'If you are Cordelia Gray, then you're eighteen minutes late. This notice says that you would return at four o'clock.'

'I know, I'm sorry.' Cordelia hurried up the last few steps and fitted the Yale key into the lock. She opened the door.

'Won't you come in?'

The woman preceded her into the outer office and turned to face her without giving the room even a glance.

'I was hoping to see Mr Pryde. Will he be long?'

'I'm sorry; I've just come back from his cremation. I mean, Bernie's dead.'

'Obviously. Our information was that he was alive ten days ago. He must have died with remarkable speed and discretion.'

'Not with discretion. Bernie killed himself.'

'How extraordinary!' The visitor seemed to be struck by its extraordinariness. She pressed her hands together and for a few seconds walked restlessly about the room in a curious pantomime of distress.

'How extraordinary!' she said again. She gave a little snort of laughter. Cordelia didn't speak, but the two women regarded each other gravely. Then the visitor said:

'Well, I seem to have had a wasted journey.'

Cordelia breathed an almost inaudible 'Oh no!' and resisted an absurd impulse to fling her body against the door.

'Please don't go before talking to me. I was Mr Pryde's partner and I own the business now. I'm sure I could help. Won't you please sit down?'

The visitor took no notice of the offered chair.

'No one can help, no one in the world. However that is beside the point. There is something which my employer particularly wants to know – some information he requires – and he had decided that Mr Pryde was the person to get it for him. I don't know if he would consider you an effective substitute. Is there a private telephone here?'