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“So, thirdly, you come in. You call on Mr. Montalba and ask if Mr. Sibon has settled in. Straight questions are always best especially when asked,” he paused a moment and I thought he was going to say, “by simple people,” but he repeated the happier adjective “straight.”

“But then the story runs too straight. True crime like true love never does. Mr. Montalba's reception of you”—he looked up at me with that long twisted smile of his. “Mr. Silchester, we have hunted together until we both appreciate each other's gifted oddities. I know, I allow, that whereas I might have made a competent surgeon or pharmacist, you might have made more than a moderate success as a
maître d'hotel
—but a mortician, even if called an obsequist, never! Why did Mr. Montalba welcome you with the high title of confrère?”

“He mistook me for the Press.”

“That was only at the start. Besides the Press aren't confrères of such confectioners as Mr. Montalba. They are blood brothers of the police. They both prefer their quarry fresh and sanguinary, not a waxen preservative. No, you were such a
success fou
with this modist of the morgue that my curiosity is aroused. Let sleeping Sibon lie. Maybe he is sleeping as heavily as you thought. Even wanted crooks have died conveniently, for themselves. There's nothing too coincidental about that. Being hunted at over 50 is certainly not good for the heart. But your description of the present possessor of his Form does, I own, intrigue me. I must see for myself. After all, until I have, as coroners say, viewed the body, I can't officially enter the case as closed.”

The next morning our cab drew up under the
porte cochere
of the Montalba building. As we alit I glanced up at the front. There was nothing secretive about even the side façade. Windows stood open with flowers in them. Then my eye caught sight of someone glancing down at us, beside a large vase of wall flowers and forget-me-not. I expected the observer, seeing himself observed, would withdraw his head, but he retained his casually curious glance too long. Of course, I should have known at once: it was a Form taking the air, so as to show clients what a charming summer, semi-out-of-door effect could be composed, when the hot weather made dreaming by the fireside a seasonal anachronism.

When I looked down, the door was already open and Mr. Mycroft was enquiring, for Mr. Montalba himself had not answered the door. Instead a junior Obsequist was bowing us in—an understudy of the master modelled in the same uniform of pearl grey morning suit.

“Mr. Montalba will be with you in a moment.”

And we were left in a cheerful small study looking out into a little court where an almond tree was in almost too full bloom.

“The master knows his Ecclesiastes, I see,” said Mr. Mycroft, glancing at it, but I had bent to stroke a particularly fine grey Persian which was dozing in a seat by the window. I nearly collided with Mr. Mycroft in my recoil. Of course the beautiful creature was cold and hard as a block.

“You didn't,” remarked Mr. Mycroft, “expect to find anything but Forms here? The animal funeral business has grown with modern sentimentality until it's too profitable a sideline not to be combined with the human traffic.”

The door opened.

“You've come again and brought another interested party. An advance visit! How wise. We do learn with the advancing years to take Time by the forelock and make every rightful provision. And, as I said yesterday, as an artist—and now not speaking in my other role as family adviser—I, too, deeply appreciate the opportunity for preliminary study, to get an impression from the life, the fleeting life, which afterwards I may be permitted, privileged, to make enduring and place above, safely above, the eroding tides of Time. And, if I may say so, what a noble presence we shall here preserve unchanging for the future. So often—I confess it—I have to extemporize just a little. Look at the Form as I will, with whatever generosity of appreciation, still it remains stubbornly jejune. Even death cannot ennoble those who lived commonplace.”

I wondered what the mischief Mr. Mycroft would make of this attack. He didn't: he simply ignored it. Apparently it struck him as neither funny nor significant. I'd noticed that in him before. If he felt that the man he was with was acting he was far too interested in watching the act and wondering why it was being put on, to be amused, far less disconcerted. And in his queer way Mr. Montalba was all actor, all a series of stock-parts, artist, family friend, business manager—evidently he, too, didn't care a straw if one of the parts didn't get over. As quickly as a sportsman who has missed reloads and shoots again, he shot off another little speech.

“But you wanted to tell me something, just a little confidential.” The family friend was of course all discretion, tact and oblique deference.

