We were on our way back from Alipore Park. The windows of the car had been rolled up, as it was raining again. The rain had started as soon as we reached Judges Court Road.

Feluda did not reply. He was staring out of the window. Lalmohan Babu could never remain silent for long. He began speaking again. ‘Perhaps I should call him a villain rather than a hero. But you have often told me that, in a crime investigation, no one is above suspicion. Anyone can be a villain. So I didn’t use that word. Mind you, I’m not quite sure why I should be suspicious. A grave has been dug up—but is that a criminal act?’

Still Feluda said nothing. Lalmohan Babu became a little impatient. ‘What’s the matter with you, Felu Babu? Are you giving up? If you do, what’s going to happen to us? To start with, that man’s behaviour was such ... such ... that it froze my limbs! And then there were all those clocks, chiming away. Now you’re not saying a word, the weather’s foul, there are potholes in the roads ...!’

Feluda opened his mouth at last. ‘You are quite wrong, Mr Ganguli. I haven’t given up. If you found a way out of a complex maze, would you give up?’

‘You’ve found a way out?’

‘Yes, but I still don’t know what lies at the other end. Nothing is simple and straightforward. We shall have to proceed, and tackle all the twists and turns, before we get to the end.’

It continued to drizzle even after we reached home. Lalmohan Babu left with a promise to return early the following morning. ‘I don’t think you can do without my help, Felu Babu,’ he said. ‘Just think how much time you’d waste if you had to travel in buses!’

Earlier in the day, when we were having lunch, I had noticed Feluda scribbling something in his notebook. I went to his room after dinner, and discovered what it was. I had to talk to him, anyway, as I was feeling quite concerned about him. Having seen and heard Mahadev Choudhury, I had reason to feel worried. Every time I recalled his face, my heart gave a tiny jump. It hardly mattered what Lalmohan Babu called him—hero or villain. To me, he was a dreadful character. His appearance might be smooth as velvet. But on the inside, he seemed as rough and prickly as a cactus bush in a desert.

Feluda, however, did not appear concerned at all. He was staring hard at a diagram in his notebook. When I entered his room, he offered it to me, saying, ‘Look at this tree and its branches!’ This is what it looked like:

‘Doesn’t it look kind of empty on the right hand side?’ Feluda asked.

‘But of course it would. Charlotte did not marry, did she?’