‘I do not understand you. Do you attempt to establish my alibi in this most regrettable and distressing fatality? Surely it is obvious that I could not have been in a taxicab with Lord Robert Gospell and in the buffet at Marsdon House at the same moment.’

‘What makes you think that this crime was committed during the short time you spent in the buffet, Mr Dimitri?’

‘Then or later, it is all the same. Still I am ready to help you, Chief Inspector. I will try to remember if I was seen in the pantry.’

‘Thank you. I believe you attended the Bach recital by the Sirmione Quartette in the Constance Street Hall on June 3rd?’

The silence that followed Alleyn’s question was so complete that the rapid tick of his desk clock came out of obscurity to break it. Alleyn was visited by a fantastic idea. There were four clocks in the room: Fox, Dimitri, himself and that small mechanical pulse on the writing desk.

Dimitri said: ‘I attended the concert, yes. I am greatly attached to the music of Bach.’

‘Did you happen to notice Lord Robert at this concert?’

It was as if the clock that was Dimitri was opened, and the feverish little pulse of the brain revealed. Should he say yes; should he say no?

‘I am trying to remember. I think I do remember that his lordship was present.’

‘You are quite correct, Mr Dimitri. He was not far away from you.’

‘I pay little attention to externals when I listen to beautiful music.’

‘Did you return her bag to Mrs Halcut-Hackett?’

Dimitri gave a sharp cry. Fox’s pencil skidded across the page of his notebook. Dimitri drew his left hand out of his pocket and stared at his fingers. Three drops of blood fell from them to his striped trouser leg.

‘Blood on your hand, Mr Dimitri,’ said Alleyn.

Dimitri said: ‘I have broken my glass.’

‘Is the cut deep? Fox, my bag is in the cupboard there. I think there is some lint and strapping in it.’

‘No,’ said Dimitri, ‘it is nothing.’ He wrapped his fine silk handkerchief round his fingers and nursed them in his right hand. He was white to the lips.

‘The sight of blood,’ he said, ‘affects me unpleasantly.’

‘I insist that you allow me to bandage your hand,’ said Alleyn. Dimitri did not answer. Fox produced iodine, lint and strapping. Alleyn unwrapped the hand. Two of the fingers were cut and bled freely. Dimitri shut his eyes while Alleyn dressed them. The hand was icy cold and clammy.

‘There,’ said Alleyn. ‘And your handkerchief to hide the blood-stains which upset you so much. You are quite pale, Mr Dimitri. Would you like some brandy?’

‘No. No, thank you.’

‘You are recovered?’

‘I do not feel well. I must ask you to excuse me.’

‘Certainly. When you have answered my last question. Did you ever return Mrs Halcut-Hackett’s bag?’

‘I do not understand you. We spoke of Lady Carrados’s bag.’