“Nor do I. Since the Krasinky lot were roped in they’ve piped down considerably.1 Still, you never know with these people. They may mean business. If that Bill goes through next week, it’ll larn ’em. I hope there’s no nonsense at the funeral to-morrow. We’re making elaborate enough arrangements for burying the poor chap—shutting the stable door with a gold padlock. They might possibly choose the moment to celebrate at the funeral, but, no, I don’t think they were in on the murder. I’m inclined to think they would have staged something more spectacular—a suitable echo to the Yugoslavia affair. Hyoscine doesn’t sound their cup of tea at all.”

“Why hyoscine?” asked Fox with massive innocence.

“You old devil,” said Alleyn, “I refuse to discuss the case with you. Go and catch pickpockets.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“And if anything comes of this P.M. business, you can jolly well deal with Lady O’Callaghan yourself. That makes you blanch. What’s the time?”

“Three o’clock, sir. The results of the post-mortem ought to come in fairly soon.”

“I suppose so. Our famous pathologist is going to ring me up himself as soon as he has informed the coroner.”

Alleyn got up and walked about the room hunching up one shoulder and whistling under his breath. The desk telephone rang. Fox answered it.

“It’s a Miss O’Callaghan asking for you,” he said stolidly.

“Miss—? Who the devil—? Oh, all right. Now what’s in the wind, do you suppose?”

“Send her up,” said Fox to the telephone. “I’d better push off, sir,” he added.

“I suppose you had. This is all very rum—very rum indeed.”

Fox departed. Alleyn knocked out his pipe, opened the window, and sat behind the desk. A woman’s voice sounded in the passage outside. The door was opened by a police-constable, who said:

“Miss O’Callaghan, sir,” and withdrew.

Ruth O’Callaghan walked into the room. She appeared to be dressed in a series of unrelated lengths of material. Her eyeglasses were canted over the top angle of her enormous nose. Her handbag and umbrella, wedded by an unhappy confusion of cords and leather thongs, dangled from a gaunt wrist. Her face, exclusive of the nose, was pale. She seemed to be grievously agitated.

Alleyn rose and waited politely.

“Oh!” said Ruth, catching sight of him. “Oh!” She came towards him at a kind of gallop and held out the hand that was encumbered with the umbrella and handbag. Alleyn shook it.

“How do you do?” he murmured.

“So good of you to see me,” Ruth began. “I know how busy you must be. The statistics of crime are so appalling. Too kind.”

“I am making no arrests this afternoon,” said Alleyn gravely.

She gazed at him dubiously and then broke into a sort of whooping laugh.