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would I know?”
    After a moment’s frowning pause. Prance said, “Henshaw is rehearsing a production of Twelfth Night to raise money for his mama’s charity. He invited me to participate. He's hired Denver Hall for the rehearsals. I could drop in on him there. I hope the production is well along, or he’ll try to nag me into taking the role of Viola.”
    “Call him out if he does,” Coffen grumbled. “I’ll act your second.”
    “It’s hardly an insult!” Prance objected. “Quite an honor, actually.”
    “Dash it, Reg! Viola’s a girl’s name, ain’t it?”
    “To be sure, but it’s an all male production, as we used to perform at Cambridge. And anyhow she’s dressed as a man for half the play.”
    “They ought to be ashamed of themselves,” Coffen muttered.
    “And will be, no doubt, to judge by Henshaw’s last effort,” Prance said with satisfaction. “His Coriolanus was a disaster. Fear not, I shall not accept any role. I’ll be too busy working on my wedding.”
    Coffen stuck his finger in his ear and reamed it out. “Eh? Who are you marrying?”
    “No one, Coffen. I refer to my arrangements for Luten and Corinne’s nuptials.”
    “Then why do you call it your wedding?”
    “Our wedding, if you prefer,” Prance said, rolling his eyes ceilingward.
    “Corinne’s and Luten’s wedding is what it is, if anything,” Coffen said. Catching an angry sparkle in Corinne’s eyes, he went on to make it worse. “If you ever get around to it, is what I mean, Coz. Not implying that you can’t bring Luten up to scratch. Well, you already have. You have witnesses.”
    “We all know what you mean,” she said, with a thin smile. To change this prickly subject, Luten hurried on to other matters.
    “If Prance has no luck tonight, you might try to find out at the funeral tomorrow just what artistic field Fogg was involved in, Coffen.”
    “I intend to. But mainly I want to find out who it was that cut off his hair and took the ring. I mean to say, either she or whoever she talked into doing it for her is the murderer. That’s pretty clear, I think.”
    “Certainly prima facie evidence,” Prance agreed.
    Caught off guard with a foreign phrase, Coffen replied with one of the few bits of Latin with which he was familiar. “Kooey bono,” he said, nodding.
    “That’s something we haven’t looked into,” Luten said. “Does anybody make gain on Fogg’s death? If there’s family property involved and he’s the oldest son, that might have something to do with it. Actually Lady Hertford could tell us all that sort of thing.” When no one volunteered to visit her, he added, “Or Townsend, perhaps ?”
    “Send for Townsend,” Coffen said.
    Prance volunteered to call on Townsend on his way to visit Henshaw. After he left, the others discussed the case until Townsend arrived. He hadn’t changed into evening clothes, nor did he apologize for the lack.
    “Have you learned anything, milord?” he asked eagerly.
    “Actually we’ve invited you here to pick your brains,” Luten replied.
    “Pick away. You’ll not learn much. I have been run off my feet. Lady Blanchard’s daughter has foolishly turned a diamond necklace over to a gazetted fortune hunter who was to hawk it to rent a carriage for their elopement. He’s vanished with the sparklers, leaving the lady behind. And as if that weren’t enough, there’s a new set of footpads terrorizing the theater district.”
    Townsend could not answer all their questions, but he had asked Lady Hertford the same questions and told them what he knew. Fogg’s reputation for artistic talent appeared to reside in the fact that he read poetry, liked attending plays, exhibitions and concerts. Such a passive interest left little room for investigation. As to anyone profiting from his death, he was actually a younger son, with no expectations except five thousand pounds, which was but a drop in the bucket to the heir.
    Coffen told Townsend about Fogg’s one