“Smart lad,” said Mallett, too amused to be annoyed. “Perhaps you’ll have a hotel of your own some day.”

Leaving the page scarlet with pleasure at what he dimly apprehended to be a compliment, the inspector strode across the intervening space and bore down upon the two men.

There was a strong family resemblance between the two brothers. They each had the same rather prominent, well-cut nose, the same arched eyebrows over light grey eyes, the same delicately rounded chin. But while Lord Bernard’s eyes were clear and vivacious, Lord Henry’s were pale and watery. His raised eyebrows gave an impression of peevish surprise at what the world had to show him, in contrast to his brother’s alert look of amused inquisitiveness. The elder of the two by a few years only, he was already beginning to go bald, and his face to sag before the onset of middle age. Lord Bernard, on the other hand, with his thick brown hair and clear complexion, might have stood model for an advertisement of anybody’s patent medicine.

As Mallett drew near, Lord Henry was setting down an empty tumbler with the melancholy air of a man who was conscious that the contents had done him little good. Lord Bernard was contemplating a cocktail in his hand and appeared to be addressing it, rather than his brother, in low and soothing tones. Both looked up as the inspector approached.

“Lord Henry Gaveston?” said Mallett.

Lord Henry, characteristically, turned towards his brother for help. The latter appraised Mallett in a swift glance.

“You’re a detective, I take it,” he said.

Mallett nodded. Lord Bernard rose quickly, laid his hand lightly on his senior’s shoulder and said:

“I suggest, old man, that another whisky and soda would do you no harm at this moment.”

Lord Henry said nothing, but dumbly relinquished the tumbler he was still clutching, and his brother bore it off to the bar.

Mallett was agreeably surprised that he should have been left alone with his man for a few moments even. He knew from experience the importance of a suspect’s first reaction when confronted with a damning piece of evidence and he determined to lose no time. Without further preamble he drew from his pocket the letter to the bank, unfolded it, and handed it across the table.

“I want to ask you a few questions about this,” he said.

Lord Henry, his hands shaking visibly, stared at the document for a moment. Then he fumbled in his pockets, produced an old-fashioned pair of pince-nez, and adjusted them with difficulty on his nose. With this assistance he slowly read the letter through, forming the words with his mouth as he went. Finally he said, in obviously genuine bewilderment:

“But I don’t understand. What is all this about?”