‘Leaving, are you?’ Ranajit Banerjee was walking towards the front gate as we arrived at Golok Lodge. A constable was posted outside, so obviously the police were keeping their eye on the house. ‘Yes,’ Mr Banerjee replied. ‘Mr Datta told me I would not be required today.’ ‘How is he?’ ‘The doctor’s seen him. He said so much has happened lately that Mr Datta is in a state of shock. His blood pressure is fluctuating.’ ‘Is he talking to people?’ ‘Oh yes, yes!’ Mr Banerjee said reassuringly. ‘I’d like to look at the envelope found in Dastur’s room. Could you please come back to the house, unless you’re in a tearing hurry? Is that envelope now back in the safe?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I won’t keep you long—promise! I don’t suppose I’ll visit this house again.’ ‘But . . . the envelope is sealed!’ Mr Banerjee said a little uncertainly. ‘I just want to hold it in my hand,’ Feluda replied. Mr Banerjee raised no further objection. The house was dark, as on previous days. The power supply would not be resumed till ten o’clock. Now it was only a quarter past six. Kerosene lamps burned on the passage on the first floor, and on the landing. But they did nothing to dispel the gloom in nooks and corners. Mr Banerjee showed us into the living room and went to inform Subir Datta. Before he left the room, he told us that if Nihar Datta objected to taking the envelope out, it could not be shown to anyone. ‘That goes without saying,’ Feluda told him. Subir Datta looked quite tired. He had spent all day keeping press reporters at bay, he said. ‘The only good thing is that this entire business has made everyone think of my brother again. People had almost forgotten his name!’ Mr Banerjee returned a minute later, carrying a long white envelope. ‘Mr Datta didn’t mind . . . because I mentioned your name. He would not have allowed anyone else to look at his papers.’ ‘Amazing!’ exclaimed Feluda, peering closely at the envelope under a kerosene lamp. To me, it appeared an ordinary long envelope. There was a red seal on one side; and on the other, on the bottom left hand corner, were the words ‘Department of Biochemistry, University of Michigan, Michigan, USA’. What was so amazing about that? Mr Datta and Mr Banerjee were seated on the sofa in the dimly lit room. Perhaps they were feeling just as puzzled.

Feluda returned to his chair, still staring at the envelope. Then he ignored the other two men completely, and began talking only to me. He sounded like a schoolteacher. As a matter of fact, he had used the same tone many times in the past, to enlighten me on various subjects. ‘You see, Topshe, English typefaces are an extraordinary business. Bengali has ten or twelve different typefaces; English has two thousand. Once I had to read up on this subject while investigating a case. Each