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inspector.
    “Alleyn!” exclaimed Nigel, really shocked.
    Miss Janet Emerald, the “heavy” woman, said: “Bounder!” from behind a piece of scenery.
    “Let us go,” replied the voice of J. Barclay Crammer. “We are in these people’s hands.” He appeared on the stage, crossed it, and gripped Gardener’s hand. “Come, old man,” he said. “With me. Together.”
    “Oh, get along, the whole lot of you,” exclaimed Alleyn with the utmost impatience. Mr. Crammer looked at him, more in sorrow than in anger, and did as he suggested. Gardener straightened his back and managed the veriest ghost of a smile. “You agree with me about actors, I see,” he said.
    Alleyn responded instantly: “They are a bit thick, aren’t they?”
    “I want to say,” said Gardener, “that I know I’ve killed him; but, before God, Mr. Alleyn, I didn’t load that revolver.”
    “Don’t talk,” said Nigel. “They’ll find out everything — they’ll clear you. Don’t worry more than you can help, you know.”
    Gardener waited a moment. He looked like a man coming round from concussion to realize gradually his abominable surroundings.
    “Look here,” he said suddenly. “Somebody must have—” He stopped short. A terrified look came into his eyes. Nigel took him by the elbow again and gently urged him forward. “You’re a decent old sausage, Nigel,” he said uncertainly. “Oh, well—”
    “Now!” said Alleyn with relief.
    They all turned to him.
    “Can we have the whole story?” asked the older of the two C.I.D. men.
    “You can. Here it is—”
    Alleyn was interrupted by a shrill scream that seemed to come from the dressing-room passage. A woman’s voice raised in hideous falsetto was mingled with an exasperated baritone. “Let me alone, let me alone, let me alone!”
    “Oh, Lord, more highstrikes!” said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn. “Go and see what it’s about, Bailey.”
    Detective-Sergeant Bailey did as he was told. His voice, a deep bass, soon mingled reasonably in the uproar: “Now, then, now then, this won’t do”; and then the constable:
    “Only obeying orders, miss.”
    The noise grew fainter. A door slammed. Bailey reappeared, looking scandalized. “One of the ladies, sir,” he said. “Trying to get into her room.”
    “Did she get in?” asked Alleyn sharply.
    “Well, yes, she did for a minute. Kind of slipped away from the rest of the mob before the P. C. could stop her. He yanked her out of it, quick time.”
    “Who was it?”
    “I think the name was Emerald,” said Bailey disgustedly. “Surname, I mean,” he added quickly.
    “What did she do it for?”
    “Something about getting something for her face, she said, sir.”
    “Well, she’s stowed away with the others now,” commented Alleyn grimly. “Sit down, all of you. Bathgate, stay if you like, and you too, Dr. Milner.”
    “Shall I wait?” asked the business manager.
    “Yes, if you will, Mr. Stavely. I may want you.” They all sat in the heavy leather chairs, and Nigel thought they looked as if they were arranging themselves for the curtain to go up.
    “The situation, briefly, is this,” Alleyn began. “The body is that of Mr. Arthur Surbonadier. During the course of the last act he played a scene with Mr. Gardener and Miss Vaughan. He threatened Gardener with that revolver lying there. Miss Vaughan covered him from the doorway. Gardener took the revolver from him. He made as if he would strangle Gardener, who raised the gun and shot him at close quarters. The gun business has always been faked. The report comes from the wings. A blank was never used on the stage, as it would have scorched Surbonadier’s clothes. There’s no doubt where the shot came from. To-night the revolver was loaded, and not with ‘dummies.’ Let’s have a photo of the body, and one of the stage.”
    One of the plain clothes men went into the stage door passage and returned with a camera. Several photos were taken. The camera-man,