Feluda placed an ice-pack on his head as soon as we reached our hotel. In half an hour, the swelling began to subside. None of us had any idea who might have hurt him. He was returning from Sagarika, Feluda said, when someone had flashed a powerful torch straight into his eyes, blinding him momentarily, and then knocked him unconscious. When he rang Mahapatra at the police station and reported the matter, Mahapatra said, ‘You must take great care, Mr Mitter. There are a lot of desperate characters about. Why don’t you stop your own investigation and let us handle this? Wouldn’t that be safer?’ ‘If you had suggested this before I was attacked, I might have agreed. Now, Inspector, it is too late.’ When we came back to our room after dinner, it was nearly eleven. Rather unexpectedly, our manager, Mr Barik, turned up, accompanied by another gentleman. ‘He has been waiting for you for half an hour. I didn’t want to disturb you while you were eating,’ he said and returned to his room. ‘I have heard of you,’ the other man said to Feluda. ‘In fact, having read about some of your past cases, I even know who your companions are. My name is Mahim Sen.’ Feluda frowned. ‘That means—?’ ‘D.G. Sen is my father.’ None of us could think of saying anything for a moment. Mahim Sen went on, ‘I came by car this afternoon. My company owns a guest house here. That’s where I am staying.’ ‘Didn’t you meet your father?’ ‘I rang him as soon as I got here. His secretary answered, and said after checking with my father that he did not wish to speak to me.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘I have no idea.’ ‘When I met your father recently, I got the impression that he wasn’t very pleased with you. Can you tell me why?’ Mahim Sen did not reply immediately. He took out a packet of Rothmans from his pocket, and extracted a cigarette. He then lit it, inhaled and said, ‘Look, I was never close to my father. I took no interest in his passion for manuscripts—I simply don’t have the eye for art and antiques. I live in Calcutta and work for a private company. Sometimes I have to go abroad on business tours. But despite all this, I used to be on fairly good terms with my father. If I wrote to him, he always replied to my letters. I visited him twice with my family after he moved to Puri, and spent a few weeks on the first floor of his house. He was—and perhaps still is—extremely fond of my eight-year-old son. But his behaviour on this occasion just doesn’t make any sense to me. I can hardly believe that a strong man like him has gone senile at the age of sixty-two. I do not even know if a third person is responsible for this. So when I heard you were in town, I thought I’d come