The rear light of the car twinkled for a moment among the traffic ahead and was lost to view, and the inspector resigned himself to a comparatively slow journey to the hotel. The tall mauve lamps of Brighton front slid by in leisurely procession as the asthmatic vehicle chugged along. At last a violent grinding of brakes told him that he had arrived. Lord Bernard, he calculated, as he paid his fare, had about five minutes’ start of him. Much harm could be done in five minutes. He cursed Renshaw for having been the unconscious cause of his delay. Had it not been for him, Lord Henry could have been interviewed, and he, Mallett, back in London, before Lord Bernard had even started. So absorbed was he in these reflections that he miscounted his change and only the driver’s surprised “Thank you, sir!” revealed to him that he had grossly overtipped the man.

The mistake aggravated Mallett’s sense of grievance with the world. Everything seemed to be going wrong with him. He did not grudge the driver an unearned shilling, but the fact that he, the most careful of men, should have made such a stupid blunder, annoyed him intensely. It was only by reminding himself that he might well be within a few moments of the most important discovery since he had begun his investigations, that he was able to regain his sense of proportion.

“Is Lord Henry Gaveston in the hotel?” Mallett asked the sleek and supercilious reception clerk.

“Yes, he is,” admitted the functionary. His eyes travelled up and down the inspector’s burly form and an expression of discomfort crept into his smooth features. “But I don’t know whether he can see you. You are not from the Press, by any chance?”

“No. Scotland Yard,” said Mallett bluntly.

The clerk’s pained look was that of a prude in whose hearing an obscenity had been blurted out. He glanced involuntarily round the brilliantly lighted, over-decorated hall, at the monumental back of the gorgeous commissionaire outside, as though to say: “Not here! Not in the Riviera, of all places!” But he pulled himself together like a man, and with a fine show of sang-froid murmured: “In that case, I’ll have him paged.”

A small uniformed boy, uttering the high-pitched wail peculiar to his class, was duly sent out on his tour of the Smoking Room, Winter Garden, Drawing-Room and Ye Olde Tudor Lounge. Duly he returned, announcing with evident relish: “No reply, sir!” whereupon Mallett, turning on his heel, found himself looking directly into a small recess bounded by a cocktail bar. In front of the bar was a little table, and at the table, not ten yards away, sat Lord Henry and his brother.

Mallett indicated the bar with his finger. “Did you try in there?” he asked the page.

“Oh, no, sir!” came the instant reply. “The gentlemen in there, they never likes to be disturbed.”