The door swung open and a man entered. He too shut the door behind him, half turning to close it gently, and then spoke as he advanced.

"Good afternoon, Cynthia. Good afternoon, Bernard. What on earth is going on here?" He saw me. "Who are you, sir, an officer of the law? So am I, in a way. My name is Demarest – Henry R. Demarest, Counselor." He was coming to me to shake on it, and I stood up and obliged.

"Goodwin, Archie," I said, "assistant to Nero Wolfe, private detective."

"Oho!" His brows went up. "Nero Wolfe, eh?" He turned to the others and I had his broad back and the pudgy behind of his neck. "What is all this? A dead man found on the premises and I have to learn it from a policeman asking me about my key? May I ask why I was not informed?"

"We were busy," Bernard said gruffly. "And not with business. The whole police force was here."

"I tried to phone you last night," Cynthia said, "but you weren't at home, and today you were out at lunch, and I have arranged with Nero Wolfe to keep me from being convicted of murder, and Mr. Goodwin came here with me. I was nearly arrested because I came here last night and stayed fifteen minutes."

Demarest nodded. He had deposited his hat on Bernard's desk and his fanny on Bernard's chair the other side of the desk, which seemed a little arbitrary. He nodded again at Cynthia.

"I know. A friend at the District Attorney's office has given me the particulars. But my dear child, you should have called on me at once. I should have been beside you! You went to Nero Wolfe instead? Why?"

He irritated me. Also Cynthia sent me a glance which I interpreted to mean that hired help are supposed to earn their pay, so I horned in.