iv

the meeting of the board of directors was over. it had passed off smoothly. the report was good.

there should have been no discordant note. yet to the sensitive mr. samuel rotherstein there had

been something, some nuance in the chairman’s manner.

there had been, once or twice, a shortness, an acerbity, in his tone—quite uncalled for by the

proceedings.

some secret worry, perhaps? but somehow rotherstein could not connect a secret worry with

alistair blunt. he was such an unemotional man. he was so very normal. so essentially british.

there was, of course, always liver … mr. rotherstein’s liver gave him a bit of trouble from

time to time. but he’d never known alistair to complain of his liver. alistair’s health was as sound

as his brain and his grasp of finance. it was not annoying heartiness—just quiet well-being.

and yet—there was something—once or twice the chairman’s hand had wandered to his face.

he had sat supporting his chin. not his normal attitude. and once or twice he had seemed actually

—yes, distrait.

they came out of the boardroom and passed down the stairs.

rotherstein said:

“can’t give you a lift, i suppose?”

alistair blunt smiled and shook his head.

“my car’s waiting.” he glanced at his watch. “i’m not going back to the city.” he paused. “as a

matter of fact i’ve got an appointment with the dentist.”

the mystery was solved.