“You were good enough to let my friend Mr. Silchester see your latest masterpiece. I had the privilege of studying Mr. Sibon in the life. I would value the opportunity to see him in Aeternitas.”

I felt sure that Mr. Montalba must resist such a frontal attack. After all he had the “blood-relation” formula to hand. I experienced a fresh, and I must say an unpleasant, surprise, when Mr. Mycroft's challenge was welcomed with a fresh burst of synthetic pleasure.

“Delighted, delighted! I've told Mr. Silchester that it
is
a privilege to have the private view before the masterpiece—as you so kindly phrase it—is framed. But rules should never be rigid—indeed, my motto might well be that of Life itself, ‘Good Form is never rigid.' I welcome the opportunity to compare notes with another student of the Sibon form.”

We had been swept along to the accompaniment of this rear-action smoke-screen—through the parlor of posthumous preserves with its synthetic sunlight, firelight and flesh—into that passage leading to the final sanctuary. The small door on the left was swung open: and there was Sibon as still as the Statues of Memnon and more silent.

The only change was that the light seemed even kinder, more rosy. But when I brought myself to scan the too too solid Form of Sibon, I viewed it with repugnance. Mr. Mycroft's interest was as great, though without repugnance. He was peering down at it with little grunts of admiring recognition. I glanced up and saw Mr. Montalba's own glassy good form relax for a moment with a gleam of triumph.

“A pretty piece of work, you allow, Mr. Mycroft?”

“Remarkable, indeed.”

And with that Mr. Mycroft whipped out of his pocket a large pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and popped them onto his nose. I would have been far less startled had he whipped out a pair of handcuffs and clapped them onto Mr. Montalba's wrists. For I knew my old dominie's eyes were sharper than anyone's. He used to say, “Picking up clues exercises the eye-muscles.” I could only think that the rosy glow threw out his vision temporarily. But it was clear that the glasses didn't help. More it was clear that he couldn't have been used to wearing them. For he had no sooner leaned forward to study the exhibit, than the spectacles slid down his long nose so swiftly that before he could catch them, they fell plump on the plump Sibon hand which lay relaxed in its lap.

“Oh, forgive me. I'm new to glasses. My admiration made me anxious not to miss the really wonderful detail.”

He retrieved the glasses deftly and popped them closed into his pocket.

“Too kind, too kind,” he murmured turning to Mr. Montalba, who was already bowing us through the door. “Quite wonderful. Who can deny progress when at last here we see Time arrested.”

“Truly glad that you appreciate our effort to round out and complete the modern program of social endeavor.”

The two masked fencers kept up their rally until the front door closed between them. I was at a loss to know which had scored most points. Neither seemed to have made an actual “touch.”

And in the automobile Mr. Mycroft, perhaps I need hardly say, did not enlighten me. When we were back in our apartment he still preserved his silence. I took up a book. But he didn't do anything but sit. Then after a few minutes I saw him move. He put his hand into his breast pocket and pulled out those glasses. He looked at them; not through them. He was examining the right-hand hinge. He began to work at the hinge and then drew toward him a small piece of notepaper. On working the hinge again, he seemed content and put the glasses aside on the table and picked up the small sheet. Then he took that rather melodramatic lens out of his waistcoat pocket and began to study the paper.

Bored with watching this routine—as routine as a cat washing its whiskers when the mouse has temporarily given it the slip—I idly picked up the spectacles Mr. Mycroft had abandoned. I tried one lens and then the other. Finally I slipped them on.

“But these …” I began. And then the silly things slid off my nose just as, in the obsequarium, they had skidded down from Mr. Mycroft's beak. The small clatter and my unfinished sentence made Mr. Mycroft look up.

“You're surprised at the simplicity of those lenses?” he questioned. “The spectacles are made—as you've demonstrated—rather to give the slip than to detect it. But if you will look you'll see they're sharp enough in their way. That's blood on your finger.”

I saw I'd made a small but clean little cut on my knuckle as I'd tried to save the silly stage-property spectacles from falling.

“I don't see why you should fool about with sham spectacles that won't even stay on, and are so badly made as to scratch one's fingers.”

