“Well, that’s something,” said Mrs. Boucher. “And the rest? I never could understand about insurances. They’ve always been a sealed book to me.” “Well, the rest belongs to those who put the money up to equip the Museum,” he said. “In proportion, of course, to the sums they advanced. Altogether four hundred and fifty pounds was put up, you and Daisy and Georgie each put in fifty. The rest; well, I advanced the rest.” There were some rapid and silent calculations made. It seemed rather hard that Robert should get such a lot. Business always seemed to favour the rich. But Robert didn’t seem the least ashamed of that. He treated it as a perfect matter of course. “The--the treasures in the Museum almost all belonged to the Committee,” he went on. “They were given to the Museum, which was the property of the Committee. Quite simple. If it had been a loan collection now--well, we shouldn’t be finding quite such a bright lining to our cloud. I’ll manage the insurance business for you, and pay you pleasant little cheques all round. The Company, no doubt, will ask a few questions as to the origin of the fire.” “Ah, there’s a mystery for you,” said Mrs. Boucher. “The oil stoves were always put out in the evening, after burning all day, and how a fire broke out in the middle of the night beats me.” Daisy’s mouth twitched. Then she pulled herself together. “Most mysterious,” she said, and looked carelessly out of the window to where the debris of the Museum was still steaming. Simultaneously, Georgie gave a little start, and instantly changed the subject, rapping on the table. “There’s one thing we’ve forgotten,” said he. “It wasn’t entirely our property. Queen Charlotte’s mittens were only a loan.” The faces of the Committee fell slightly. “A shilling or two,” said Mrs. Boucher hopefully. “I’m only glad we didn’t have Pug as well. Lucia got us out of that!” Instantly the words of Vittoria about the dog and the angry old woman, and fire and water and moonlight occurred to everybody. Most of all they occurred to Daisy, and there was a slight pause, which might have become awkward if it had continued. It was broken by the entry of Mrs. Boucher’s parlour-maid, who carried a letter in a large square envelope with a deep mourning border, and a huge coronet on the flap. “Addressed to the Museum Committee, ma’am,” she said. Mrs. Boucher opened it, and her face flushed. “Well, she’s lost no time,” she said. “Lady Ambermere. I think I had better read it.” “Please,” said everybody in rather strained voices. Mrs. Boucher read: LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE COMMITTEE OF RISEHOLME MUSEUM--