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lodging-house almost next door to a girls’ school; and its proprietress, Mrs. Wheatley, a small, timid, bustling, elderly woman who twisted her apron nervously in her hands while she talked.
    “I’ll deal with this,” Cadogan had said to Fen when they arrived. “I have a plan.” In point of fact, he had no plan of any kind. Fen had agreed to this, rather grudgingly. He had then settled down to do The Times crossword puzzle, filling in the literary clues without difficulty. But the rest eluded him, so he sat looking crossly at the passers-by.
    When Mrs. Wheatley opened the door to him, Cadogan was still trying to think what to say.
    “I expect,” she said anxiously, “that you’re the gentleman about the Rooms.”
    “Exactly.” He was greatly relieved. “The Rooms.”
    She showed him inside.
    “Very nice weather we’re having,” she said, as though personally responsible for this phenomenon. “This would be the sitting-room.”
    “Mrs. Wheatley, I’m afraid I’ve deceived you.” Now he was inside the house, Cadogan decided to abandon his stratagem. “I’m not about the Rooms at all. The fact is”—he cleared his throat—“have you a friend or relation, an elderly lady, unmarried, with grey hair and—er—given to wearing tweeds and blouses…?”
    Mrs. Wheatley’s pinched, anxious face lit up. “You don’t mean Miss Tardy, sir?”
    “Er—what was the name again?”
    “Miss Tardy, sir. Emilia Tardy. ‘Better Late than Never’ we used to call her. On account of the name, you see. Why, Emilia’s my oldest friend.” Her face clouded. “Nothing’s wrong, is it, sir? Nothing’s happened to her?”
    “No, no,” Cadogan said hastily. “Only I met your—ah—friend some time ago, and she said that if ever I was in Oxford I was to be sure to look you up. Unfortunately, I never quite caught her name, though I remembered yours.”
    “Why, that’s right sir.” Mrs. Wheatley beamed. “And I’m very glad you’ve come—very glad indeed. Any friend of Emilia’s is welcome here. If you’d like to just come down to my sitting-room and take a cup of tea, I could show you a photograph of her to refresh your memory.”
    This was luck, Cadogan reflected as he followed Mrs. Wheatley to the basement; for he had little doubt that Emilia Tardy and the woman he had seen in the toyshop were one and the same. The sitting-room turned out to be cluttered up with wicker chairs, budgerigars, flowed calendars, reproductions of Landseer, and unattractive plates depicting unstable Chinese bridges. There was an enormous stove along one side, with a kettle simmering on it.
    The confusions attendant upon the brewing of tea over, Mrs. Wheatley hastened to a drawer and reverently brought forth a rather faded brown photograph.
    “Here she is, sir. Now, was that the lady you met?”
    Unquestionably it was, though the photograph must have been ten years old, and the face he had seen had been swollen and discoloured. Miss Tardy smiled kindly and vaguely at the photographer, her pince-nez balanced on her nose, her straight hair a little deranged. But it was not the face of an ineffectual spinster; there was a certain self-reliance in it, despite the vague smile.
    He nodded. “Yes, this is she.”
    “Might I ask if it was in England you met her, sir?” Looking over his shoulder, Mrs. Wheatley timidly twisted her blue apron in her hands.
    “No, abroad.” (From the form of the question, a safe bet.) “And quite a long time ago now—six months at least, I should think.”
    “Ah, yes. That would be when she was last in France. A great traveller, Emilia is, and how she has the courage to live among all those foreigners is beyond me. You’ll pardon my curiosity, sir, but it’s four weeks since I heard from her, and that’s rather strange, as she’s always been a most faithful writer. I’m afraid something may have happened to her.”
    “Well, I’m sorry to say I can’t help you there.” As he sipped his tea