I hit Woollam Chersey at about four o’clock, and found Aunt Agatha in her lair, writing letters. And, from what I know of her, probably offensive letters, with nasty postscripts. She regarded me with not a fearful lot of joy.

“Oh, there you are, Bertie.”

“Yes, here I am.”

“There’s a smut on your nose.”

I plied the handkerchief.

“I am glad you have arrived so early. I want to have a word with you before you meet Mr. Filmer.”

“Who?”