“Devoted, my dear sir, devoted. She was a Vyestnitsky, and they were all musical. Her brother, Count Sergei—what an elegant man, by the way! I shall never forget his canes so long as I live. I was about to say, he had a collection of records quite famous at the time—which was, of course, the comparative infancy of recording. He was an enthusiast. So was Prince Sevastyan Karukhin. But not a pure enthusiast.” Mr. Majendie glanced up at Nightingale as if assessing his fitness to hear an inglorious revelation. “He had, you see, to outdo his brother-in-law. That was his motive for collecting. He built a studio in which to house and play his records—nothing if not thorough. Converted the hothouses.”

“How did he manage to do without those?”

“But the railways, you see, development of the railways,” explained Mr. Majendie, unaware of sarcasm. “Fruit and flowers could be rushed by special train from the southern estates—often were, especially for balls and banquets. Kept them fresh on blocks of ice, you know.”

“What were the Princess’s records, can you remember?”

“I’m not much up with all that sort of thing. Let me see. Olimpia Boronat—does that convey anything to you? Or have I confused—”

“That sounds possible. She was a Russian soprano. What was she singing—The Last Rose of Summer?”

“That I can’t remember. Now who was the other singer? A hand written label—a man’s name, French, I think. Something, I recall, that put me in mind of cigarettes—”

“Not—de Reszke?”

“Why, splendid, Mr. Nightingale! Well done, indeed. That’s it. Jean de Reszke.”

“Jean!” Nightingale’s voice shot up several tones.

“But is he famous? I confess I’ve never heard of the fellow.”

Nightingale looked incredulously at Mr. Majendie. He could believe that a young person might not know of Jean de Reszke unless they had certain interests; but he had thought that before 1914, which was the period of Majendie’s otherwise receptive youth, names like Tamagno, Maurel and de Reszke were still bandied in society with as much facility as W.G. Grace and Kaiser Bill. That was the impression some people liked to give.

“Offered to the right party,” he said, “a record made by Jean de Reszke would probably realise as much as one of the Princess’s jewels.”

“Astounding! Was he so wonderful?”

“I don’t know,” said Nightingale meekly. “He died when I was seven or so. He had a tremendous reputation. But the value of the record would lie in its rarity. I didn’t know he’d made any at all. Perhaps it was done privately. By the way, he wasn’t French, but Polish.”

“Ah, you are interested in music. I have no ear for it. But tell me—did the thieves possess greater discrimination, or perhaps greater acumen? They took these records?”