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glanced at Pitt, then immediately at Jerome.
    “What is that?” he demanded, hand outstretched toward the paper.
    Jerome’s face stiffened. “Names of various friends of Mr. Arthur’s, sir, with whom he might have intended to dine. The inspector wishes it.”
    Waybourne sniffed. “Indeed?” He looked icily at Pitt. “I trust you will endeavor to be discreet, Inspector. I should not care for my friends to be embarrassed. Do I make myself clear?”
    Pitt had to force himself to remember the circumstances in order to curb his rising temper.
    But Gillivray stepped in before he could answer.
    “Of course, Sir Anstey,” he said smoothly. “We are aware of the delicacy of the matter. All we shall ask is whether the gentlemen in question was expecting Mr. Arthur for dinner, or for any other engagement that evening. I’m sure they will understand it is important that we make every effort to discover where this appalling event took place. Most probably it was just as you say, a chance attack that might have happened to any well-dressed young gentleman who appeared to have valuables on him. But we must do what little we can to ascertain that this was so.”
    Waybourne’s face softened with something like appreciation.
    “Thank you. I cannot think it will make the slightest difference, but of course you are right. You will not discover who did this—this thing. However, I quite see that you are obliged to try.” He turned to the tutor. “Thank you, Jerome. That will be all.”
    Jerome excused himself and left, closing the door behind him.
    Waybourne looked from Gillivray back to Pitt, his expression changing. He could not understand the essence of Gillivray’s social delicacy, or of Pitt’s brief, sharp compassion that leaped the gulf of every other difference between them; to him, the men represented the distinction between discretion and vulgarity.
    “I believe that is all I can do to be of assistance to you, Inspector,” he said coldly. “I have spoken to Mr. Mortimer Swynford, and if you still feel it necessary, you may speak to Titus.” He ran his hand through his thick, fair hair in a tired gesture.
    “When will it be possible to speak to Lady Waybourne, sir?” Pitt asked.
    “It will not be possible. There is nothing she can tell you that would be of any use. Naturally, I have asked her, and she did not know where Arthur planned to spend his evening. I do not intend to subject her to the ordeal of being questioned by the police.” His face closed, hard and final, the skin tight.
    Pitt drew a deep breath and sighed. He felt Gillivray stiffen beside him and could almost taste his embarrassment, his revulsion for what Pitt was going to say. He half expected to be touched, to feel a hand on his arm to restrain him.
    “I’m sorry, Sir Anstey, but there is also the matter of your son’s illness and his relationships,” he said gently. “We cannot ignore the possibility that they were connected to his death. And the relationship is in itself a crime—”
    “I am aware of that, sir!” Waybourne looked at Pitt as if he himself had participated in the act merely by mentioning it. “Lady Waybourne will not speak with you. She is a woman of decency. She would not even know what you were talking about. Women of gentle birth have never heard of such—obscenities.”
    Pitt knew that, but pity overruled his resentment.
    “Of course not. I was intending only to ask her about your son’s friends, those who knew him well.”
    “I have already told you everything you can possibly find of use, Inspector Pitt,” Waybourne said. “I have no intention whatsoever of prosecuting whoever”—he swallowed— “whoever abused my son. It’s over. Arthur is dead. No raking over of personal”—he took a deep breath and steadied himself, his hand gripping the carved back of one of the chairs— “depravities of—of some unknown man is going to help. Let the dead at least lie in peace, man. And let those of us who