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admitted Clarissa with a sigh designed to be heard in the dress circle. “One of those damned floorboards creaked just as I was opening the door. He’d got the drawer shut by the time I’d got into the room.”
    â€œWhat did he say?” Carston asked.
    â€œHe said he was just checking up on the maid’s work.” She put on a hideously nasal stage Australian accent. “ ‘She’s new to the job, y’see, and I’d like to be sure she’s up to the high standards we set ourselves at the Saracen.’ ”
    Jason shrugged. “Seems a fairly foolproof explanation.”
    â€œOh, does it? Well, let me tell you, the maid who does our room every day, including this morning, was here two years ago when we were in The Faire Seducer. I count her as an old friend. She’s just thrilled by anything to do with the theater. I gave her a pair of my stockings when we finished here last time—they do so appreciate something personal, these people.”
    This artless revelation of Clarissa’s rather blunted the impact of her indignation. The assembled company was so staggered that the Galloways apparently tipped the hotelstaff with items of their castoff clothing that they were unable for a moment to focus their minds on Des Capper’s iniquities.
    Constance Geary sighed and said privately to Peter Fortnum: “I wonder if I could tip my maid with my castoff gin bottles.” Then suddenly a thought struck her, and she spoke up. “Oh—I’ve just remembered.”
    â€œWhat?” asked several people.
    â€œYesterday morning, when I was in the bathroom—making the best, darlings, of what never was very much—the maid came in and started doing the room. I sang away like mad, to tell her not to interrupt my mysteries. When I finally emerged, blushing all too artificially, she wasn’t to be seen, and the door was open. So I poked my shy, virginal little head out, and there she was with this anthropoid Australian at the far end of the corridor. She had my wastepaper basket in her hand, and as far as I could see, darlings, they were actually counting the half bottles of gin in it.”
    â€œReally!” said everybody, laughing as they were intended to do.
    â€œPerhaps they were thinking of sending your score to the Guinness Book of Records, darling,” said Ronnie.
    â€œBut isn’t it such fun? ” exclaimed Connie. “What do you think he does with his knowledge?”
    â€œEnjoys it?” suggested Jason.
    â€œOh, I rather hoped he might feed it into a computer or something so I could become a statistic.”
    Clarissa was annoyed at losing the limelight and annoyed that Connie had defused any anger she might have generated against their prying Mine Host.
    â€œYou call this fun? ” she demanded with a vocal swoop reminiscent of an eagle picking up a lamb. “Fun? To have this grubby little creature scrabbling around in our private lives?”
    â€œWell, it’s hardly something we need to take seriously, is it?” Connie said reasonably enough. “It’s a bit late in the day for me to go all coy about the fact that I spend much of my time pickled in gin. And you Galloways run much the most public private lives in the business.”
    â€œCarston and I have always been quite open about—”
    â€œYes, darling—spare us the party manifesto. Since you have been so open, what’s the point in getting upset if this little Australian mole comes sniffing around in your underwear drawer? It’s been washed in public often enough, heaven knows.”
    Clarissa shot her such a look that they resembled nothing so much as two old bags in early Coward. She held her fire only because she knew Connie was a redoubtable opponent.
    â€œWhat’s he doing it for, that’s what I want to know?” she asked, looking around. “What does he want?”
    â€œIt’s for the