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Through the wall, I heard a telephone bell start ringing. He got to his feet.
    "I'm neglecting my business and wasting your time," he said. "If I can remember anything about Herman that I think might help, I'll let you know."
    I said I'd be glad and watched him leave, closing the door after him.
    I sank lower in my chair and brooded over what he had told me. I was still sitting there, twenty minutes later, still brooding and still getting nowhere when the telephone bell jerked me out of my lethargy. I scooped up the receiver.
    "This is Mr. J. Wilbur Jefferson's secretary," a girl's voice said: a nice, clear voice that was easy to listen to. "Is that Mr. Ryan?" I said it was.
    "Mr. Jefferson would like to see you. Could you come this afternoon at three o'clock?"
    I felt a sharp stirring of interest as I opened my date book and surveyed its blank pages. I had no appointment for three o'clock this afternoon: come to that, I had no appointment for any day this week. "I'll be there," I said.
    "It is the last house, facing the sea on Beach Drive," she told me. "Beach View."
    'I'll be there."
    "Thank you."
    She hung up.
    I held the receiver against my ear for a brief moment while I tried to recapture the sound of her voice. I wondered what she looked like. Her voice sounded young, but voices can be deceptive. I hung up.
    My morning passed without incident. I envied Jay Wayde whose telephone seemed to be constantly ringing. I could also hear the continuous clack-clack of a typewriter. He was obviously a lot busier than I, but then I had the mysterious Mr. Hardwick's three hundred dollars to keep me from starving anyway for a couple of weeks.
    No one came near me, and around one o'clock I went down to the Quick Snack Bar for the usual sandwich. Sparrow was busy so he couldn't bother me with questions, although I could see he was itching to be brought up to date on the murder. I left with the rush hour still in full swing, aware of his reproachful expression as I left without telling him anything.
    Later, I drove out to Beach Drive, the lush-plush district of Pasadena City. Here, rich retired people lived with their own private beaches, away from the crowds that invaded the city during the summer months.
    I reached the gates of Beach View a few minutes to three o'clock. They stood open as if I were expected and I drove up a forty-yard drive, bordered on either side by well-kept lawns and flower-beds.
    The house was over large and had an old-fashioned air. Six broad white steps led up to the front entrance. There was a hanging bell-pull and the front door was of fumed oak.
    I pulled the chain and after a minute or so, the door opened. The butler was a tall gloomylooking old man who stared impassively at me; raising one busy eyebrow inquiringly. "Nelson Ryan," I said. "I'm expected."
    He moved aside and motioned me into the dark hall full of heavy dark furniture. I followed him down a passage and into a small room containing a few uncomfortable looking chairs and a table on which lay some glossy magazines: a room that had the atmosphere of a dentist's reception-room. He indicated one of the chairs and went away.
    I stood around for about ten minutes, looking out of the window at the view of the sea, then the door opened and a girl came in.
    She was around twenty-eight to thirty, slightly taller than average: dark, nice to look at without being sensational. Her eyes were slate blue, intelligent and remote. She had on a dark blue dress that merely hinted of her well shaped body. The neckline was severe and the skirt length modest.
    "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Ryan," she said. Her smile was slight and impersonal. "Mr, Jefferson is ready for you now."
    "You are his secretary?" I asked, recognising the clear, quiet voice. "Yes. I'm Janet West. I'll show you the way."
    I followed her out into the passage and through a green baize door into a big old-fashioned but comfortable lounge lined with books and with double windows