Isaacstein looked at him attentively for a minute or two out of his beady black eyes.

“Have a cigar,” he said unexpectedly, holding out an open box.

“Thank you,” said Anthony. “I don’t mind if I do.”

He helped himself.

“It’s about this Herzoslovakian business,” continued Anthony, as he accepted a match. He noted the momentary flickering of the other’s steady gaze. “The murder of Prince Michael must have rather upset the applecart.”

Mr. Isaacstein raised one eyebrow, murmured “Ah?” interrogatively and transferred his gaze to the ceiling.

“Oil,” said Anthony, thoughtfully surveying the polished surface of the desk. “Wonderful thing, oil.”

He felt the slight start the financier gave.