I was a little tart. But Mr. Mycroft had gone back to considering his scrap of paper. After dabbing my finger with iodine, I saw Mr. Mycroft rise, fetch his microscope, and put his precious scrap on its specimen-rack. That, though, didn't satisfy him and he fetched an electric torch to add to the illumination. After all, I thought, maybe his eyes are going. But the torch didn't seem to help either. Instead, he now began poking at his precious object with a small glass rod which he took out of a phial. Suddenly the whole thing seemed to bore him. He put the microscope aside, not troubling even to remove the small piece of paper which he had been studying, and remarking over his shoulder, “I've a call to make,” left the room. He was back, though, in a couple of minutes saying, “It's not too late to make a call.”

“I thought you'd made one,” I began. But he didn't seem to hear and did assume that I was going along with him. “Hotel Magnifique,” which he said to the taxi-man as we got into the cab, made me assume that he was going again to try and pump its bland but ultra-discreet management about its late guest. The reception clerks “M. Sibon is away” was certainly a parry. Mr. Mycroft's “But his valet's in: I'll leave a message with him” swept it aside and in a couple of minutes we found ourselves standing outside the door of the late Sibon's luxurious suite. Nor did we experience a check there. The door was opened by the dapper, very French-looking manservant who had admitted us on our original visit. As before, he bowed so low that his black pointed beard must have stuck into his cravat while he presented to us a mass of black polished hair smooth as silk. I thought he started for an instant when Mr. Mycroft shot out: “Is M. Sibon at home?” Then bending still lower and with a catch in his voice:

“Haven't you heard, sir? Called away, called away.”

I was just wondering whether this was an euphemism for falling into Mr. Montalba's very arresting hands, when the valet added, “He left a note for you, sir. I didn't know you'd call this evening. I have it in the pantry,” and he stepped back into a small side door which evidently led to the servants' quarters. The door swung to behind him. But Mr. Mycroft was just in time to prevent it latching. He flung it back, I followed, and we hurried into the small pantry, just as the door at its other end snapped to.

“Through the dining room!” called Mr. Mycroft, wheeling round on me. We doubled back, raced through the dining room into the kitchen. As we reached it we heard the sound of the service elevator on the back staircase begin to whirr. We were out on those stairs in five seconds but only to catch sight of the floor of the elevator ascending.

“Up the stairs!” Mr. Mycroft was already up half a dozen of the steps. What he was up to, chasing a dead man's valet, I couldn't imagine, but I felt I couldn't leave the old fellow now. Fortunately Sibon had liked pent-house privacy, so we had only one flight to scramble. As we tumbled out on the roof I saw the valet looking back at us, his strained face clear in the light from the wellshaft. To my huge relief he made no stand, and as even the smallest dog will chase a bull if it turns tail, I rushed after Mr. Mycroft. The roof area of the Magnifique is not only extensive, it is also rich in what golf players call hazards. I tripped over pipes, doubled round flues and chimneys in the wake of Mr. Mycroft's comet-like coat, and stumbled in rain-gutters. It was after one of these that I lost the hunt and only after peering round half a dozen smokestacks, at last came upon Mr. Mycroft kneeling. Beside him, seated rather carelessly against a cased-in pipe, was the valet. He was certainly very much out of breath—far more than either of us, though he had had a lift-start. Then, through the panting, I could hear him saying to Mr. Mycroft, “In my left upper waistcoat pocket. Quick. It's Sodium Amytal.” Without a word Mr. Mycroft did as he was told and put something into the valet's mouth; then he remarked slowly, “You shouldn't practice such exercises.”

The other said faintly, “I ran because I was frightened and my heart gave out.”

“No, no,” came the reply, “You speak English as well as I do. I said exercises not exercise. Your heart hasn't given out just because of this evening's amble over the eaves.”

The valet's “How do you know?” left me more lost than ever. And Mr. Mycroft's “Because I'm as fit as I am,” completed my bewilderment. But neither had a moment's care for my unenlightened condition. They were quite taken up with each other. Evidently Mr. Mycroft could remember me as soon as I could be of any use. He had hold of the valet, how or why it was too dark to see, and without turning said, “Go down and get the hotel doctor at once.”