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- there was more there than a secretary's feelings - even a secretary of some years' standing.
    What was it all about? Why did they...
    The telephone on the table by the bed rang. He picked up the receiver.
    “Hallo?”
    “Dr. Calgary? There is someone asking for you.”
    “For me?”
    He was surprised. As far as he was aware, nobody knew that he was spending the night in Drymouth.
    “Who is it?”
    There was a pause. Then the clerk said: “It's a Mr. Argyle.”
    “Oh. Tell him -” Arthur Calgary checked himself on the point of saying that he would come down. If for some reason Leo Argyle had followed him to Drymouth and managed to find out where he was staying, then presumably the matter would be embarrassing to discuss in the crowded lounge downstairs.
    He said instead: “Ask him to come up to my room, will you?”
    He rose from where he had been lying and paced up and down until the knock came on the door.
    He went across and opened it. “Come in, Mr. Argyle!”
    He stopped, taken aback. It was not Leo Argyle. It was a young man in his early twenties, a young man whose dark, handsome face was marred by its expression of bitterness. A reckless, angry, unhappy face.
    “Didn't expect me,” said the young man. “Expected my - father. I'm Michael Argyle.”
    “Come in.” Calgary closed the door after his visitor had entered. “How did you find out I was here?” he asked as he offered the boy his cigarette case.
    Michael Argyle took one and gave a short unpleasant laugh.
    “That one's easy! Rang up the principal hotels on the chance you might be staying the night. Hit it the second.”
    “And why did you want to see me?”
    Michael Argyle said slowly: “Wanted to see what sort of a chap you were...”
    His eyes ran appraisingly over Calgary, noting the slightly stooped shoulders, the greying hair, the thin sensitive face. “So you're one of the chaps who went on the 'Hayes Bentley' to the Pole. You don't look very tough.”
    Arthur Calgary smiled faintly.
    “Appearances are sometimes deceptive,” he said. “I was tough enough. It's not entirely muscular force that's needed. There are other important qualifications: endurance, patience, technical knowledge.”
    “How old are you, forty-five?”
    “Thirty-eight.”
    “You look more.”
    “Yes - yes, I suppose I do.” For a moment a feeling of poignant sadness came over him as he confronted the virile youth of the boy facing him.
    He asked rather abruptly: “Why did you want to see me?” The other scowled.
    “It's natural, isn't it? When I heard about the news you'd brought. The news about my dear brother.”
    Calgary did not answer.
    Michael Argyle went on: “It's come a bit late for him, hasn't it?”
    “Yes,” said Calgary in a low voice. “It is too late for him.”
    “What did you bottle it up for? What's all this about concussion?”
    Patiently Calgary told him. Strangely enough, he felt heartened by the boy's roughness and rudeness. Here, at any rate, was someone who felt strongly on his brother's behalf.
    “Gives Jacko an alibi, that's the point, is it? How do you know the times were as you say they were?”
    “I am quite sure about the times.” Calgary spoke with firmness.
    “You may have made a mistake. You scientific blokes are apt to be absent-minded sometimes about little things like times and places.”
    Calgary showed slight amusement.
    “You have made a picture for yourself of the absent-minded professor of fiction - wearing odd socks, not quite sure what day it is or where he happens to be? My dear young man, technical work needs great precision; exact amounts, times, calculations. I assure you there is no possibility of my having made a mistake. I picked up your brother just before seven and put him down in Drymouth at five minutes after the half hour.”
    “Your watch could have been wrong. Or you went by the clock in your car.” “My watch and the clock in the car were exactly synchronised.” “Jacko could have led