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to say something?” asked Charlesworth, sweetly.
    “Well, I was going to promote her to being my personal assistant.”
    “It’s certainly odd, under those circumstances, that she should have taken her life.”
    “Good heavens, man,” cried Bevan, as much exasperated as Charlesworth could have wished. “Why do you keep harping on that? Of course she didn’t kill herself.” There was a pause and he went on more quietly: “The girls were messing about in the showroom with a lot of stuff which they said was poison. She probably took some of that, by mistake.”
    “Oh, ah, this is a bit more like. What sort of poison was it?”
    “It was oxalic acid, and they were using it to clean a hat. I had it cleared up and thrown away.”
    “Who did the throwing away?”
    “My showroom manager, Mr. Cecil.”
    “Oh, did he? Well, I shall want to have a word with Mr. Cecil before I go very much further. You might go down and get hold of him, will you, Bedd? Now, Mr. Bevan—when you say ‘they” who exactly had the stuff?’
    Bevan hesitated. “I hardly know,” he said. “The three salesgirls were sitting together, as far as I remember: Rachel Gay, Victoria David, and Irene Best—no, no, Mrs. Best was at her desk, in the corner.” “Was Miss Doon there?”
    “No, she wasn’t. I went on downstairs to her office and spoke to her.”
    “Is it true that she had lunch here, in the shop?”
    Bevan looked uncomfortable; he had been going to take Miss Doon out to lunch, he said, to discuss matters of business, but—er—he had had to alter his plans.
    “Did you yourself have lunch in the shop? I ask you, because it will be necessary for me to get some sort of an account of what went on during the luncheon hour, so that I can discover whether it was possible for the girl to have taken poison with her food.”
    Bevan, for reasons of his own, had made most careful inquiries as to what had happened while he was out; he had foreseen the questions of the police and, for all his apparent surprise and distress, was not unprepared for suggestions of either suicide or murder. He embarked now upon a résumé of the hour from one to two.
    It seemed that it had been Irene’s ‘day’ to take the twelve-to-one lunch hour, and afterwards to remain on duty in the salon while the rest of the staff was downstairs. This entailed the duty of helping Mrs. Harris to juggle with the plates and dishes and serve out the portions of food, afterwards placing them in hot cupboards, from which the girls helped themselves on their, often belated, release from the showroom. On this occasion, as she counted the plates, Cecil came finicking up and announced that he would carve.
    “There’s nothing to carve, Mr. Cecil, thank you very much,” said Irene. “It’s curry.”
    “Well then, I’ll serve out the curry and you can do the vegetables; and I shall stay and have mine down here with you girls—so you needn’t lay a tray for the office, Mrs. Harris. Mr. Bevan’s going out.”
    “He’s taking Doon out, I believe,” said Irene. “That’ll be only seven plates, then, won’t it? yourself and Victoria and Rachel (I’ve had mine), and the two mannequins and Macaroni and Gregory. Put that fat bit on Gregory’s, Mr. Cecil, will you? She’s such a fuss-pot, she’ll scream the place down if she doesn’t get the best helping.”
    Toria came running down the stairs. “Rene, you’re wanted in the salon. Lady Norman’s here. What’s for lunch? Curried rabbit? How nice. Can I have this lovely fat bit, Mr. Cecil?”
    “That’s booked as a sweetener for Miss Gregory,” said Cecil, giggling; “but I’ll keep a special bit for you.”
    “Will you? Thanks awfully. And did you both remember that Doon’ll be out? Come on, Irene, the old girl will be gnashing her teeth. I’ll send Ray down to help you, Mr. Cecil.”
    Rachel arrived, panting. “What’s for lunch? Curried rabbit? Good. Can I have this bit of back, Mr. Cecil?”
    “No, you