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Hardcastle as he pulled a chair to the table and started to scribble a receipt.
    Colin and Sheila went out and started down the path. Sheila paused suddenly.
    â€œMy gloves—I left them—”
    â€œI’ll get them.”
    â€œNo—I know just where I put them. I don’t mind now —now that they’ve taken it away.”
    She ran back and rejoined him a moment or two later.
    â€œI’m sorry I was so silly—before.”
    â€œAnybody would have been,” said Colin.
    Hardcastle joined them as Sheila entered the car. Then, as it drove away, he turned to the young constable.
    â€œI want those clocks in the sitting room packed up carefully—all except the cuckoo clock on the wall and the big grandfather clock.”
    He gave a few more directions and then turned to his friend.
    â€œI’m going places. Want to come?”
    â€œSuits me,” said Colin.

Four
C OLIN L AMB’S N ARRATIVE
    â€œW here do we go?” I asked Dick Hardcastle.
    He spoke to the driver.
    â€œCavendish Secretarial Bureau. It’s on Palace Street, up towards the Esplanade on the right.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    The car drew away. There was quite a little crowd by now, staring with fascinated interest. The orange cat was still sitting on the gatepost of Diana Lodge next door. He was no longer washing his face but was sitting up very straight, lashing his tail slightly, and gazing over the heads of the crowd with that complete disdain for the human race that is the special prerogative of cats and camels.
    â€œThe Secretarial Bureau, and then the cleaning woman, in that order,” said Hardcastle, “because the time is getting on.” He glanced at his watch. “After four o’clock.” He paused before adding, “Rather an attractive girl?”
    â€œQuite,” I said.
    He cast an amused look in my direction.
    â€œBut she told a very remarkable story. The sooner it’s checked up on, the better.”
    â€œYou don’t think that she—”
    He cut me short.
    â€œI’m always interested in people who find bodies.”
    â€œBut that girl was half mad with fright! If you had heard the way she was screaming….”
    He gave me another of his quizzical looks and repeated that she was a very attractive girl.
    â€œAnd how did you come to be wandering about in Wilbraham Crescent, Colin? Admiring our genteel Victorian architecture? Or had you a purpose?”
    â€œI had a purpose. I was looking for Number 61—and I couldn’t find it. Possibly it doesn’t exist?”
    â€œIt exists all right. The numbers go up to—88, I think.”
    â€œBut look here, Dick, when I came to Number 28, Wilbraham Crescent just petered out.”
    â€œIt’s always puzzling to strangers. If you’d turned to the right up Albany Road and then turned to the right again you’d have found yourself in the other half of Wilbraham Crescent. It’s built back to back, you see. The gardens back on each other.”
    â€œI see,” I said, when he had explained this peculiar geography at length. “Like those Squares and Gardens in London. Onslow Square, isn’t it? Or Cadogan. You start down one side of a square, and then it suddenly becomes a Place or Gardens. Even taxis are frequently baffled. Anyway, there is a 61. Any idea who lives there?”
    â€œ61? Let me see … Yes, that would be Bland the builder.”
    â€œOh dear,” I said. “That’s bad.”
    â€œYou don’t want a builder?”
    â€œNo. I don’t fancy a builder at all. Unless—perhaps he’s only just come here recently—just started up?”
    â€œBland was born here, I think. He’s certainly a local man—been in business for years.”
    â€œVery disappointing.”
    â€œHe’s a very bad builder,” said Hardcastle encouragingly. “Uses pretty poor materials. Puts up the kind of houses