As he had guessed correctly Barnard’s first decision had been to bring in a high-ranking officer from the Yard. From the other carriage in front of the house, it looked as if it might be Jenkins, a young detective. His presence wouldn’t be a bad thing usually, but Lenox guessed, again correctly, that the owner of the house had told Jenkins to come alone. It was all a struggle between Barnard’s impulse to keep things quiet and his impulse to exercise his authority. If Barnard had his way, there would be no doctor, no routine examination of the premises, only an imperious dictate to resolve matters, and quickly.

So it had been necessary for Lenox to bring Thomas, who was a doctor.

The house was a very large yellow one, of the kind that was sometimes called a mansion. It had a garish coat of arms over the door, which made Lenox wince every time he saw it, and each of its dozens of windows showed some light. Barnard always had a surfeit of guests. He also threw parties by the dozen and had a famous annual ball, which wasn’t far off.

Lenox stepped gingerly from the brougham, avoiding a well of slush by the curb. He had had, just a little while before, the happy anticipation of supper and a night in his library ahead of him, but that loss couldn’t still the tiny hum of excitement in his mind-who knew what was inside this house, where it would lead him, how it would end? He loved his work.

Barnard was standing on his stoop, engaged in a solemn conversation with the young detective, when he spotted Lenox and Thomas approaching.

“Charles!” he said.

“George, how are you?” said Lenox. “I’m sorry about this business.”

“Terrible matter. Under my own roof. No end of embarrassment, you know.”

“Did the girl serve upstairs?”

“Indeed she did! Only for two weeks or so, of course, or I would have been able to spot it before it happened.”