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Anstey Waybourne, imparting his knowledge yet knowing they were growing up only to inherit possessions without labor and to govern easily, by right of birth, he would be like Jerome. If Pitt had spent his life as always more than a servant but less than his own man, dependent on boys of thirteen and sixteen, perhaps his face would be just as careful, just as pinched.
    “Come in, Jerome,” Waybourne said absently. “These men are from the police. Er—Pitt—Inspector Pitt, and Mr.— er—Gilbert. They wish to ask you a few questions about Arthur. Pointless, as far as I can see, but you had better oblige them.”
    “Yes, sir.” Jerome stood still, not quite to attention. He looked at Pitt with the slight condescension of one who knows that at last he addresses someone beyond argument his social inferior.
    “I have already told Sir Anstey all I know,” Jerome said with a slight lift of his eyebrows. “Naturally, if there were anything, I should have said so.”
    “Of course,” Pitt agreed. “But it is possible you may know something without being aware of its relevance. I wonder, sir,” he looked at Waybourne, “if you would be good enough to ask Mr. Swynford for his permission to speak with his son?”
    Waybourne hesitated, torn between the desire to stay and make sure nothing was said that was distasteful or careless, and the foolishness of allowing his anxiety to be observed. He gave Jerome a cold, warning look, then went to the door.
    When it was closed behind him, Pitt turned to the tutor. There was really very little to ask him, but now that he was here, it was better to go through the formalities.
    “Mr. Jerome,” he began gravely. “Sir Anstey has already said that you observed nothing unusual about Mr. Arthur’s behavior on the day he died.”
    “That is correct,” Jerome said with overt patience. “Although there could hardly be expected to have been, unless one believes in clairvoyance”—he smiled faintly, as though at a lesser breed from whom foolishness was to be expected— “which I do not. The poor boy cannot have known what was to happen to him.”
    Pitt felt an instinctive dislike for the man. It was unreasonable, but he imagined Jerome and he would have no belief or emotion in common, not even their perceptions of the same event.
    “But he might have known with whom he intended to have dinner?” Pitt pointed out. “I presume it would be someone he was already acquainted with. We should be able to discover who it was.”
    Jerome’s eyes were dark, a little rounder than average.
    “I fail to see how that will help,” he answered. “He cannot have reached the appointment. If he did, then the person would no doubt have come forward and expressed his condolences at least. But what purpose would it serve?”
    “We would learn where he was,” Pitt pointed out. “It would narrow the area. Witnesses might be found.”
    Jerome did not see any hope in that.
    “Possibly. I suppose you know your business. But I’m afraid I have no idea with whom he intended to spend the evening. I presume, in view of the fact that the person has not come forward, that it was not a prearranged appointment, but something on the spur of the moment. And boys of that age do not confide their social engagements to their tutors, Inspector.” There was a faint touch of irony in his voice—something less than self-pity, but more sour than humor.
    “Perhaps you could give me a list of his friends that you are aware of?” Pitt suggested. “We can eliminate them quite easily. I would rather not press Sir Anstey at the moment.”
    “Of course.” Jerome turned to the small leather-topped writing table by the wall and pulled out a drawer. He took paper and began to make notes, but his face expressed his disbelief. He thought Pitt was doing something quite useless because he could think of nothing else, a man clutching at straws to appear efficient. He had written half a dozen lines when Waybourne came back. He