'Yes you have. That's how she knows she can trust you. She was having tea with a Mrs Fortescue last week when you returned the Fortescue cat – Solomon I think the brute's called. Apparently you found him within thirty minutes of beginning the search so your bill was correspondingly small. Mrs Fortescue is devoted to the animal. You could have charged treble. She wouldn't have queried it. That impressed my wife.'

Cordelia said:

'We're rather expensive. We have to be. But we are honest.'

She remembered the drawing-room in Eaton Square, a feminine room if femininity implies softness and luxury; a cluttered, cosy repository of silver-framed photographs, an over-lavish tea on a low table in front of the Adam fireplace, too many flowers conventionally arranged. Mrs Fortescue, incoherent with relief and joy, had introduced her guest to Cordelia as a matter of form but her voice, muffled in Solomon's fur, had been indistinct and Cordelia hadn't caught the name. But the impression had been definite. The visitor had sat very still in her armchair beside the fireplace, one thin leg thrown over the other, heavily ringed hands resting on the arms. Cordelia recalled yellow hair intricately piled and wound above a tall forehead, a small, bee-stung mouth, and immense eyes, deep-set but with heavy, almost swollen, lids. She had seemed to impose on the lush conformity of the room a hieratic and angular grace, a distinction which, despite the plainness of the formal suede suit, hinted at some histrionic or eccentric individuality. She had gravely bent her head and watched her friend's effusions with a half-mocking smile. Despite her stillness there had been no impression of peace. Cordelia said:

'I didn't recognize your wife but I remember her very well.'

'And you'll take the job?'