He grudgingly admitted Mallett into the hall and vanished within. After a very short absence he returned and with an air compounded of resignation and disapproval said: “Come this way, please.”

Mallett followed him upstairs and was ushered into a small, square room on the first floor.

“This is the gentleman, your lordship,” said the butler.

Lord Bernard was at breakfast. He smiled cheerfully at his visitor and called to the butler:

“Bring another cup for Mr. Mallett, and some more coffee.”

Mallett protested, with all the self-conscious rectitude of an early riser, that he had breakfasted several hours ago. Lord Bernard retorted with unanswerable logic, that for that reason he was all the more entitled to take further refreshment in the middle of the morning; and went on, to the profound embarrassment of the butler, to point out that at that moment every member of his grossly overpaid and underworked household was indulging in the orgy known as “elevenses”, and if they were entitled to it, how much more a busy detective? The argument, and the delicious scent of coffee wafted to his nose from the breakfast table, were together too much for the inspector, and he capitulated.

“It is an odd thing,” said his lordship, when the coffee had been brought, “but though I am not generally considered a particularly hospitable man, whenever I meet you I always seem to be pressing you to eat and drink against your will. Last time it was dinner, I remember.”

“It was a very good dinner,” said Mallett gratefully.

“Not bad. Let me see, we had a sole vin blanc and a tournedos—rather overdone, didn’t you think? I can’t remember the sweet for the moment.”

“At all events,” said Mallett, “I am extremely glad to find your memory is so good, because I have come here simply to tax your memory on one subject.”

Lord Bernard shook his head.

“Don’t depend on it. Inspector,” he said. “My memory is not on the whole a good one. I remember the things I happen to be interested in, like everybody else, that’s all. Leading a rather idle and worthless life as I do, dishes and the vintages of wines bulk rather largely in my mind, I’m afraid. Yours, I expect, is full of details of your cases. I dare say you tend to be quite forgetful outside them, unless you are a superman—which I suppose a detective ought to be. I know musicians who are hopelessly absentminded about ordinary things, but can carry the full score of half a dozen symphonies in their heads. It’s a form of specialization.”