‘There’s nothing to be thankful for. I believe it means Scotland Yard.’

Roydon gazed at her with something of the expression of a fascinated rabbit. ‘Why should it mean that?’

‘My dear Willoughby, can’t you see how obvious it was from the start that Scotland Yard would be called in? Think! Uncle Nat was murdered in a locked room! Do you imagine that the local police can cope with that? If I weren’t so closely connected with the crime, I think I should find it absorbingly interesting,’ she added, considering the matter dispassionately.

‘Anyone is welcome to my ring-seat,’ said Mathilda. ‘I do hope you’re wrong about Scotland Yard.’

‘You know I’m not.’

‘Well, if you’re not, I do think you ought to be more careful of what you say, Paula!’ said Roydon.

Her brilliant gaze drifted to his face. ‘Why? In what way?’

‘About my play, for instance. I was just saying to Miss Clare, when you came in, that you might easily give people a wrong impression by talking of backing it. Besides, though I’m awfully grateful, I’ve changed my mind about it. Miss Clare made me see yesterday that it would be a mistake to rely on a backer.’

The expression of contempt which swept over Paula’s face made her look suddenly like Stephen. ‘You’ve got cold feet,’ she said. ‘Whether you like it, or whether you don’t, I’m going to put your play on.’

‘It’s extremely generous of you, but –’

‘It’s nothing of the kind. I’m not doing it from any personal motive, but because I believe in the play. I don’t know how you came to write it, but you did, and that’s all that concerns me.’

He did not know how to interpret these remarks, and merely said: ‘Yes, but it’s sheer folly to tell everyone what you mean to do.’

‘You’re wrong! Stupidly wrong! Everyone knows that I care desperately about Wormwood. I made no secret of it. You heard what I said to Uncle Nat! I should be a fool to change my tune now that Uncle’s dead. As big a fool as you, Willoughby!’

‘I very much resent that implication!’ he said.

‘Oh, go to hell!’ Paula threw at him, over her shoulder.

He walked out of the room with an air of wounded dignity which gave promise of a day of sulks to come.

‘You shouldn’t have said that,’ Mathilda told Paula. ‘People not out of the top-drawer are always inclined to be touchy.’

But Paula had as little consideration for the sensibilities of others as Stephen, and she said disdainfully: ‘He’s yellow. Odd, how clever he can be on paper, yet how inept in conversation!’

‘He’s a little out of his depth. Frightened too. He can’t cope.’

‘Badly frightened. I ought to have known he’d lose his nerve. I can’t bear men who go to pieces in a crisis!’ She saw the quick, startled look Mathilda cast at her, and added, with a curl of her lip: ‘Don’t be afraid! I didn’t mean to imply that Willoughby was my accomplice.’