Ronald Jameson paused and looked apologetically at the widow of his late employer. She was very handsome in black. Her hair—he could never make up his mind whether it was a warm white or a white blonde—looked as though it had been ironed into place. Her hands, thin and elegant, hung relaxed against the matt surface of her dress. Her pale blue eyes under their heavy lids regarded him with a kind of polite detachment.

“Yes,” she said vaguely. “Come into my room, Mr. Jameson.”

He followed her into that place of frozen elegance. She sat down leisurely, her back to the light.

“Yes,” she repeated. “Sit down, Mr. Jameson.”

Ronald said: “Thank you so much,” nervously, and sat on the most uncomfortable chair.

“I’ve just come back from the House,” he began. “The Prime Minister saw me in his room. He is terribly distressed about—about yesterday. He wished me to tell you that—that he is entirely at your service should there be anything—”

“So kind of him,” she said.

“Of course, he is also very much troubled about the Bill—Sir Derek’s Anarchy Bill, you know. The business arising from it has to go forward, you see, and this tragedy has complicated matters.” He paused again.

“I see—yes.”

“It’s a question of Sir Derek’s private notes. They can do nothing without them. I said that the matter would have to wait until after the—until after tomorrow; but the Prime Minister thinks the whole business is so urgent that he ought to see them immediately. I believe they are in the desk in the study, but of course, before I could do anything about it, I felt I must have your permission.”

She took so long to answer that he felt quite alarmed. At last, looking at her hands which lay delicately clasped on her lap, she said: “This Bill. Will it deal with the persons who killed him?”

He was so completely dumbfounded by this amazing inquiry that he could think of nothing to say. He was a young man with a good deal of savoir-faire, but evidently her extraordinary assumption took him unawares.

“I’m afraid I don’t—do you mean—surely, Lady O’Callaghan, you can’t believe—” He could get no further with it.

“Oh, yes,” she said tranquilly, “I’m quite sure they killed him.”

“But—who?”

“These people. Anarchists, aren’t they? They threatened to kill my husband. I believe they have done so. I understood his Bill was designed to suppress such persons. Please do anything you can to help it to go forward.”

“Thank you,” said Ronald idiotically.

“Yes. Is that all, Mr. Jameson?”

“But, Lady O’Callaghan—please—have you thought— honestly, you have simply amazed me. It’s a terrible idea. Surely the doctors’ report is clear! Sir Derek had acute peritonitis.”

“Sir John Phillips said the operation was successful. He was poisoned.”