Remember the tact, I warned myself. “I’m half of it,” I told her. “I’m unmarried. But not, as far as I know, a father. Mr Byne has a cold and couldn’t come and asked me to fill in for him. His bad luck and my good luck.”

She ate the oyster, and another one—she ate cheerfully too—and turned again. “I was telling this friend of mine that if all society men are like the ones that were here the other time, we weren’t missing anything, but I guess they’re not. Anyway, you’re not. I noticed the way you made Helen laugh—Helen Yarmis. I don’t think I ever did see her laugh before. I’m going to tell my friend about you if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Time out for an oyster. “But I don’t want to mix you up. I’m not society. I’m a working man.”

“Oh!” She nodded. “That explains it. What kind of work?”

Remember the discretion, I warned myself. Miss Tuttle should not be led to suspect that Mrs Robilotti had got a detective there to keep an eye on the guests of honour. “You might,” I said, “call it trouble-shooting. I work for a man named Nero Wolfe. You may have heard of him.”

“I think I have.” The oysters gone, she put her fork down.” I’m pretty sure… Oh, I remember, that murder, that woman, Susan somebody. He’s a detective.”

“That’s right. I work for him. But I—”

“You too. You’re a detective!”

“I am when I’m working, but not this evening. Now I’m playing. I’m just enjoying myself—and I am, too. I was wondering what you meant—”

Hackett and two female assistants were removing the oyster service, but it wasn’t that that stopped me. The interruption was from Robert Robilotti, across the table, between Celia Grantham and Helen Yarmis, who was demanding the general ear; and as other voices gave way, Mrs Robilotti raised hers. “Must you, Robbie? That flea again?”

He smiled at her. From what I had seen of him during the jewellery hunt I had not cottoned to him, smiling or not.