‘Sublime!’ said Lalmohan Babu. I had never heard him use this word earlier. But before I could say anything, he added, ‘Heavenly, unique, glorious, magnificent, indescribable—oh, just out of this world!’ The reason for this burst of excitement was simple. He had risen in the morning, and had seen Kanchenjunga from his window. It had just started to glow pink in the early morning sun. Unable to contain himself, Lalmohan Babu made me join him in his room. ‘One can’t really enjoy such a thing unless the joy is shared, you see,’ he explained. This remark was then followed by a stream of superlatives. Feluda had seen it, too, but not from our room. He had finished doing yoga and left the hotel long before I woke up. He returned after a walk from the Mall to the Observatory Hill, just in time for our first cup of tea. ‘Each time I see Kanchenjunga,’ he declared, ‘I seem to grow younger. Thank goodness the new buildings that have cropped up in most places have made no difference to the road to and from the Observatory Hill.’ ‘I feel just the same, Felu Babu. Life seems worth living, now that I’ve seen Kanchenjunga.’ ‘Good. I’m very glad to hear that, for it shows you have still retained a few finer feelings, in spite of all the nonsense you write.’ Lalmohan Babu let that pass. ‘What are we going to do today?’ he asked. We were in the dining hall, having breakfast. Feluda tore off a piece of omelette and put it in his mouth. ‘I’d like to visit Mr Majumdar today. His house is going to be very crowded from tomorrow. Today is probably the only day we can have a quiet and peaceful meeting in his house. I consider it my duty to cultivate a man like him.’ ‘Very well, just as you say.’ We left at half past eight. We had to go down the Mall, past Das Studio and Keventer’s, and walk for three-quarters of a mile to get to Mount Everest Hotel. The road to Mr Majumdar’s house began after that. As it happened, we had no difficulty in finding it. It was a sprawling old bungalow, made of wood, with a red tiled roof. A well-kept garden surrounded it. Behind it stood a pine forest and, beyond that, a steep hill. The mali working in the garden came forward on seeing us. ‘Is Mr Majumdar at home?’ Feluda asked. ‘Yes. Who shall I say—?’ ‘Just tell him the people he met yesterday are here to see him.’ The mali disappeared inside the house. While we waited outside, I kept looking at the house and admiring its surroundings. Kanchenjunga was clearly visible in the north, now a shimmering silver. Whoever had chosen this spot to build a house clearly had good sense as well as good taste. Mr Majumdar and the mali came out together.

‘Good morning! Do come in,’ Mr Majumdar invited. We went through a