Slinking down the hall, far more like a thief than like the master of the house, Lord Caterham gained the shelter of his sanctum. Here he unlocked a cupboard and produced various bottles. “Talking to foreigners always makes me so thirsty,” he explained apologetically. “I don’t know why it is.” There was a knock on the door, and Virginia popped her head round the corner of it. “Got a special cocktail for me?” she demanded. “Of course,” said Lord Caterham hospitably. “Come in.” The next few minutes were taken up with serious rites. “I needed that,” said Lord Caterham with a sigh, as he replaced his glass on the table. “As I said just now, I find talking to foreigners particularly fatiguing. I think it’s because they’re so polite. Come along. Let’s have some lunch.” He led the way to the dining-room. Virginia put her hand on Anthony’s arm, and drew him back a little. “I’ve done my good deed for the day,” she whispered. “I got Lord Caterham to take me to see the body.” “Well?” demanded Anthony eagerly. One theory of his was to be proved or disproved. Virginia was shaking her head. “You were wrong,” she whispered. “It’s Prince Michael all right.” “Oh!” Anthony was deeply chagrined. “And Mademoiselle has the _migraine_,” he added aloud, in a dissatisfied tone. “What has that got to do with it?” “Probably nothing, but I wanted to see her. You see, I’ve found out that Mademoiselle has the second room from the end—the one where I saw the light last night.” “That’s interesting.” “Probably there’s nothing in it. All the same, I mean to see Mademoiselle before the day is out.” Lunch was somewhat of an ordeal. Even the cheerful impartiality of Bundle failed to reconcile the heterogeneous assembly. The Baron and Andrassy were correct, formal, full of etiquette, and had the air of attending a meal in a mausoleum. Lord Caterham was lethargic and depressed. Bill Eversleigh stared longingly at Virginia. George, very mindful of the trying position in which he found himself, conversed weightily with the Baron and Mr. Isaacstein. Guggle and Winkle, completely beside themselves with joy of having a murder in the house, had to be continually checked and kept under, whilst Mr. Hiram Fish slowly masticated his food, and drawled out dry remarks in his own peculiar idiom. Superintendent Battle had considerately vanished, and nobody knew what had become of him. “Thank God that’s over,” murmured Bundle to Anthony, as they left the table. “And George is taking the foreign contingent over to the Abbey this afternoon to discuss State secrets.” “That will possibly relieve the atmosphere,” agreed Anthony. “I don’t mind the American so much,” continued Bundle. “He and Father can talk first editions together quite happily in some secluded spot. Mr. Fish”—as the object of their conversation drew near—“I’m planning a peaceful afternoon for you.” The American bowed. “That’s too kind of you, Lady Eileen.”