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Each table had a thin glass vase at its centre, filled with twigs on to which had been wired large, rubbery-looking berries, like small oranges. Most of the tables had already been laid for luncheon; only Toby’s had an anachronistic toast-rack and teacup.
    He was without friendliness towards the fried egg that was brought to him. He was sour towards the tea. Towards George he appeared without emotions of any kind. George stayed behind his newspaper.
    It was about half an hour later that the first remark came. ‘You know, George, you’ve got a nose.’
    George flattened the palm of one hand against his face. ‘Yes,’ he said doubtfully, ‘not a fine one like yours, Tobe.’
    â€˜You smell things out, don’t you, George?’ Toby had pushed his chair back, stretched his legs out, and was smoking. ‘You realized the possibilities of that policeman picking primroses in the meadow. You went and helped him, and so found out what it was all about. Now I should merely have speculated and passed on.’
    â€˜Well, I reckon you’d have made as good use of your speculating as I shall of my knowing.’
    Toby nodded. ‘But the concrete mind comes in useful sometimes.’
    â€˜I’ve even known the solid brick kind come in useful—sometimes,’ said George.
    Toby did not answer. Blowing smoke at the oranges, he gazed at them as through a veil. ‘We’ll stay here a day or two,’ he said presently.
    George shrugged. ‘Only …’ he began with a faint frown.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I’ve been wondering. You told that sergeant of yours you hadn’t got a job on that paper any more.’
    â€˜I haven’t.’
    â€˜But they print all you send ’em.’
    Toby rose, stretched himself and grinned. George turned the pages of his newspaper. Toby said he would go and shave. A girl in a darned jumper and shapeless skirt came in and asked if she could clear away the breakfast now. Past the windows of the coffee-room of the Ring of Bells a large car drove slowly and stopped a little farther down the street outside the police station. George noticed it out of the corner of his eye, but he went on reading.
    When, about half an hour later, Toby and George emerged together into the street, the car was still there. But as they strolled towards the police station a man came out and got hastily into the car. Sergeant Eggbear had followed him out; there was respect in the sergeant’s attitude, also gravity and concern. The car was driven away by a uniformed chauffeur at a rate of about fifteen miles an hour.
    The man of whom Toby and George had caught this glimpse was tall, extremely thin and bearded. His face was yellowish. He looked an old man, but the beard was not yet grey, and he had crossed the pavement in one spidery stride.
    â€˜Well, that’s that,’ the sergeant greeted them.
    â€˜And that,’ said Toby, with a nod after the car, ‘was old man Maxwell?’
    â€˜That’s right.’ The sergeant retreated into the station and the other two followed him. ‘We’ve cleared it up. It’s his son—he says so. Not been seen or heard of for ten years, comes home and gets done in before he’s seen any of his folks. Poor devil.’
    â€˜Has it cut the old man up?’
    â€˜You couldn’t tell with him.’ Eggbear pointed at a small pile of papers on his table. ‘Those are his. Here’s his passport. We had the landlady over from Wallaford this morning and she identified him as the man who stayed at her place.’
    â€˜What about the suitcase?’ Toby had taken the passport and was looking at the photograph inside. It was faintly familiar, a flattish face with high cheekbones and a smooth, oval outline. But it was the kind of photograph that is obviously a bad photograph, a mere record of a set of features. ‘Same type as his young cousin Laws,’ Toby