roberta had pushed that word out of her thoughts. She said: “It’s not that—I mean I wasn’t trying to do that. Only people will be using the lift. It looked so frightful.”

Henry took the cloth from her.

“There’s a fire in the dining-room,” he said.

Roberta remembered her errands. “Have you seen Tinkerton and Giggle?”

“I don’t think they’re in the flat. Why?”

“They must be in the car. Charlot wants them told.”

“I’ll go,” Henry offered.

“No, please. If you’ll do—that.”

“All right,” said Henry and went away with the cloth.

Roberta was running downstairs…Four landings with blank walls and steel numbers…Long windows…Heavy carpet under her feet. The lift passed her, bearing an immobile man in an overcoat and a bowler hat, carrying a bag in his hand…Now the entrance hall with the porter who looked bewildered and perturbed and stared at Roberta. She remembered his name.

“Oh, Stamford, have you seen Lord Wutherwood’s chauffeur?”

“Yes, Miss. He’s in his lordship’s car. My Gawd, Miss, what’s gone wrong?’’

“Someone has been taken ill.”

“The screaming, Miss. It was something frightful.”

“I know. A fit of hysterics. We’re sorry about the lift. There’s been an accident.”

Better, she thought, to say something about it. The doctor might have said something. She walked quickly through the entrance into the street. The sun had set on London and there was an evening coolness in the air. The sensation of dream receded a little. There was the car, a large grand car with Giggle sitting at the wheel and a woman in a drab hat beside him. They did not notice Roberta and she had to tap on the window, making them jump. Giggle got out and came round to her, touching his cap.

“Giggle,” Roberta began, wishing he had another name, “there’s been an accident.”

He looked at her, maddeningly stolid.

“An accident, Miss?”

“Yes, to Lord Wutherwood. He’s hurt himself. Lady Charles thinks you had better come up.”

“Yes, Miss. Will Miss Tinkerton be needed, Miss?”

Roberta didn’t know. She said: “I think perhaps you should both come. Lady Wutherwood may want Tinkerton.”

They followed her into the hall. The lift was down again. Stamford opened the doors. Conquering a sudden and violent reluctance, Roberta went in. She saw that the two servants were preparing to walk up. English servants, she thought, and said: “Will you both come up in the lift, please?”

They got in and Giggle pressed the button. Tinkerton was a small woman with black eyes and a guarded expression. They won’t speak until I do, thought Roberta.

“The doctor has come,” she said. “It’s an upset, isn’t it?”

They both said: “Yes, Miss,” and Tinkerton added in a mumbling voice, “Is her ladyship much hurt, Miss?”

“It’s not her ladyship,” said Roberta, “it’s his lordship.” She remembered insanely that someone once said you had to use “Your Majesty” in every phrase of a letter written to the King. Your Majesty, your lordship, his lordship, her ladyship.