January isn’t the usual time for going to Florence, but it would be all one to Pagett. I could imagine him going about, guidebook in hand, religiously doing all the picture galleries. And a week’s freedom was cheap to me at the price.

It has been a delightful week. I have done everything I wanted to, and nothing that I did not want to do. But when I blinked my eyes open, and perceived Pagett standing between me and the light at the unearthly hour of 9 a.m. this morning, I realized that freedom was over.

“My dear fellow,” I said, “has the funeral already taken place, or is it for later in the morning?”

Pagett does not appreciate dry humour. He merely stared.

“So you know, Sir Eustace?”

“Know what?” I said crossly. “From the expression of your face I inferred that one of your near and dear relatives was to be interred this morning.”

Pagett ignored the sally as far as possible.

“I thought you couldn’t know about this.” He tapped the telegram. “I know you dislike being aroused early⁠—but it is nine o’clock”⁠—Pagett insists on regarding 9 a.m. as practically the middle of the day⁠—“and I thought that under the circumstances⁠ ⁠…” He tapped the telegram again.

“What is that thing?” I asked.

“It’s a telegram from the police at Marlow. A woman has been murdered in your house.”

That aroused me in earnest.

“What colossal cheek,” I exclaimed. “Why in my house? Who murdered her?”