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went off without more ado, returning with a large square envelope, and he passed it over to Littlejohn, who shook out the contents on his knee.
    It was as Alfred Blunt had stated; just the two booklets and a piece of plain notepaper bearing Charles’s last wish and his signature on it. Littlejohn thrust his hand in the envelope and pulled out a small piece of plain cardboard.
    â€˜I’d forgotten that,’ said the old man. ‘I don’t know what it’s about. Perhaps it was the number of his car.’
    The card bore a solitary number, nothing more. QZ53647.
    â€˜Did he own a car?’
    â€˜Not that I know of. He always came to see me in a taxi. I don’t think he had a car. It must be some number he didn’t want to forget, so he made a note of it.’
    â€˜May I keep all these, Mr. Blunt? I’ll see you get them back.’
    â€˜That’s all right.’
    â€˜Thank you very much. We’ll let you get on with your tea now, sir. I’ll call to see you again very soon. If you wish I’ll take you to Golder’s Green and after that to Tam-worth if you want to see the ashes buried.’
    â€˜That’s very kind of you, Mr. Littlejohn. You’ll get in touch with me, then?’
    They took him back to his friends, who were eagerly waiting for news of what the visit was about.
    â€˜What do you think of the number, Bob?’ asked Littlejohn when they were on their way again.
    â€˜Could it be a private account number with a continental bank?’
    â€˜I was thinking the same myself.…’
    Littlejohn took out the passport.
    â€˜It looks as if Charles Blunt made his father the custodian of his private affairs. Nobody would have thought of looking there. He and the old man seem to have trusted each other implicitly, as well they might.’
    The passport was a well-used one with a bad photographof Charles and several pages of foreign entrance stamps, all of them either Paris, Amsterdam or Geneva.
    â€˜We’ll contact Interpol and find out if they’ve any idea what the number is about and if, from the set-up of the letters and number, they recognise the bank.’
    He opened the bank book.
    â€˜The total payment in is made up of £100 a time which seems to indicate cash transactions. That won’t be much help to us. However, we can ask the savings bank if they remember Charles and can give us any details of his dealings with them.’
    â€˜What about calling on Mr. Binder and his domestic agency while we’re about it?’
    â€˜Why not? We may as well clear up the loose ends as soon as possible.’
    Well Lane was an old block of offices, shortly due for demolition. Binder’s premises were on the ground floor and resembled those of an old-fashioned solicitor, leather upholstered, well-polished, the kind that might have impressed a conscientious butler of a type now long gone. There was a small ante-room, marked
Knock and Enter
, which they did.
    A middle-aged lady sitting at a desk with two telephones and a typewriter received them. Before they could speak she gave them both a keen glance as though sizing them up. Were they would-be coachmen, butlers, or chauffeurs …?
    â€˜Are you already on our books?’
    It had gone far enough, although Cromwell’s sense of humour might have carried it further had it been permissible. They made themselves known and asked for Mr. Binder. The receptionist’s imagination got the better of her and she saw her employer being hustled out in handcuffs. Then she rushed away as though the premises were on fire, returned quickly, and bade them follow her.
    They passed through a place like a doctor’s waiting-room, where presumably clients gathered anxiously to seek for jobs. There were one or two customers there, including a man more like a sailor than a domestic servant, smoking a cheroot. The receptionist told him in passing to put it out, which he immediately did by