“That is exactly what I have come to ask you,” retorted Mallett in some irritation. In the background he could see Lord Bernard approaching, a brimming glass in his hand. “Is that your signature, or is it not?”

“Oh, certainly it’s mine all right,” returned Lord Henry dolefully. “No doubt about that. The office paper, too. But who is Mr. Colin James? Never heard of the feller in my life.”

“Colin James”, said Mallett impressively, “is suspected of the murder of Lionel Ballantine.”

“Here’s your drink, Harry,” said Lord Bernard, depositing a whisky and soda on the table and dropping into a chair. “Ballantine’s murder, eh? A nasty business. You don’t know anything about it, do you, old man?” He turned to Mallett. “You know, I thought you had come to bother Harry about this London and Imperial Estates business,” he confided.

“I am enquiring into the death of Lionel Ballantine,” said the inspector stolidly, “and I am here to ask Lord Henry how he came to sign a letter recommending Mr. Colin James——”

“James!” put in Lord Bernard. “Of course, yes, the man in whose house Ballantine was killed! You saw all about it in the accounts of the inquest, didn’t you, Harry?”

Lord Henry shook his head. “I haven’t the heart to read the papers nowadays,” he said gloomily.

Lord Bernard took the letter and scanned it rapidly.

“But look here,” he said, “you must remember something about it, surely?”

“Not a thing, I tell you,” repeated Lord Henry. “Not a thing. I’ve signed so many things one way and another. . . .” His voice trailed off despairingly.

“But the date,” persisted Lord Bernard. “October the thirteenth. What were you doing then?”

Lord Henry stared stupidly in front of him for a moment. Mallett said nothing. Since, contrary to his expectations, Lord Bernard seemed disposed to be a help rather than a hindrance, he was well content to let him do his work for him. Besides, it seemed more likely that Lord Henry would respond to his brother’s methods than to any enquiries from a stranger. He waited therefore, while Ballantine’s late colleague strove painfully to search his cloudy memory.

“Have a drink,” suggested Lord Bernard.

Lord Henry obediently took a deep draught from the glass before him. Some colour came into his grey cheeks, and a look almost of intelligence into his eyes.

“I might have it down in my book,” he said at last with the air of one who makes a great discovery.

He pulled from his pocket a small engagement book, and fluttered the leaves.

“Thirteenth—no, there’s nothing there,” he said. “Oh—I’m sorry—I was looking at September. October, now. . . . Here we are. Oh, yes, of course. Board meeting.”

“A board meeting?” said Mallett. “Of the London and Imperial Estates Company?”

“Yes—it says so here.”

“You signed this letter at a board meeting?”

“I suppose so.”

“But why? Who asked you to?”