“I see,” said Miss Climpson. “Well, none of us can do more than our best, and it is very necessary to have faith. That moves mountains, we are told.”

“Then for Heaven’s sake lay in a good stock of it,” said Wimsey, gloomily, “because as far as I can see, this job is like shifting the Himalayas and the Alps, with a spot of frosty Caucasus and a touch of the Rockies thrown in.”

“You may count on me to do my poor best,” replied Miss Climpson, “and I will ask the dear vicar to say a Mass of Special Intention for one engaged in a difficult undertaking. When would you like me to start?”

“At once,” said Wimsey. “I think you had better go just as your ordinary self, and put up at the local hotel – no – a boarding-house, there will be more opportunities for gossip. I don’t know much about Windle, except that there is a boot-factory there and rather a good view, but it’s not a large place, and I should think everybody would know about Mrs. Wrayburn. She is very rich, and was notorious in her time. The person you’ll have to cotton on to is the female – there must be one of some sort – who nurses and waits on Mrs. Wrayburn and is, generally speaking, about her path and about her bed and all that. When you find out her special weakness, drive a wedge into it like one o’clock. Oh! by the way – it’s quite possible the will isn’t there at all, but in the hands of a solicitor-fellow called Norman Urquhart who hangs out in Bedford Row. If so, all you can do is to get the pump to work and find out anything – anything at all – to his disadvantage. He’s Mrs. Wrayburn’s great-nephew, and he goes to see her sometimes.”

Miss Climpson made a note of these instructions.

“And now I’ll tootle off and leave you to it,” said Wimsey. “Draw on the firm for any money you want. And if you need any special outfit, send me a wire.”

On leaving Miss Climpson, Lord Peter Wimsey again found himself a prey to Weltschmerz and self-pity. But it now took the form of a gentle, pervading melancholy. Convinced of his own futility, he determined to do what little good lay in his power before retiring to a monastery or to the frozen wastes of the Antarctic. He taxied purposefully round to Scotland Yard, and asked for Chief-Inspector Parker.

Parker was in his office, reading a report which had just come in. He greeted Wimsey with an expression which seemed more embarrassed than delighted.

“Have you come about that packet of powder?”

“Not this time,” said Wimsey, “I don’t suppose you’ll ever hear anything more of that. No. It’s – rather a more – er – delicate matter. It’s about my sister.”

Parker started and pushed the report to one side.

“About Lady Mary?”

“Er – yes. I understand she’s been going about with you – er – dining – and all that sort of thing, what?”

“Lady Mary has honoured me – on one or two occasions – with her company,” said Parker. “I did not think – I did not know – that is, I understood -”

“Ah! but did you understand, that’s the point?” said Wimsey, solemnly. “You see, Mary’s a very nice-minded sort of girl, though I say it, and -”

“I assure you,” said Parker, “that there is no need to tell me that. Do you suppose that I should misinterpret her kindness? It is the custom now-a-days for women of the highest character to dine unchaperoned with their friends, and Lady Mary has -”

“I’m not suggesting a chaperon,” said Wimsey, “Mary wouldn’t stick it for one thing, and I think it’s all bosh, anyhow. Still, being’ her brother, and all that – it’s Gerald’s job really, of course, but Mary and he don’t altogether hit it off, you know, and she wouldn’t be likely to burble any secrets into his ear, especially as it would all be handed on to Helen – what was I going to say? Oh, yes – as Mary’s brother, you know, I suppose it’s my so to speak duty to push round and drop the helpful word here and there.”

Parker jabbed the blotting-paper thoughtfully.

“Don’t do that,” said Wimsey, “it’s bad for your pen. Take a pencil.”

“I suppose,” said Parker, “I ought not to have presumed -”

“What did you presume, old thing?” said Wimsey, his head cocked, sparrowfashion.

“Nothing to which anybody could object,” said Parker, hotly. “What are you thinking of, Wimsey? I quite see that it is unsuitable, from your point of view, that Lady Mary Wimsey should dine in public restaurants with a policeman, but if you imagine I have ever said a word to her that could not be said with the greatest propriety -”

“- in the presence of her mother, you wrong the purest and sweetest woman that ever lived, and insult your friend,” interrupted Peter, snatching the words from his mouth and rattling them to a glib conclusion. “What a perfect Victorian you are, Charles. I should like to keep you in a glass case. Of course you haven’t said a word. What I want to know is, why?”

Parker stared at him.

“For the last five years or so,” said Wimsey, “you have been looking like a demented sheep at my sister, and starting like a rabbit whenever her name is mentioned. What do you mean by it? It is not ornamental. It is not exhilarating. You unnerve the poor girl. You give me a poor idea of your guts, if you will pardon the expression. A man doesn’t like to see a man go all wobbly about his sister – at least, not with such a prolonged wobble. It’s unsightly. It’s irritating. Why not slap the manly thorax and say, ‘Peter, my dear old mangel-wurzel, I have decided to dig myself into the old family trench and be a brother to you’? What’s stopping you? Is it Gerald? He’s an ass, I know, but he’s not a bad old stick, really. Is it Helen? She’s a bit of a wart, but you needn’t see much of her. Is it me? Because, if so, I’m thinking of becoming a hermit – there was a Peter the Hermit, wasn’t there? – So I shouldn’t be in your way. Cough up the difficulty, old thing, and we will have it removed in a plain van. Now, then!”

“Do you – are you asking me -?”

“I’m asking you your intentions, damn it!” said Wimsey, “and if that’s not Victorian enough, I don’t know what is. I quite understand your having given Mary time to recover from that unfortunate affair with Cathcart and the Goyles fellow, but, dash it all, my dear man, one can overdo the delicacy business. You can’t expect a girl to stand on and off for ever, can you? Are you waiting for Leap Year, or what?”

“Look here, Peter, don’t be a damned fool. How can I ask your sister to marry me?”

“How you do it is your affair. You might say: ‘What about a spot of matrimony, old dear?’ That’s up-to-date, and plain and unmistakable.‘Or you could go down on one knee and say, ‘Will you honour me with your hand and heart?’ which is pretty and old-fashioned and has the merit of originality in these times. Or you could write, or wire, or telephone. But I leave that to your own individual fancy.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Oh, God! Shall I ever live down this disastrous reputation for tom-foolery? You’re making Mary damned unhappy, Charles, and I wish you’d marry her and have done with it.”

“Making her unhappy?” said Parker, almost in a shout, “me – her – unhappy?”

Wimsey tapped his forehead significantly.

“Wood – solid wood! But the last blow seems to have penetrated. Yes, you-her – unhappy – do you get it now?”

“Peter – if I really thought that -”

“Now don’t go off the deep end,” said Wimsey, “it’s wasted on me. Keep it for Mary. I’ve done my brotherly duty and there’s an end of it. Calm yourself. Return to your reports -”

“Oh, lord, yes,” said Parker. “Before we go any farther, I’ve got a report for you.”

“You have? Why didn’t you say so at first.”

“You wouldn’t let me.”

“Well, what is it?”

“We’ve found the packet.”

“What?”

“We’ve found the packet.”

“Actually found it?”

“Yes. One of the barmen -”

“Never mind the barmen. You’re sure it’s the right packet?”