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gratified.
    â€œLipowitsky had a fine time,” he said. “Told me so. He thinks New York girls are fine.”
    Gamadge, with a glance at his wife, said he was glad Lipowitsky wasn’t disappointed.
    â€œI suppose nothing more turned up about the case?” Harold asked it idly.
    â€œOh—one thing more. My client isn’t Miss Caroline Fenway.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The Book Of Views
    A T HALF PAST two o’clock on Sunday, January 31st, Gamadge stood in bright sunshine, a book under his arm, and took a corner view of the Fenway house. Even in daylight it had a semiurban look; he could imagine ladies with parasols walking in the garden on fine afternoons, and old Mr. Fenway driving down to business every morning in a barouche.
    He strolled down the side street, past the double flight of stone steps. There was the bay window; there, below and in front of it, the spot where the paper balls had lain. Beyond stretched the high brick wall with the dark-green door in it. He mounted the nearer flight and looked into a neatly paved side yard, with shrubs and a row of trees against the wall that divided the Fenway grounds from the next house.
    He rang, and entered a Pompeian vestibule with painted walls and ceiling. Black-and-white marble was underfoot, and facing him were ponderous walnut doors, their upper halves of glass frosted in pseudoclassic designs. The Fenways certainly had the sense of the past. A very old manservant admitted him, said that Mr. Fenway expected him, and took away his hat and coat; he retained his book, however, carrying it with what he hoped was an absent-minded air as he followed the old butler down the hall.
    He had a glimpse into immense reaches of drawing room on the left, of a bay-windowed dining room on the right. A broad stairway rose into dimness; at the turn of the second-floor landing he saw a niche, with Psyche (marble) holding a lamp. Oil lamp; they couldn’t very well wire Psyche.
    At the end of the hall a glassed door let in a filtered, grayish light; by it could be distinguished a door under the stairs (coat cupboard?) another beyond (back drawing room?) and two opposite. The butler opened the last of these.
    â€œMr. Gamadge.”
    Gamadge entered a fine big library, panelled and celled in oak, with two windows looking out on the lawn, and a bay window overlooking the side garden. A slender man came forward; clean-shaven, gray-haired, with a long, well-shaped head and kind blue eyes. The aquiline features that made his daughter a plain woman made Blake Fenway a handsome man; he was excellently dressed in the darkest town clothes.
    â€œThis is a very great pleasure, Mr. Gamadge.” He shook hands with Gamadge, who replied that he was aware he owed it to Miss Vauregard.
    â€œNot at all, I am delighted to have the opportunity of meeting you. Your books—really extraordinary. Literary detection. Absorbing.”
    â€œGreat fun to do.” Gamadge glanced about him; at the high bookshelves with their cupboards and their glass doors, surmounted by busts of classical lawgivers and writers; at solid furniture, red-velvet curtains and upholstery, impressive bric-a-brac, a thick old Turkey rug. There was a portrait above the mantel, with Blake Fenway’s features but a thinner and less agreeable mouth.
    There was a coffee table in front of the fire. The butler came in from a door in the north wall, carrying a tray and an after-dinner coffee service. He set it down.
    â€œThank you, Phillips, and you needn’t wait,” said Fenway. “Mr. Gamadge, will you have that chair?”
    Gamadge sat down in the chair opposite Fenway’s, and accepted a cigar. Phillips went away; Fenway poured coffee. When Gamadge had his cup, Fenway glanced—not for the first time—at the book which Gamadge had laid on the little table beside him.
    â€œHave you brought something to show me?” he asked. “I hope so.”
    â€œIt’s just something