Alleyn and Fox sat down, Fox with extreme propriety, Alleyn with an air of leisurely fastidiousness. He crossed one long leg over the other, hung his hat on his knee, pulled off his gloves, and contemplated Captain Withers. They made a curious contrast. Withers was the sort of man who breathes vulgarity into good clothes. His neck was too thick, his fingers too flat and pale and his hair shone too much; his eyes were baggy and his eyelashes were white. Yet in spite of these defects he was a powerful dominant animal with a certain coarse arrogance that was effective. Alleyn, by contrast, looked fine-drawn, a cross between a monk and a grandee. The planes of Alleyn’s face and head were emphatically defined, the bony structure showed clearly. There was a certain austerity in the chilly blue of his eyes and in the sharp blackness of his hair. Albrecht Dürer would have made a magnificent drawing of him, and Agatha Troy’s sketch portrait of Alleyn is one of the best things she has ever done.

Withers lit a cigarette, blew the smoke down his nose and said:

‘What’s it all about?’

Fox produced his official notebook. Captain Withers eyed the letters M.P. on the cover and then looked at the carpet.

‘First, if I may,’ said Alleyn, ‘I should like your full name and address.’

‘Maurice Withers and this address.’

‘May we have the address of your Leatherhead house as well, please?’

‘What the hell d’you mean?’ asked Withers quite pleasantly. He looked quickly at the table by the divan and then full in Alleyn’s face.

‘My information,’ lied Alleyn, ‘does not come from the source you suppose, Captain Withers. The address, please.’

‘If you mean Shackleton House, it is not mine. It was lent to me.’

‘By whom?’

‘For personal reasons, I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’

‘I see. Do you use it much?’

‘Borrow it for week-ends sometimes.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alleyn, ‘Now, if you please, I want to ask you one or two questions about this morning. The early hours of this morning.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Withers, ‘I suppose you’re thinking of the murder.’

‘Whose murder?’

‘Why, Bunchy Gospell’s.’

‘Was Lord Robert Gospell a personal friend of yours, Captain Withers?’

‘I didn’t know him.’

‘I see. Why do you think he was murdered?

‘Well, wasn’t he?’

‘I think so. Evidently you think so. Why?’

‘Judging from the papers it looks like it.’

‘Yes, doesn’t it?’ said Alleyn. ‘Won’t you sit down, Captain Withers?’

‘No, thanks. What about this morning?’

‘When did you leave Marsdon House?’

‘After the ball was over.’

‘Did you leave alone?’

Withers threw his cigarette with great accuracy into a tin waste-paper bin.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Can you remember who was in the hall when you went away?’