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finishing their breakfast, the bell for the front door rang. Edmund looked up from the papers he was perusing—matters of the estate—and Charles from his newspaper.
    â€œAre you expecting anybody?” Lenox asked.
    Edmund shook his head. “No.”
    A moment later the butler came in. Waller was his name, a young man, just past thirty years, the best part of them spent in some capacity here at Lenox House, until finally two years before he had ascended to his current august position. He was part of a new guard; with one thing and another there were no old staff left from their youth. Lenox rather preferred it that way. It meant there was no fust of olden times upon life at the house, as there was at so many country houses. To be sure, their father’s steward—the older Mather—lived in the village, as did the astonishingly ungifted cook of their childhood, Abigail, upon whom Lenox called every Christmas with a goose. (She was probably the last person alive who called him “Master Charlie”—though she did it with mischief in her eye, an astute older woman, seated every day of the winter by her daughter’s fire, knitting and telling stories to her grandchildren, emphatically not cooking.) Otherwise the people had all been here only since Edmund had inherited the house and the title.
    â€œA Mr. Arthur Hadley, to see Mr. Charles Lenox, sir,” said Waller.
    Edmund and Charles exchanged glances. “I don’t know anyone by that name. And I don’t think I’ve told anyone I was coming to the country, either.” He looked back at Waller. “What is his business?”
    â€œHe has not said, sir.”
    â€œWhat sort of fellow does he look like?” asked Edmund.
    â€œSir?”
    â€œDoes he look likely to point a pistol at us and ask for our money?”
    â€œOh, no, sir. A respectable-looking gentleman, sir.”
    â€œCharles?” said Edmund.
    â€œShow him in, by all means.”
    After the butler had left, Edmund said, “You have more faith in Waller as a judge of character than I would,” then turned his eyes back to his tenant rolls.
    Mr. Arthur Hadley was, though, a very respectable-looking gentleman, it was true. He wore a twill suit of clothes, the cloth an ideal weight for this brisk autumn day, and had in his right hand a walking stick with a brass knob on its end. The bottom was covered with fresh mud—from the look of it he had walked here. Lenox put his age at about fifty. He was clean-shaven, with a strong, square face. Under his right arm was a folded newspaper; his right hand was in the pocket of his jacket.
    Lenox rose, and after a beat so did his brother. “How do you do, Mr. Hadley?”
    â€œMr. Charles Lenox?”
    â€œYes, that’s me.”
    Hadley, still standing in the doorway, said, “I hope I don’t call upon you at an inconvenient time.”
    Lenox smiled. “I suppose it depends on the purpose of your call. Are you collecting taxes?”
    Hadley’s open, good-natured face broke into a smile, too. “Not at all, sir, no. In fact, I was hoping to gauge your professional opinion of a small peculiarity I have experienced.”
    Lenox was astonished. “My professional opinion?”
    Hadley unfolded the thin newspaper he had been carrying, and read from it. “In residence at Lenox House,” he quoted, “Mr. Charles Lenox, eminent consulting detective of Chancery Lane, London, for an undetermined amount of time.”
    â€œIs that this morning’s paper?” asked Edmund. “May I see it?”
    â€œYesterday evening’s,” said Hadley, handing it over. “The Markethouse Gazette. ”
    â€œMy gracious,” said Lenox. “They do move quickly.”
    Edmund laughed. “Here’s cheek,” he said to Charles. “It concludes, Mr. Lenox happy to take on any new business that may present itself. ”
    â€œI admit I felt a