'But there's  a  blocked-in  fireplace  behind the  old  library,' said Teatime,  apparently reading his thoughts. 'The  flues  connect,  under  the bars. It was really a stroll, sir.'

     'Really . . .'

     'Oh, yes, sir.'

     Downey nodded. The tendency of old buildings  to  be  honeycombed  with sealed chimney flues was a fact  you learned early in your career. And then, he told himself,  you forgot. It always paid to put the other  fellow in awe of you, too. He had forgotten they taught that, too.

     'The dogs seem to like you,' he said.

     'I get on well with animals, sir.'

     Teatime's face was young and open and friendly. Or, at least, it smiled all the time. But the effect was spoiled for most people by the fact that it had only one eye. Some unexplained accident had taken the other one, and the missing  orb  had  been  replaced  by  a  ball  of  glass.  The  result  was disconcerting. But  what bothered Lord Downey far more  was  the man's other eye, the one  that might  loosely  be called normal. He'd never seen such  a small and sharp pupil. Teatime looked at the world through a pinhole.

     He  found  he'd retreated behind his desk again.  There  was that about Teatime. You always felt

     happier if you had something between you and him.

     'You like animals,  do  you?' he said. 'I have a report  here that says you nailed Sir George's dog to the ceiling.'

     'Couldn't have it barking while I was working, sir.'

     'Some people would have drugged it.'

     'Oh.' Teatime looked despondent for a moment,  but then  he brightened. 'But  I definitely fulfilled the contract, sir. There can be no  doubt about that,  sir. I checked Sir  George's  breathing with a mirror  as instructed. It's in my report.'

     'Yes, indeed.' Apparently the man's head had been several feet from his body at that point. It was a terrible thought that Teatime might see nothing incongruous about this.