Feluda took the wallet from him and took out everything from its various compartments. Four different things emerged:

(1) a bunch of visiting cards. The name ‘N. M. Biswas’ was printed on each, but there was no address or telephone number. ‘That press report got it wrong. It showed his name as Narendra Nath! But it must be Narendra Mohan,’ Feluda remarked.

(2) Two cuttings from old newspapers. The first mentioned that a cemetery had been built in Park Street; and the other reported the construction of the Ochterlony Monument—which was now called Shaheed Minar.

That meant that both cuttings were one hundred and fifty, or two hundred years old. ‘How did Mr Biswas acquire such ancient reports? I am deeply curious,’ Feluda observed.

(3) A cash-memo from the Oxford Book Company in Park Street, showing a transaction for Rs 12.50.

(4) A piece of plain white paper. Someone had scribbled a few lines on it with a ball-point pen. The words made no sense to me. The only thing I recognized was the name Victoria.

‘I read an article on the Monument only the other day!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. ‘As far as I can recall, the writer was called Biswas. Yes, that’s right. Biswas!’

‘Where did you find the article?’

‘In a journal, either Lekhani or Vichitrapatra. I’ll check when I get home.’

Lalmohan Babu’s memory was not very reliable, so Feluda did not pursue the matter. He copied the words down in his own notebook, replaced the piece of paper in the wallet together with everything else, and put it in his pocket. He then spent five minutes searching the ground thoroughly around the damaged tomb. Two things that he found were also transferred to his pocket. One of them was a brown jacket button, and the other was a damp form-book, usually seen in the hands of people who go to horse races.

‘Let’s speak to the chowkidar, and then we must go home. It’s getting cloudy again,’ Feluda said.

‘Will you return the wallet?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.

‘Of course. I must find out which hospital he was taken to. Then I’ll visit him, possibly tomorrow.’

‘And suppose the fellow is dead?’

‘We can hardly make that assumption and grab his property. That would be unethical. Besides, all you can hope to buy in the Blue Fox with thirty-seven rupees is tea and sandwiches. So stop dreaming about dinner.’

We made an about turn and began walking back to the entrance, through rows of tombs. Feluda was quiet. He had lit a Charminar. Although he had cut down on smoking of late, if he smelt a mystery anywhere, almost unconsciously, he put a cigarette in his mouth.

We were halfway down the path, when Feluda stopped suddenly. I could not immediately see why. So I followed his gaze, and saw something that almost made me miss a heartbeat. I, too, stopped in my tracks.