‘What will you call this? Five-star, or six-star?’ Feluda asked, looking at Lalmohan Babu. We were having dinner at the Railway Hotel, at Mr Majumdar’s invitation. ‘I am very grateful to you,’ he had said as soon as we had come out of Sagarika. ‘Had it not been for you, I would not even have heard Laxman Bhattacharya’s name. What he told me helped clarify a lot of doubts. In fact, I can even remember some of the details of what happened after that night when I walked into Mr Sen’s room. So I’d be delighted if you could join me for dinner at my hotel.’ ‘I had no idea food in a railway hotel could be so good,’ Lalmohan Babu freely admitted. ‘I had assumed it would be as tasteless as what is served on trains. Now I know better, thanks to you.’ Bilas Majumdar smiled. ‘Please have the souffle.’ ‘What? Soup plate? But I have already had the soup!’ ‘No, no. Souffle, not soup plate. It’s the dessert.’ ‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Mr Majumdar told us about the return of his memory while we all helped ourselves to the dessert. ‘I was naturally embarrassed to have walked into someone else’s room, but what I saw did not make me suspicious at all. Mr Sen was going to Pokhra the next day. He invited me to join him. The Japanese team I was waiting for was not expected for another three days. I had plenty of time, so I agreed. Pokhra is about two hundred kilometres from Kathmandu. We had to drive through a forest. Mr Sen asked the driver to stop there, to look for wild orchids. I got down with him, thinking even if we didn’t find any flowers, I might get to see a few birds. I remember taking my camera with me. He went off in one direction to look for orchids. I went in another to look for birds. We decided to return to the car in an hour. I started to walk with my eyes on the trees, scanning every branch to see if I could find a bird. Suddenly, out of the blue, I felt a blow on my head, and everything went black.’ He stopped. We had already heard what followed next. ‘You’re still not sure about who had struck that blow?’ Feluda asked. ‘No, not at all. But I do know this: the car was parked on the main road, about a kilometre away, and I hadn’t seen a single soul in that forest.’ ‘If the culprit was Mr Sen, you have no real evidence to prove it, have you?’ ‘No, I am afraid not.’ Lalmohan Babu seemed a bit restless, as though there was something on his mind. Now he decided to get it off his chest. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘why don’t you go and meet Durga Gati Sen? If he really is the man who tried to kill you, surely he’ll think he’s seeing a ghost? And surely that will give him away?’ ‘You’re right. I thought of doing that. But there is a problem. You see, when he met me, I didn’t have a beard. So he might not recognize me. Not instantly, anyway.’

We chatted for a few minutes before taking our leave. Mr Majumdar came up to the main gate to see us off. We set out, to discover that the sky was now totally clear and the moon had come out. Feluda had a small, powerful torch in his pocket, but the moonlight was so good that there was no need to use it. We crossed over to the other side and began walking on the paved road that ran by the side of the sea. ‘Tell me frankly, Felu Babu,’ Lalmohan Babu said a few minutes later, ‘what did you think of Laxman Bhattacharya? Isn’t he incredible?’ ‘Incredible he might be, Lalmohan Babu. But what knowledge he has is not good enough. If Bilas Majumdar has to find out who had tried to kill him, he must come to me. It’s Felu Mitter’s brain that’s required to discover the truth, not somebody’s supernatural power.’ ‘You mean you’re going to investigate?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, his eyes glinting with excitement. Feluda opened his mouth to make a reply, but stopped as our eyes fell on a man, walking briskly towards us, staring at the ground and muttering to himself. It was Mr Hingorani. He stopped short as he saw us. Then he shook a finger at Feluda and said, ‘You Bengalis are very stubborn, very stubborn!’ He sounded decidedly put out. ‘Why?’ Feluda smiled. ‘What have we done to make you so annoyed?’ ‘That man refused. I offered him twenty-five thousand, and he still said no.’ ‘What! You mean there’s actually someone in this world who could resist such profound temptation?’ ‘The fellow’s mad. I had heard of his collection of manuscripts, so I made an appointment to go and see him. I said, “Show me your most valuable piece.” So he opened a safe and brought out a piece going back to the twelfth century. An extraordinary object. God knows if it was stolen from somewhere. Last year, three old manuscripts were stolen from the palace museum in Bhatgaon. Two of them were recovered, but the third is still missing. It was one written by Pragya Paramita. So what I just saw might well have been the stolen one.’ ‘Where is Bhatgaon?’ Lalmohan Babu asked. I had not heard of it either. ‘Ten kilometres from Kathmandu. It’s a very old town, used to be known as Bhaktapur.’ ‘But if it was stolen, he wouldn’t have shown it to you, would he? And, as far as I know, there are plenty of manuscripts written by Pragya Paramita that are still in existence,’ Feluda remarked. ‘I know, I know,’ Mr Hingorani said impatiently. ‘He said he bought it in Dharamshala, and it came to India with the Dalai Lama. Do you know how much he paid