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questions.”
    He sighed. “Oh, very well.”
    He stood aside and let Selina walk past him and into his office. There was a turkey-red carpet and a littered desk, and shelves and shelves of books, and books and manuscripts piled on the tables, and on the chairs and even on the floor.
    He did not apologise for any of this. He obviously saw no need … and indeed there was none. He pushed forward a chair for Selina and went to settle himself behind his desk. Before he was even thus installed, she had begun to explain.
    â€œMr. Rutland, I really am sorry to bother you and I won’t take a moment more than I have to. But it’s about that book you published, Fiesta at Cala Fuerte. ”
    â€œOh, yes. George Dyer.”
    â€œYes. Do—do you know anything about him?”
    This blurted question was met with an unnerving silence and an even more unnerving glance over the top of Mr. Rutland’s spectacles.
    â€œWhy?” said Mr. Rutland at last. “Do you?”
    â€œYes. At least I think I do. He was a … friend of my grandmother’s. She died about six weeks ago, and I … well, I wanted to be able to let him know.”
    â€œI can always forward a letter for you.”
    Selina took a deep breath and proceeded to attack on another flank.
    â€œDo you know very much about him?”
    â€œI should think as much as you. I presume you’ve read the book.”
    â€œI mean … you’ve never met him?”
    â€œNo,” said Mr. Rutland, “I haven’t. He lives at Cala Fuerte on the island of San Antonio. He has lived there, I believe, for the last six or seven years.”
    â€œHe never came to London? Even for the publication of the book?” Mr. Rutland shook his bald head so that the light from the window gleamed upon it. “Do … do you know if he’s married?”
    â€œHe wasn’t at the time. He may be by now.”
    â€œAnd how old is he?”
    â€œI haven’t any idea how old he is.” He began to sound a little impatient. “My dear young lady, this is wasting my time.”
    â€œI know. I am sorry, I just thought you could help me. I thought there was the chance that he might have been in London, now, and I could have seen him.”
    â€œNo, I’m afraid not.” Firmly, Mr. Rutland stood up, indicating that the interview was over. Selina stood up too, and he went to the door and opened it for her. “But if you do want to get in touch, we will be pleased to forward any correspondence on to Mr. Dyer.”
    â€œThank you. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
    â€œNot at all. Good morning.”
    â€œGood-bye.”
    But as she went through the door and crossed the outer office, she looked so despondent that Mr. Rutland’s heart, despite himself, was touched. He frowned a little, removed his glasses, and said, “Miss Bruce.”
    Selina turned.
    â€œWe send all his letters to the Yacht Club in San Antonio, but his house is called the Casa Barco, Cala Fuerte. It might save time if you wrote to him direct. And if you are writing, remind him that I’m still waiting for the synopsis of that second book. I’ve written him a dozen letters, but he seems to have a built-in aversion to answering them.”
    Selina smiled, and the publisher was amazed at the transformation it wrought to her whole appearance. She said, “Oh, thank you. I am grateful.”
    â€œNot at all,” said Mr. Rutland.
    *   *   *
    The empty flat was not the most suitable place for a discussion of such importance, but there was no other.
    Selina cut short Rodney’s observations on the relative merits of plain and patterned carpets, and said, “Rodney, I must talk to you.”
    Interrupted, he looked down at her in mild annoyance. He had thought, all through lunch, and the subsequent taxi ride, that she did not seem herself. She had eaten scarcely anything,