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exactly,” Dolores admitted, “but I’m proud to say that for over a quarter of a century I have enjoyed the complete confidence of Mr. Palmerston.”
    “There was a Mr. Palmerston who used to come to the house sometimes when Aunt Caroline and Leila Lackridge were involved in the Arts Festival,” said Sarah. “Is this the same man, I wonder? C. Edwald Palmerston. I never did know what the C was for.”
    “Cadwallader,” said Mr. Porter-Smith, who always knew things like that.
    “Exactly.” Mrs. Tawne nodded as though she’d scored a point, although Sarah couldn’t imagine why. “Mr. Palmerston has been chairman of our board of trustees for over thirty years. He relies on me to keep him informed about the day-to-day affairs at the museum.”
    “Mr. Palmerston seems to be on a great many boards,” Mrs. Gates observed.
    “He is. I’ve never known anyone with a deeper sense of civic responsibility.”
    Interfering old coot was what Cousin Dolph called him, Sarah recalled. At least that was the politest thing she could recall. To be fair, however, the same things had probably been said about Dolph before the former Miss Mary Smith took him in hand.
    “I wonder what Palmerston will have to say about the attempted robbery,” said Bittersohn innocently.
    Dolores Tawne pounced. “Robbery? What robbery? I didn’t hear about any robbery. Brooks, why didn’t you tell me? What happened?”
    “Nothing. Sarah here found Brown, the adipose sacristan of the chapel, wedged under a pew. The silver had been taken from the altar and heaped on the floor. Brown told a tale of being slugged by some would-be thieves who, he claimed, must have shoved Witherspoon off the balcony to keep him from identifying them. It’s a lot of balderdash, of course.”
    “Well, of all the—I never heard—wait till I—”
    Sarah quickly poured Mrs. Tawne another cup of coffee and watched with anxiety while she gulped it down. The woman was an alarming color now.
    “Mrs. Tawne, you mustn’t let your work upset you so.”
    “Upset me? Why, that idiot!” The artist fought herself under control, gradually fading to a less apoplectic shade of red. “Pulling a ridiculous schoolboy trick like that while poor old Joe was lying dead in the garden. Robbers my foot! Joe lost his balance and fell, that was all. I’m not surprised. I’ve caught my own brother Jimmy more than once hanging over that slippery balustrade to look at the clock, and bawled him out for it good and proper I can tell you. Don’t let me catch you doing such a thing, Brooks.”
    “I’m no clock watcher,” said Kelling stiffly, “and neither was Witherspoon.”
    “I didn’t say Joe was watching the clock,” she huffed. “I said he was looking at it. I only wish it had been that imbecile Brown.”
    Mrs. Sorpende, with her ineffable tact, channeled the talk into a more refined vein. “You are both highly privileged to be entrusted with the protection and preservation of priceless art treasures,” she cooed.
    “I feel the responsibility keenly,” Brooks assured her.
    Mrs. Sorpende arranged the fall of lace over a plump and comely wrist. “One feels that Mr. Fitzroy must be a penetrating judge of character.”
    Cousin Brooks edged still closer to the billows of mauve Georgette. Dolores Tawne finally realized what was happening.
    “Well, I’ve got to be getting along,” she snapped. “Early to bed for us working gals. Thanks for the supper, Mrs. Kelling. You coming, Brooks?”
    It was a struggle, but the Code of the Kellings prevailed. Sarah rewarded Brooks for good behavior by expressing a cordial wish that he wouldn’t be such a stranger. Mrs. Sorpende added an intimation that she was always at home in the evenings. Brooks gave his word of honor that he would indeed not be such a stranger and nobody present doubted his sincerity.
    “It was so nice you could come, Mrs. Tawne,” said Sarah. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow at three.”
    “What? Oh yes. Tomorrow