She had put an advertisement in the papers and had answered many others. Most people appeared to want their secretaries young and cheap. It was discouraging.

Then her own advertisement had brought an answer, from a Miss Climpson, who kept a typing bureau.

It was not what she wanted, but she went. And she found that it was not quite a typing bureau after all, but something more interesting.

Lord Peter Wimsey, mysteriously at the back of it all, had been abroad when Miss Murchison entered the “Cattery,” and she had never seen him till a few weeks ago. This would be the first time she had actually spoken to him. An odd-looking person, she thought, but people said he had brains. Anyhow -

The door was opened by Bunter, who seemed to expect her and showed her at once into a sitting-room lined with bookshelves. There were some fine prints on the walls, an Aubusson carpet, a grand piano, a vast Chesterfield and a number of deep and cosy chairs, upholstered in brown leather. The curtains were drawn, a wood-fire blazed on the hearth, and before it stood a table, with a silver tea-service whose lovely lines were delightful to the eye.

As she entered, her employer uncoiled himself from the depths of an armchair, put down a black-letter folio which he had been studying and greeted her in the cool, husky and rather languid tones which she had already heard in Mr. Urquhart’s office.

“Frightfully good of you to come round, Miss Murchison. Beastly day, isn’t it? I’m sure you want your tea. Can you eat crumpets? Or would you prefer something more up-to-date?”

“Thanks,” said Miss Murchison, as Bunter hovered obsequiously at her elbow, “I like crumpets very much.”

“Oh, good! Well, Bunter, we’ll struggle with the teapot ourselves. Give Miss Murchison another cushion and then you can toddle off. Back at work, I suppose? How’s our Mr. Urquhart?”

“He’s all right.” Miss Murchison had never been a chatty girl. “There’s one thing I wanted to tell you -”

“Plenty of time,” said Wimsey. “Don’t spoil your tea.” He waited on her with a kind of anxious courtesy which pleased her. She expressed admiration of the big bronze chrysanthemums heaped here and there about the room.

“Oh! I’m glad you like them. My friends say they give a feminine touch to the place, but Bunter sees to it, as a matter of fact. They make a splash of colour and all that, don’t you think?”

“The books look masculine enough.”

“Oh, yes – they’re my hobby, you know. Books – and crime, of course. But crime’s not very decorative, is it? I don’t care about collecting hangmen’s ropes and murderers’ overcoats. What are you to do with ’em? Is the tea all right? I ought to have asked you to pour out, but it always seems to me rather unfair to invite a person and then make her do all the work. What do you do when you’re not working, by the way? Do you keep a secret passion for anything?”

“I go to concerts,” said Miss Murchison. “And when there isn’t a concert I put something on the gramophone.”

“Musician?”

“No – never could afford to learn properly. I ought to have been, I daresay. But there was more money in being a secretary.”

“I suppose so.”

“Unless one is absolutely first-class, and I should never have been that. And third class musicians are a nuisance.”

“They have a rotten time, too,” said Wimsey. “I hate to see them in cinemas, poor beasts, playing the most ghastly tripe, sandwiched in with snacks of Mendelssohn and torn-off gobbets of the ‘Unfinished.’ Have a sandwich. Do you like Bach? or only the Moderns?”

He wriggled on to the piano stool.

“I’ll leave it to you,” said Miss Murchison, rather surprised.

“I feel rather like the Italian Concerto this evening. It’s better on the harpsichord, but I haven’t got one here. I find Bach good for the brain. Steadying influence and all that.”

He played the Concerto through, and then, after a few seconds’ pause went on to one of the “Forty-eight.” He played well, and gave a curious impression of controlled power, which, in a man so light and so fantastical in manner, was unexpected and even a little disquieting.

When he had finished, he said, still sitting at the piano:

“Did you make the enquiry about the typewriter?”

“Yes; it was bought new three years ago.”

“Good. I gather, by the way, that you are probably right about Urquhart’s connection with the Megatherium Trust. That was a very helpful observation of yours. Consider yourself highly commended.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything fresh?”

“No – except that the evening after you called at Mr. Urquhart’s office, he stayed on a long time after we had gone, typing something.”

Wimsey sketched an arpeggio with his right hand and demanded:

“How do you know how long he stayed and what he was doing if you had all gone?”

“You said you wanted to know of anything, however small, that was in the least unusual. I thought it might be unusual for him to stay on by himself, so I walked up and down Princeton Street and round Red Lion Square till half past seven. Then I saw him put the light out and go home. Next morning I noticed that some papers I had left just inside my typewriter cover had been disturbed. So I concluded that he had been typing.”

“Perhaps the charwoman disturbed them?”

“Not she. She never disturbs the dust, let alone the cover.”

Wimsey nodded.

“You have the makings of a first-class sleuth, Miss Murchison. Very well. In that case, our little job will have to be undertaken. Now, look here – you quite understand that I’m going to ask you to do something illegal?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“And you don’t mind?”

“No. I imagine that if I’m taken up you will pay any necessary costs.”

“Certainly.”

“And if I go to prison?”

“I don’t think it will come to that. There’s a slight risk, I admit – that is, if I’m wrong about what I think is happening -that you might be brought up for attempted theft or for being in possession of safebreaking tools, but that is the most that could happen.”

“Oh! well, it’s all in the game, I suppose.”

“You mean that?”

“Yes.”

“Splendid. Well – you know that deed-box you brought in to Mr. Urquhart’s room the day I was there?”

“Yes, the one marked Wrayburn.”

“Where is it kept? In the outer office, where you could get hold of it?”

“Oh, yes – on a shelf with a lot of others.”

“Good. Would it be possible for you to get left alone in the office any day for, say half an hour?”

“Well – at lunch-time I’m supposed to go out at half-past twelve and come back at half-past one. Mr. Pond goes out then, but Mr. Urquhart sometimes comes back. I couldn’t be certain that he wouldn’t pop out on me. And it would look funny if I wanted to stay on after four-thirty, I expect. Unless I pretended I had made a mistake and wanted to stay and put it right. I could do that. I might come extra early in the morning when the charwoman is there – or would it matter her seeing me?”

“It wouldn’t matter very much,” said Wimsey, thoughtfully. “She’d probably think you had legitimate business with the box. I’ll leave it to you to choose the time.”

“But what am I to do? Steal the box?”

“Not quite. Do you know how to pick a lock?”

“Not in the least, I’m afraid.”

“I often wonder what we go to school for,” said Wimsey. “We never seem to learn anything really useful. I can pick quite a pretty lock myself, but, as we haven’t much time and as you’ll need some rather intensive training, I think I’d better take you to an expert. Should you mind putting your coat on and coming round with me to see a friend?”

“Not at all. I should be delighted.”

“He lives in the Whitechapel Road, but he’s a very pleasant fellow, if you can overlook his religious opinions. Personally, I find them rather refreshing. Bunter! Get us a taxi, will you?”