When I came round, the first thing I thought was that I was lying on the beach in Puri. It was only by the sea that one could hope to feel such a strong breeze. My ears felt cold, as did my nose. My hair was blowing in the wind. But where was the sea? The water? Sand? Roaring waves? There was a sound . . . but it was certainly not the sea. I was in the back seat of a car, being driven in the dark, down an empty road. On my right was Lalmohan Babu. A complete stranger was sitting on my left. I had never seen the man before. The driver was wearing a turban. There was another man sitting next to him. No one was talking. As soon as I raised my head, the man on my left looked at me. He looked a bit like a crook. But he didn’t say anything. Why should he? We were unarmed, and offered him no threat. Feluda had a weapon. He was not in this car. I had no idea where he might be. He had handed me his bag. Where was it? There it was, behind my head, in the space in front of the rear windscreen. Its strap touched my cheek. ‘Midnight!’ said Lalmohan Babu. I gave him a sidelong glance. His eyes were still closed. ‘Midnight! Ma! Jai Ma, Ma Santoshi! . . . Midnight . . .!’ ‘Shut up!’ threatened the man on my left. My eyes grew heavy again. Everything went dark once more. The sound of the car faded away. When I opened my eyes again, I expected to find myself in a temple. No, not a temple. It had to be a church. These bells were not made of brass. They were ringing a foreign melody. But it was neither a temple nor a church. It was, in fact, someone’s drawing room. A chandelier was hanging from the ceiling, but it hadn’t been lit. There wasn’t a great deal of light in the room. All it had was a table lamp kept by the side of a settee with velvet upholstery. I was sitting on another settee, also covered with velvet. No, not sitting. Reclining. By my side was Lalmohan Babu. His eyes were still closed. Feluda was seated in a chair on the other side. His face looked grim. The right side of his forehead was bruised and swollen. On our left stood a man, who we knew as Pyarelal. In his hand was a revolver, a Colt .32. Presumably, it was Feluda’s. There were three other men standing in the room. All were looking at us, but saying nothing. Perhaps the man who would do all the talking hadn’t yet arrived. The largest settee in the room— upholstered in black velvet—was still empty. Maybe it was waiting for someone. Probably Mr Choudhury. But this was not the smart modern house in Alipore. It was a very old house.