The suitcase fell from his hand to the floor with a crash. The shock sprung the catch and the lid flew open. The carefully packed contents strewed the floor.

“Damned clumsy of me,” muttered Frank. “No, don’t you bother, Mother, I’ll do it.”

He crammed the things back into place and forced down the lid with a savage jerk. Then he straightened himself, his face red with exertion.

“What did he want?”

“Who? Oh, the policeman. It was only the sergeant from the police station round the corner. Quite a nice man, I see him often. Nothing to worry about, dear.”

“Who said there was anything to worry about?” asked her son defiantly.

Mrs. Harper took no notice of the interruption and went on:

“I think it was just this horrible inquest business he came about. He had been sent to verify your address and so on, he said. I told him all about us and he took particulars and seemed quite satisfied. That’s all. I thought you would like to know.”

“Oh, well, if that’s all. . . . Look here, Mother, if by any chance you have anybody—anybody, police or not—coming round here again while I’m away—not that I suppose you will, for a moment, but one never can tell—just keep what I told you under your hat, do you mind? About Africa, I mean, and Susan and all the rest of it. No point in having them poking into our affairs, is there?”

“No, of course not, darling. I don’t know anything really myself, so I can’t say anything, can I?”

He laughed. “That’s the spirit. Mum. And mum’s the word!”