Alleyn took the tip of his straight nose between his thumb and finger and pulled it thoughtfully.

“Oh, lard!” he said sadly. “I’ll have to go and see the lady.”

Fox looked relieved.

“If there’s anything in it,” he reflected, “it’ll be a hell of a big case. What you call”—he paused selfconsciously—“a cause célèbre.”

“It will indeed,” said Alleyn, who never made too much fun of anybody. “I wonder if she would see me this evening?”

“I’m certain she would, sir.”

“I’ll ask.”

Alleyn rang up the house in Catherine Street. “Is that Lady O’Callaghan’s house? Is it her butler speaking? Chief Inspector Alleyn, Scotland Yard, here. Will you ask her ladyship if I may call on her to-night at any time that” would suit her? Inspector Alleyn, yes. Thank you.”

He stared absent-mindedly at Fox while he waited for the reply.

“At nine o’clock. Thank you so much.” He hung up the receiver. “I’m for it,” he said.

After Fox had gone Alleyn sat and gazed at the opposite wall for twenty minutes. Then he rang up the divisional surgeon and talked to him about the human appendix, peritonitis and anæsthetics. Then he went to his flat near Coventry Street, bathed, changed into a dinner-jacket, dined, and read the first scene in Hamlet, to which he was partial. By that time it was twenty to nine. He decided to walk to Catherine Street. His servant, Vassily, [See A Man Lay Dead] helped him into his overcoat.

“Vassily,” said Alleyn, “do you ever see anything of your disreputable pals — The Pan-Soviet Brotherhood, or whatever they were — nowadays?”

“No, sir. Not now am I such a foolish old rascal. I am one bite too shy.”

“So I should hope, you old donkey. You don’t happen to remember hearing any gossip about Nicholas Kakaroff?”

Vassily crossed himself lavishly from right to left.

“Hospodi bozhe moy! He is one of the most worst of them,” he said energetically. “A bad fellow. Before the Soviet he was young and anything but conserff-a-tiff. After the Soviet he was older and always up to no-good. The Soviet pleased him no better than the Romanoffs. So sometimes he was killing officials, and at last he has heated up Russia for himself too much, so has come to England.”

“Where he seems to have been given the usual hearty welcome. Yes, I knew all that, Vassily. Thank you. Don’t wait up. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.” Vassily laid his hand on Alleyn’s sleeve. “Please, sir,” he said, “have no business with Nicolai Alexovitch — he is a very bad rascal.”

“Well, you ought to know,” Alleyn remarked lightly, and went out smiling to himself.

At Catherine Street he was received by Nash, who stared like a boiled owl at the inspector. Nash, who carried in his head a sort of social ladder, had quietly decided that police officers of all ranks were to be graded with piano-tuners. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn did not conform, in appearance or in manner, to this classification. Nash performed a reluctant mental somersault.

“Lady O’Callaghan?” asked Alleyn.

“Her ladyship is expecting you, sir.” Alleyn gave him his hat and overcoat. Nash said: “Thank you, sir,” and waddled off towards the study. Alleyn followed him. Nash opened the door.

“Mr. Alleyn, m’lady,” he said. Obviously the degrading titles were better omitted. Alleyn walked in.

Cicely O’Callaghan sat before the fire in her husband’s arm-chair. As Alleyn came in she rose to her feet and looked serenely at him.

“How do you do?” she said.

“How do you do? I am extremely sorry to bother you, Lady O’Callaghan.”

He thought: “Golly, she is like Ratsbane!”

“But I wished to see you. It is good of you to come so promptly.”

“Not a bit.” This was an exceedingly polite introduction to a murder story.

“Do sit down. I suppose the man who came here this afternoon has told you my reason for communicating with the police?”

“I believe Inspector Fox gave me a full account of your conversation.”

“Yes. I am convinced that my husband was murdered — probably poisoned.”

“I am sorry that in addition to your grief you should suffer the pain occasioned by such a suspicion,” said Alleyn and wondered how long they were to make speeches at each other.

“Thank you. Do you agree with me that the circumstances warrant an inquest?”

“I think I should like to hear a little more about them. I have read the letters.”

“Surely they, in themselves, are enough to arouse anybody’s suspicion?”

“Lady O’Callaghan, it is extremely unusual for a person contemplating homicide to write such letters. I do not say it is unknown, but it is very unusual. I expect Fox told you that.”

“I believe he said something of the sort. My point is this: I do not think the murderer contemplated homicide when writing the letter. I do think that a person capable of writing such a letter would also be capable of seizing the opportunity when it presented itself.”

“So it is Phillips and the girl she’s after,” thought Alleyn.

“I see your point, of course,” he said slowly.

“There is another incident which I did not go into with — Inspector Fox. Before my husband’s operation I was in his room with him. He did not realise where he was or what had happened to him. I tried to explain about the appendix. Then Sir John Phillips came into the room. When my husband saw him he exclaimed: ‘Don’t — don’t let— ’ and then he collapsed. He seemed terrified by the presence of Sir John Phillips and I am certain that he tried to say: ‘Don’t let him touch me.’ I must tell you that a week before this Sir John called on my husband. I hoped that it was for a consultation about his pain, which was then very severe. Next morning I asked my husband if Sir John had examined him. He evaded my question, and seemed very much upset. I had met Sir John in the hall and had thought his manner most unusual. His letter was written that same night, evidently as a result of the interview.”

“You definitely connect Sir John’s letter with the other, signed Jane Harden?”

“Yes. She is a nurse in the hospital where my husband was a patient. After your man left, this afternoon, I rang up the hospital and under pretext of wishing to thank the nurses concerned in the case, I found out their names. She was actually present in the operating theatre and I dare say assisted Sir John.”

She drawled all this out in her serene, high-pitched voice, exactly as though she was reading aloud.

“Forgive me,” said Alleyn, “but did you know anything about this business? I hope you will understand that I only ask because— ”

“Because you wonder if I am prejudiced?”

“Exactly.”

“I knew my husband was unfaithful to me from time to time. I also believed these incidents to be more or less casual encounters.”

“You were unaware of this Miss Harden’s existence?”

“Quite.”

Alleyn was silent for a little while. Then he rose to his feet.

“I think, with you, that there should be an inquest,” he told her.

She made a slight movement and the heavy folds of her dress stirred. It was as though she had suddenly gone tense all over. When she spoke, however, it was with her customary equanimity.

“You have, I am sure, made a very wise decision.”

“I’m afraid we shall have difficulty with the coroner. Naturally he is rather chary about starting such an alarming hare. It will be impossible to keep the thing even moderately quiet. The papers already have wind of these threatening letters from Sir Derek’s political enemies.”

He watched her closely, but beyond a faint expression of distaste, could find no evidence of any sort of emotion.

“That will be rather disagreeable,” she murmured.

“I am afraid so. Is there anything else that you would like to discuss?”

“I was going to suggest that you speak to Mr. Ronald Jameson, my husband’s secretary. He will, I think, confirm what I have said about Sir Derek’s reaction to these letters.”