“One of the Inspectors is getting married at noon,” he said, “hence the fal-de-rols.”

“Do I know him?” asked Rollison.

“I doubt it. Charters, who’s just been promoted—he was in the Records Office.”

“I seem to have heard of him vaguely,” said Rollison. “I’ve been out of touch for too long. Occasional descents on to the sanctum sanctorum aren’t enough.” He smiled. “I’ll have to put it right. You’ll soon find me at your elbow wherever you go, always ready with a word of advice. How does it appeal?”

“It sounds terrible,” said Grice.

Between these two men there was a friendship the stronger because when they had first met it had been in an atmosphere of mutual suspicion, not far removed on Grice’s side from hostility. That was in the days when Rollison, so widely known as The Toff, had taken on himself the investigation of crimes, with scant regard for police susceptibilities. The Toff had matured since then and the police even consulted him occasionally, although some officers at Scotland Yard could not forgive his early wilfulness. Grice knew his worth, however, and nothing seriously ruffled the calm of their association.

“As it’s now eleven,” said Grice, “I haven’t a lot of time this morning. Is there something on your mind?”

“Much,” said Rollison. He took from his pocket a folded Daily Record, and pushed it across the desk. “Who’s the lady?” he demanded.

Grice shot him a quick, searching glance.

“Can you tell me anything about her?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you interested?”