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murder.”
    “Isn’t that what I tried to tell her!”
    “My poor Foxkin! See if you can find the Press report of his death.”
    Fox produced a paper.
    “I brought it with me,” he said.
    “You think of everything. Here we are. He died an hour after the operation was over. The anæsthetist was worried… peritonitis… ruptured abscess… ‘unwilling to turn aside from the gigantic task’… he’d neglected his tummy, evidently. It sounds straightforward enough, and yet— ”
    Alleyn took the tip of his straight nose between his thumb and finger and pulled it thoughtfully.
    “Oh, lard!” he said sadly. “I’ll have to go and see the lady.”
    Fox looked relieved.
    “If there’s anything in it,” he reflected, “it’ll be a hell of a big case. What you call”—he paused selfconsciously—“a
cause célèbre
.”
    “It will indeed,” said Alleyn, who never made too much fun of anybody. “I wonder if she would see me this evening?”
    “I’m certain she would, sir.”
    “I’ll ask.”
    Alleyn rang up the house in Catherine Street. “Is that Lady O’Callaghan’s house? Is it her butler speaking? Chief Inspector Alleyn, Scotland Yard, here. Will you ask her ladyship if I may call on her to-night at any time that” would suit her? Inspector Alleyn, yes. Thank you.”
    He stared absent-mindedly at Fox while he waited for the reply.
    “At nine o’clock. Thank you so much.” He hung up the receiver. “I’m for it,” he said.
    After Fox had gone Alleyn sat and gazed at the opposite wall for twenty minutes. Then he rang up the divisional surgeon and talked to him about the human appendix, peritonitis and anæsthetics. Then he went to his flat near Coventry Street, bathed, changed into a dinner-jacket, dined, and read the first scene in
Hamlet
, to which he was partial. By that time it was twenty to nine. He decided to walk to Catherine Street. His servant, Vassily, [See
A Man Lay Dead
] helped him into his overcoat.
    “Vassily,” said Alleyn, “do you ever see anything of your disreputable pals — The Pan-Soviet Brotherhood, or whatever they were — nowadays?”
    “No, sir. Not now am I such a foolish old rascal. I am one bite too shy.”
    “So I should hope, you old donkey. You don’t happen to remember hearing any gossip about Nicholas Kakaroff?”
    Vassily crossed himself lavishly from right to left.
    “
Hospodi bozhe moy
! He is one of the most worst of them,” he said energetically. “A bad fellow. Before the Soviet he was young and anything but conserff-a-tiff. After the Soviet he was older and always up to no-good. The Soviet pleased him no better than the Romanoffs. So sometimes he was killing officials, and at last he has heated up Russia for himself too much, so has come to England.”
    “Where he seems to have been given the usual hearty welcome. Yes, I knew all that, Vassily. Thank you. Don’t wait up. Good night.”
    “Good night, sir.” Vassily laid his hand on Alleyn’s sleeve. “Please, sir,” he said, “have no business with Nicolai Alexovitch — he is a very bad rascal.”
    “Well, you ought to know,” Alleyn remarked lightly, and went out smiling to himself.
    At Catherine Street he was received by Nash, who stared like a boiled owl at the inspector. Nash, who carried in his head a sort of social ladder, had quietly decided that police officers of all ranks were to be graded with piano-tuners. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn did not conform, in appearance or in manner, to this classification. Nash performed a reluctant mental somersault.
    “Lady O’Callaghan?” asked Alleyn.
    “Her ladyship is expecting you, sir.” Alleyn gave him his hat and overcoat. Nash said: “Thank you, sir,” and waddled off towards the study. Alleyn followed him. Nash opened the door.
    “Mr. Alleyn, m’lady,” he said. Obviously the degrading titles were better omitted. Alleyn walked in.
    Cicely O’Callaghan sat before the fire in her husband’s arm-chair. As Alleyn came