Alleyn listened to Peregrine’s voice going on and on and Peregrine listened to it, too, as if it belonged to someone else. He realized with complete detachment that for a year and three months some rather terrible notion about Mr Conducis had been stuffed away at the back of the mind that was Peregrine. It had been and still was, undefined and unacknowledged but because he was so tired and ravaged by anxiety it had almost come out to declare itself. He was very relieved to hear himself telling this unusual policeman exactly what had happened that morning. When he had related everything down to the last detail he said: ‘And it was all to be kept quiet, except for Jeremy Jones, so now I’ve broken faith, I suppose, and I couldn’t care, by and large, less. I feel better,’ said Peregrine loudly.

‘I must say you look several shades less green about the gills. You’ve half-killed yourself over this production, haven’t you?’

‘Well, one does, you know.’

‘I’m sorry I dragged you up and down all those stairs. Where does that iron curtain work from? The prompt side. Oh, yes I see. Don’t move. I’ll do it. Dead against the union rules, I expect, but never mind.’

The fire curtain inched its way down. Alleyn glanced at his watch. Any time now the party from the museum should arrive.

He said: ‘That was an extraordinary encounter, I must say. But out of it – presumably – has grown all this: the theatre – your play. And now: tonight.’

‘And now tonight. Oh, God!’

‘Would it be a good idea for you to go home and put your boots up for an hour or two?’

‘No, thank you. I’m perfectly all right. Sorry to have behaved so oddly,’ Peregrine said, rubbing his head. ‘I simply have no notion why I bored you with my saga. You won’t, I trust, tell Mr Conducis.’

‘I shall,’ Alleyn said lightly, ‘preserve an absolute silence.’

‘I can’t begin to explain what an odd man he is.’

‘I have met Mr Conducis.’

‘Did you think him at all dotty? Or sinister? Or merely plutocratic?’

‘I was quite unable to classify him.’

‘When I asked him where he found the treasure he said: at sea. Just that: at sea. It sounded rum.’

‘Not in the yacht Kalliope by any chance?’

‘The yacht – Kalliope. Wait a moment – what is there about the yacht Kalliope?’ Peregrine asked. He felt detached from his surroundings, garrulous and in an odd way rather comfortable but not quite sure that if he stood up he might not turn dizzy. ‘The yacht Kalliope,’ he repeated.

‘It was his private yacht and it was run down and split in two in a fog off Cape St Vincent.’

‘Now I remember. Good lord –’

A commotion of voices broke out in the entrance.