“I doubt it,” said Grice. “Otherwise it would have been addressed to you as Rollison.”

“Now, now!” said Rollison. “That wedding is getting on your mind. What could be better calculated to make me curious than a letter addressed to “The Toff”, not to Rollison? What could be better calculated to make me think that it’s a matter for investigation, not just of interest? Why was I chosen, and not the police? Because there is some hope that I might make private investigations—not everyone knows how friendly the Yard is towards me these days!”

Grice gave a somewhat sardonic smile.

“I thought you made nothing at all of this.”

“Inference and deduction doesn’t amount to knowledge,” retorted Rollison. “What do you make of it?”

“Nothing at all. I suppose you’ve come to me because you want to see her?”

“Any objections?”

“I couldn’t keep you away if I had,” said Grice, “but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go. Of course, it may peter out. She isn’t a woman whom anyone would readily forget, and someone who knows her will probably turn up during the day. You’d like to know if they do, I suppose?”

“Very much,” said Rollison, getting up. “Now you’ve got to go and kiss the bride—don’t get tight at the reception. I may want to see you again this afternoon!”

He was in a thoughtful frame of mind when he left Scotland Yard, and also a litde rueful. In his wallet was an invitation from Mrs. Barrington-Ley to the Bal Masque. He could have been there when the lady had arrived—unless, of course, he had become bored and left early.

The rain had stopped, but the clouds were still lowering. He walked to Barrington House, which was in a small street off Park Lane, calling to mind all that he knew of Hilda Barrington-Ley. A charming, winsome creature, who made many people think that she was feather-brained but who had helped to raise great sums of money for charities. She had hosts of friends and her husband, the banker, was extremely rich. That went without saying of the owner of Barrington House.