“Did he?” Stephanie sounded unimpressed. “Oh, have you seen the things they had in the packing cases? They’re unloading them in another room—that policeman, the one that went out, he’s awfully sweet, he let me go and look. Oh, you must. Mr. Majendie’s nearly going mad.” She stopped suddenly, and laughed. “We can hear him even in there. ‘My dear good fellow! Pray be careful. That figurine—Christie’s last year—almost identical—so-and-so, so-and-so—Bustelli, you know’.”

“You mimic him very well, Stephanie.”

“Well, I hear him every single day. Oh—that reminds me. You remember about that cameo? Well, I thought how odd it was that Mr. Emmanuel should have let you have it cheap if you weren’t a friend of his or Mr. Majendie’s, so I made a few inquiries—”

“God above!”

“Discreet inquiries,” she said, with dignity. “And I’m terribly sorry to have misled you, but it was fifteen all the time. It really was. After all, it’s very easy to mistake fifteen for fifty, especially when it’s not said to you but to someone else, and you’re only overhearing. What’s the matter now?”

“Nothing,” said Brett, “nothing, nothing.”

“I was going to tell you in a letter,” she said. Her face clouded. “Now I’ve nothing to write about.”

“Would that deter you? Take me in and introduce me to your father.”

“Oh, I suppose I must,” she sighed. “You know your famous Sergeant Beddoes is in there too? He introduced himself.”

“Don’t you like him?”

Her hand was on the door. She turned round, surpassing herself in smiles. “Not so much as you,” she said.