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the letters?
    As he searched around behind easels propped against the wall and through boxes of materials which the artists used as back-cloths, Harry realized that this was where he worked but not where he lived.
    He opened the door and went down the stairs again. The maid was waiting at the bottom.
    ‘I’ve made a frightful mistake. I was supposed to call at old Freddy’s home to make the arrangements. He’ll be waiting there for me. Lost the address. Give it to me.’
    ‘It’s at twenty-two Pont Street, sir. May I have your card?’
    ‘Listen, I don’t want Freddy to know I was such a chump. Don’t tell him I called here first.’
    Harry produced a sovereign and held it up. ‘Promise?’
    The maid took the sovereign and bobbed a curtsy. ‘Oh, certainly, sir. Most grateful, my lord,’ she added, elevating him to the peerage.
    Harry hailed a hansom cab in the King’s Road and directed the cabby to Pont Street. He took out a half hunter and checked the time. If Freddy had gone to his home and if he had meant that he really would be back in his studio in an hour’s time, he should be leaving fairly shortly.
    He strolled from Pont Street to a news vendor’s kiosk and bought a copy of a newspaper. He strolled back to Pont Street, occasionally stopping to look at the paper as if he had just noticed a fascinating item. At last he was rewarded with the sight of the young artist he recognized as Freddy leaving his house. He certainly was a very handsome young man, with thick curly fair hair and a cherubic face.
    The captain waited until the artist had disappeared down Pont Street. He went up to the door and rang the bell. An imposing manservant opened the door to him. Freddy must be doing well, thought Harry. The tyranny of visiting cards. He wished he had thought to have some fake ones printed.
    The butler inclined his head as Harry cheerfully presented his own card and said he had just met Mr Hecker in Pont Street and Mr Hecker had told him to wait for him.
    He was led upstairs to a drawing-room on the first floor. Harry refused refreshment and said he would sit and read his paper. When the butler had left, he looked around. The furniture and ornaments were expensive. Harry wondered for the first time if Lady Glensheil was the only victim of the artist’s blackmailing.
    There was no desk in the drawing-room. He reflected that if there was a study it would possibly be on the ground floor.
    He cautiously eased out of the drawing-room and stood on the landing. The house was silent. He went quietly and swiftly down the stairs and listened again. A murmur of voices came up from the basement. He opened doors until he found a study and went over to the desk by the window. He opened drawer after drawer. The bottom left-hand drawer was locked.
    He took out a sturdy Swiss knife and, selecting the tool designed for taking stones out of horses’ hooves, prised the drawer open. There were bundles of letters. He took them all out, deciding not to risk looking through them in case he was caught. Harry looked around for something to carry them in and finally put them all in a wastepaper basket, then went out to the street door and, after lifting his visiting card from the tray in the hall, let himself out.
    When he had reached the safety of his own home, he went through the letters and put them into neat piles on his desk. Apart from the ones from Lady Glensheil, there were letters from six other members of society.
    He wrote down the six names and asked Becket to find him their addresses, and when his manservant returned with the information, he set out. First he called on Lady Glensheil, who cried this time with gratitude, and then he tracked down the six others, making sure each time to see them on their own and without their husbands. It seemed unfair that the six should get his services for nothing whereas Lady Glensheil had to pay, but he was afraid that if he asked for money, they would assume he was a blackmailer as