“Hullo,” he said, “it’s Nightingale. Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy. How are you? Good. And your wife? Thank you, very well. Listen, I want your invaluable help. Does the name Karukhin mean anything to you? What? What? But wouldn’t there be more than one family? You’re sure? All right, I’m sorry. But I’d no idea. Look, I didn’t think there’d be as much as this. I can’t wait now, I’m on my way to see someone. Could you ’phone it through to the office? All you can. Tell them I want it copied accurately this time. They’ll understand the reference! Thanks a lot. Seven four—oh, you remember. Don’t forget to charge them. I’ll ring you again later. Thanks. Goodbye.”

He dropped the ’phone, lifted it again, and dialled the number of his own home.

“Hullo?” he heard Christina say. He was about to reproach her for not answering with the number, when a belated awareness of the tone of her voice stopped him. “Hullo, Chris,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve had a call. It’s all local so far, but God knows when I shall be in. So don’t wait up. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” There was a pause. “All right.”

“Is anything wrong?” he asked.

“I’ve broken my cameo,” she said, unsteadily.

“Oh, darling—” Brett stopped. He didn’t know what he could say. The brooch was not valuable, but it was pretty, and she had been attached to it because she couldn’t remember a time when she had been without it, and because it had belonged to her mother. “How did that happen?” he asked awkwardly.

“It was lying on the edge of the piano. I’d taken it off—I don’t know why—and I just put it down without noticing where. Then I went to close the top of the piano and the prop slipped, somehow, and fell in, and the lid dropped—”

The inconclusive silence suggested tearfulness. Brett felt it would be heartless to comment on the injudicious placing of the cameo. “I’m sorry,” he said. It was all he could think of saying. If he had been at home he could have comforted her in silence, or at any rate with words which simply could not be said coldly into a telephone. The silence was continuing. “Chris?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Oh—I wondered if you were still there. I must go. I am sorry,” he repeated, desperately.

“Yes, all right.” Her voice was flat. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Brett lowered the receiver. At this moment he almost envied those glib rattles who could reel off their tongues long spools of pretty consolations for feminine disasters. What their minds were doing, of course, apart from congratulating their own good humour in patronising the weaker sex, was anyone’s guess. But though silly witless women might be flattered, Christina would be neither deceived nor gratified at such attention; at least, he hoped she wouldn’t.