“Obviously, I must. You know your business, and I don’t. Well, I’ll do my best. Just run over my lines again, and I’ll see if I can remember my cue.”

Mallett repeated the words again.

“That reminds me—that reminds me——” murmured Lord Bernard to himself. “No, I’m sorry, Inspector, but it doesn’t come back. You see, I’m not really remembering that evening at all. I can vaguely recollect using the words you have mentioned, but that is only because you have put them back into my mind, and they sit there, isolated so to speak, and sterile, because the context isn’t there. Just cudgelling my brains and trying to remember is no good. If I could only think myself back into the mood of that evening, feel as I did then, perhaps the words would start breeding in my brain and have issue, the issue that was stifled at birth last Thursday night. Though heaven knows, Inspector,” he added, “whether it will be any good to you when it does arrive!”

“Do you think you can do that, then?” asked Mallett.

“The mind’s a funny thing,” said Lord Bernard. “I’ve noticed sometimes that it helps if you stop concentrating directly on the subject, and shift your attention elsewhere, not on to something different altogether, but a bit to one side, if you follow me. I don’t want to waste your time, but if I were to discuss the Ballantine affair quite generally, it might attain your purpose, as well as amusing me. Do you mind doing that?”

“Not at all.”

“Very well, then. Have you made any discoveries in the case recently?”

Mallett considered for a moment. Then he got up and walked across the room to get a nearer view of the picture. He noticed, for the first time, that there was an inscription on the frame, some lines of verse which were new to him. He read:

“Who her will conquer ought to be

At least as full of love and wit as she,

Or he shall ne’er gain favour at her hands.

Nay, though he have a pretty store of brains,

Shall only get his labour for his pains,

Unless he offer more than she demands.”

He read it through twice before he took the plunge.

“Yes,” he said. “I have discovered something of interest since I came into this room.”

Lord Bernard was looking at him with an expression of amusement.

“I congratulate you,” he said. “Yes, that painting is something of interest, certainly—though, to be frank, I hardly expected you to recognize it as such. It is one of Jules Royon’s best works. He would have been a famous man if he had lived. Personally, I don’t think there has been a better painter in France since Renoir died. If you like, I can show you some water-colours of his which are little masterpieces, too.”

Mallett shook his head.