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could have laughed in the solicitor’s face. ‘I think Clay did that job, and his alibi was faked. You wouldn’t know anything about that.’
    ‘If I thought it for a moment, he would no longer be a client of mine,’ declared Potter.
    ‘Don’t apply the rule to your clients too generally,’ advised Roger. ‘You’ll soon be on the bread-line.’
    Potter stared at him, and then deliberately stood up and moved to another seat. Roger continued to smile, but only for Potter’s benefit; the phase of high spirits had gone.
    Why should Potter take this extraordinary course? Had he really followed Claude, and hoped to find out what Claude wanted at Chelsea?
    He stood up as the bus drew into Parliament Square. Potter remained on the top deck, staring out of the window.
    ‘I’ll be at the office fairly late,’ Roger said in passing, ‘look me up if you feel like it.’
    He hurried down the stairs, nodded genially to the policeman on duty and went whistling towards his office. At a corner heavy footsteps materialized into the burly figure of Chatworth, dressed for out of doors. It was known that Chatworth disliked whistling, and talking above a whisper, in the passages. He glared at Roger, who bade him a polite goodnight.
    ‘Night,’ growled Chatworth.
    Roger made his way to his office and sat at his desk, glancing at one or two notes that had been put there since he had left. There was nothing concerning the Potter-Prendergast-Clay investigation.
    He lifted the telephone, asked for Guildford Police Station and for Chief Inspector Lampard. He had met Lampard, who had conducted the inquiries into the first Prendergast death, near Delaware. A sound man, with no over-developed sense of his seniority, and who had said that he disliked the inquest verdict.
    ‘Roger West here,’ began Roger. ‘You’ll remember –’
    ‘Remember,’ Lampard had a quick, decisive way of speaking, wasted no time in how-d’ you-do’s or reflections on the weather. ‘What do you want?’
    ‘There’s a job you might be able to help me with, Mr Lampard. Claude Prendergast has just gone to Delaware House with a friend, a Mr Mark Lessing. Lessing is acting unofficially for me –’
    ‘Authority?’ interrupted Lampard.
    ‘No authority. He’s in his private capacity only. Claude Prendergast has an idea that he might be number four on a list. There could be something in it. Could Delaware House be watched?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Lampard. ‘Anything to go on?’
    ‘I’m no further than an “if” and “might be” stage, but I should hate to leave Claude unattended. Isn’t there an AA phone box just near the house?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘If anyone turns into the drive of the house,’ said Roger, ‘a word with Lessing might be advisable. I’m half expecting Mr Potter or one of his clerks to go there, and possibly Mrs Prendergast. Maisie Claude doesn’t want to see her, and he has peculiar ideas about her.’
    ‘So Potter’s in this, is he?’ Lampard grew expansive. ‘I’ll do what I can, West. Anything else?’
    ‘You’ll be interested to hear that a new relative has appeared on the horizon,’ said Roger. ‘A man named Harrington. I’m trying to find him, but he hasn’t made himself prominent yet. Does the name mean anything to you?’
    ‘No,’ said Lampard.
    Roger renewed his thanks and rang off. He called Information and arranged for a teleprinter request for news of the man Harrington and for information about Claude’s Maisie. That done, he cleared his desk, decided that he could go home, stepped to the door and then his telephone bell rang.
    ‘A Mr Gabriel Potter is in the hall, sir, asking to see you.’
    ‘I’ll come down and see him,’ said Roger, and rang off.
    He was beginning to feel very pleased with himself.
    Potter was standing in the hall, homburg hat in hand, pointed chin riding high above his stiff collar. He carried an umbrella and pigskin gloves.
    ‘Evening,’ said Roger brusquely. ‘Come along to