Withers threw a tail coat, a white waistcoat and a pair of trousers on the bed. Alleyn examined them with great care, smelt the coat and turned out the pockets, which were empty.

‘Had you a cigarette-case?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘May I see it?’

‘It’s in the next room.’

Withers went into the sitting-room. Alleyn, with a cat-like swiftness, looked under the bed and in at a cupboard door.

Withers produced a small, flat silver case.

‘Is this the only case you possess?’

‘It is.’

Alleyn opened it. The inside lid was inscribed: ‘Maurice from Estelle.’ He returned it and took another from his pocket.

‘Will you look at this case carefully, please, and tell me if you have seen it before?’

Withers took it. It was a thin, smooth, gold case, uninscribed, but with a small crest in one corner.

‘Open it, will you, please?’

Withers opened it.

‘Do you know it?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t by any chance recognise the crest?’

‘No.’

‘It is not Mr Donald Potter’s crest, for instance?’

Withers made a quick movement, opened his mouth, shut it again and said:

‘It isn’t his. I’ve seen his. It’s on his links. They’re here somewhere.’

‘May I see them?’ said Alleyn, taking the case.

Withers crossed to the dressing-table. Alleyn rapidly wrapped his silk handkerchief round the case and put it in his pocket.

‘Here they are,’ said Withers.

Alleyn solemnly inspected Donald’s links and returned them.

The telephone rang in the next room.

‘Will you answer it, please?’ said Alleyn.

Withers went into the sitting-room. Alleyn whipped off the dust jacket from one of the banned novels and coolly slipped it in his overcoat pocket. He then followed Withers.

‘It’s for you,’ Withers said, ‘if you’re Alleyn.’

‘Thank you.’

It was Fox; to say in an extremely low voice that Thompson was well on his way.

‘Splendid,’ said Alleyn. ‘Captain Withers wanted to use it at once.’

He hung up the receiver and turned to Withers.

‘Now, please,’ he said. ‘Will you telephone Mr Potter? I’d be glad if you would not mention that it was my suggestion. It would come more gracefully from you.’

Withers dialled the number with as bad a grace as well might be. He got Donald, whose voice came over in an audible quack.

‘Hullo.’

‘Hullo, Don, it’s Wits.’

‘Oh, God, Wits, I’m most frightfully worried, I—’

‘You’d better not talk about your worries on the telephone. I rang up to say I thought it might be as well if you stayed with your mother for a bit. She’ll want you there with all this trouble. I’ll send your things round.’

‘Yes, but listen, Wits. About the house at—’

Captain Withers said: ‘You stay where you are,’ and rang off.

‘Thank you,’ said Alleyn. ‘That will do nicely. How tall are you, Captain Withers?’

‘Five foot eight and a half in my socks.’