My fault⁠—it tickled my sense of humour to employ the fellow, with his Cinquecento poisoner’s face and his mid-Victorian soul. A maxim for you, my dear Anne. Don’t let your sense of humour carry you away. For years I’ve had an instinct that it would be wise to get rid of Pagett, but the fellow was so hardworking and conscientious that I honestly couldn’t find an excuse for sacking him. So I left things drift.

“But we’re wandering from the point. The question is what to do with you. Your narrative was admirably clear, but there is one thing that still escapes me. Where are the diamonds now?”

“Harry Rayburn has them,” I said, watching him.

His face did not change, it retained its expression of sardonic good humour.

“H’m. I want those diamonds.”

“I don’t see much chance of your getting them,” I replied.