We had lunch a little later. Mr Chowdhury’s cook produced an excellent meal, including hilsa from the Ganges cooked in mustard sauce. We met Mr Chowdhury’s cousin, Jayanta, at the dining table. He seemed a most amiable man, not very tall but well-built. ‘I’m going to rest for a while,’ said Mr Chowdhury after lunch. ‘Please feel free to do what you like. I’ll meet you at teatime.’ We decided to explore the grounds with Jayanta Babu. On the western side of the house was a wall with pillars that went right up to the river. A slope began where the wall ended, leading to the river-bank. Jayanta Babu took us to see the garden. He was passionately fond of flowers, roses in particular. He spoke at some length on the subject. I learnt for the first time that there were three hundred types of roses. On the northern side was another gate. Most people in the house used this gate to go out if they wanted to go to the main town, Jayanta Babu told us. There was another flight of steps on this side, also going down to the river. ‘My mother—the old lady you met this morning—uses these stairs when she goes to bathe in the river,’ said Jayanta Babu. We came back to our room after a few minutes. Jayanta Babu went to the greenhouse to look at his orchids. We had been given two adjoining rooms on the ground floor. There were three other rooms across the passage. Presumably, those were meant for the other three guests. Lalmohan Babu took one look at the large, comfortable bed and said, ‘Hey, I feel like having a nap, too. But no, I must read those books you gave me.’ ‘Feluda,’ I said when he had gone, ‘have you thought about the plan this evening? Even if there is a power cut at seven, what happens if the thief does not steal anything this time? How will you catch him?’ ‘I can’t. At least, not without studying all three people carefully. Anyone with a tendency to stealing would have a subtle difference in his behaviour. It shouldn’t be impossible to spot it if I watch him closely. Don’t forget that a thief is a criminal, no matter how polished and sophisticated his appearance might be.’ Soon, the sound of two cars stopping outside the front door told us that the guests had arrived. Mr Chowdhury came to fetch us himself when tea had been laid out on the veranda, and introduced us to the others. Dr Sarkar lived within a mile, so he had come walking. About fifty years old, he had a receding hairline and specks of grey in his hair. But his moustache was jet black. Naresh Kanjilal was tall and hefty. He was dressed formally in a suit. ‘I am very glad you’ve decided to write Banwarilal’s biography,’ he said to Feluda. ‘I’ve often told Shankar to have this done. Banwarilal was a remarkable man.’