“It’s a pretty trivial matter,” he commenced, “but I know you ‘sleuth’ people always like to hear full particulars about everything—the usual phraseology is ‘no matter how unimportant it may seem’”—he grinned—then went on again. “You observe, of course, that I have read several detective stories!” Goodall wrinkled his nose somewhat contemptuously. But Peter was perfectly hardened against that kind of discouragement. “When Linnell and I first heard from Stewart about the purchase of these antiques it was arranged between the two of us that I should pop along to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ to have a squint at the stuff. Well, I did so—on my way I blew in to the ‘Violette’ for a mouthful of grub. While I was there I ran into a pal of mine—Marriott, by name—we got gassing to each other about the usual thousand and one things. Well—I’m afraid I’m telling this pretty badly”—Goodall’s face was a study—“but sitting at the next table were a man and a woman. I noticed them particularly for two reasons. Firstly the ‘Violette’ was comparatively deserted—it was early, you see—and secondly they seemed to be having a ‘powwow’ of some importance to them. They were just an ordinary looking couple—scarcely anything distinctive about them—no help for you there, Inspector. Well, I made an inane sort of remark to old Marriott and he replied—as idiots will—‘Queen Anne’s dead.’ Then I did a mad sort of thing—I’d been thinking of Mary, Queen of Scots, all the morning—at any rate since getting Stewart’s jolly old letter—and some inexplicable imp of mischief made me say, ‘So’s Mary, Queen of Scots.’” He stopped again to see the effect he was producing upon his companions. Each was listening in his own way. Goodall’s slightly cavalier attitude had relaxed somewhat, and Anthony was giving him that nonchalant attention that he employed to mask unusual mental activity. Peter let his words sink in. “Directly I said it, the chap at the next table seemed—mind you, I only say ‘seemed’—to give a sudden sort of start. He swept round in his chair and sent the cruet and all its contents flying on to the floor—three bags full.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course I can’t swear that it was what I said that had poked the gust up him, but it did seem like it to me, gentlemen.” “What happened then?” cut in Goodall. “Nothing much,” answered Peter—“the waiters rushed to repair the damage—that was all.” “H’m,” commented the Inspector. “I know Lironi, the proprietor of the ‘Violette,’ pretty well. If I think it important enough I could see him—he might know something about them—they might be fairly regular customers of his. It depends on what I strike down here in Berkshire.” He looked across at Bathurst, who was sitting with his head sunk on one shoulder. Suddenly the latter sat up. “What did the woman do, Daventry—anything noticeable?”