“That’ll be Quirke,” Inspector Hackett said.

The late afternoon had turned tawny and Hackett was pacing in a paddock behind the stables. The parched grass crackled under his feet and spurts of amber dust flew up. The country was in need of rain, all right, though it was only the start of June. He saw Dr. Quirke approaching from the direction of the house and stopped and waited for him. Teetering along on those absurdly dainty feet of his the big man seemed not so much to walk as to stumble forward heavily, limping slightly; it was as if he had tripped over something a long way back and were still trying to regain his balance. He wore as usual a dark double-breasted suit and a black slouch hat. Hackett believed that if they should chance upon each other in the middle of the Sahara Desert Quirke would be in the same getup, the jacket buttoned across and the hat pulled down over one eye and the narrow tie knotted askew.

“Dr. Quirke,” the detective said by way of greeting, “did it ever strike you we’re in the wrong line of work? We only seem to meet up when someone is dead.”

“Like undertakers,” Quirke said. He lifted his hat and ran a hand over his damp and gleaming brow. “This heat.”

“Are you complaining, after the winter we had?”

They turned together and looked back at the house and the straggle of stables. “Handsome spot,” Hackett said. “And to think, it’s only Diamond Dick’s little place in the country.” The house was big enough to be a mansion, with fine Georgian windows and a sweep of granite steps leading up to a front door flanked by two stout pillars painted white. Ivy and Virginia creeper clung to the walls, and the four lofty chimneys of honey-colored brick had at least a dozen pots apiece. “Did you encounter the widow?”

Quirke was still squinting in the direction of the house. “Yes,” he said. “I met her before, can’t remember where-some function or other.”