“No. She’s Italian. She came to Munich singing. And we met, and in a month we were married. I tell you, Fortune, I’ve been a different man since. It’s as if she’d given me a soul, you know.” “Did you tell your father that?” “It was she made me write to my father again. Lucia--she can’t bear being in a quarrel. She’s so gentle, any sort of bad feeling hurts her. So she brought me to try and make it up. I wrote to the old man and he answered--just a short, civil, formal note. But Lucia was sure it would lead to something, and so we came back to England. Then I wrote to him again, and he came to see us in Chelsea. That was a week ago--just a week ago to-day. He was pretty stiff and standoffish, but he took to Lucia. Everybody does, you know. Fortune, old man, she’s wonderful. I thought he seemed a good deal aged, but he was just as brisk and sharp as ever. He had us to dine with him on Monday. And then--well, last night he called on us again, came about four, stayed a long time. And he was so jolly and genial. And afterwards I went out to post some letters, and there he was, lying not a dozen yards from our door. He’d been stabbed. He was in a pool of blood. Good God! It was awful.” “Yes. Yes. Seems to be a quiet street where you live.” “Vinton Place--it’s a little cul-de-sac.” “It was dark when he left? And you heard nothing? Yes. I wonder who his money goes to?” “What the devil do you mean?” Geoffrey cried. “Well, that’s quite a fair question,” said Reggie Fortune placidly. “If I’m actin’ for you, and if you like, I will, I look only to your interests. If I’m acting for Scotland Yard--and if it’s a hard case, they’ll call me in--I’m only concerned to get the truth out, whoever suffers.” “And do you think I don’t want the truth?” Geoffrey cried. “What are you hinting at? Do you mean I murdered him?” “Preserve absolute calm,” said Reggie Fortune. “I’m not calm. What a beast I should be if I was calm. I want the thing cleared up, man. I want my father to have justice. Whether you act for me or act for the police it’s the same thing.” “If you take it that way, I’ll act for the police, Beaver,” said Reggie placidly. Geoffrey Charlecote stared at him. “That’s enough, thanks,” he said. “Stop the car. I won’t worry you any more, Mr. Fortune.” “Mr. be blowed. Don’t be an ass, Beaver. It’s a bad business. Let’s make the best of it.” “Will you stop the car?” Geoffrey said loudly, and stood up. “Five miles from nowhere? Oh, go easy.” But Geoffrey turned and opened the door. So the car was stopped, and Geoffrey Charlecote left forlorn in his rage on the road. Reggie Fortune lay back and sighed. “Poor beggar. I wonder. Poor beggar,” he said. And when he came back to Wimpole Street the first thing he did was to ring up the Hon. Stanley Lomas, the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department. As a consequence you behold him sitting under the French prints in the study of Mr. Lomas.