She looked at Terence and frowned. She was a lovely creature, Alleyn thought. Her hair shone in copper tendrils along the nape of her neck. Her eyes were wide and lively, her mouth vivid. She had something of the quality of a Victorian portrait in crayons, a resemblance that was heightened by the extreme delicacy and freshness of her complexion and by the slender grace of her long neck and her elegant hands. She displayed too, something of the waywardness and conscious poise of such a type. These qualities lent her a dignity that was at variance with her modern habit of speech. She looked, Alleyn thought, as though she knew she would inevitably command attention and that much would be forgiven her. She was obstinate, he thought, but he doubted if obstinacy alone was responsible for her persistent defence of Florence Rubrick. He had been watching her closely and, as though she felt his gaze upon her and even caught the tenor of his thoughts, she threw him a brilliant glance and ran impulsively to Terence.

‘Terry,’ she said, ‘am I unfair? I don’t want to be unfair but there’s no one else but me to speak for her.’

Without looking at him she held out her hand to Fabian, and immediately he was beside her, holding it.

‘You’re not allowed to snub me, Fabian, or talk over my head or go intellectual at me. I loved her. She was my friend. I can’t stand off and look at her and analyse her faults. And when all of you do this, I have to fight for her.’

‘I know,’ said Fabian, holding her by the hand. ‘It’s all right. I know.’

‘But I don’t want to fight with Terry. Terry, I don’t want to fight with you, do you hear? I’d rather, after all, that you didn’t tell us. I’d rather go on liking you.’

‘You won’t get me to believe,’ said Douglas, ‘that Terry’s done anything wrong, and I tell you straight, Fabian, that I don’t much like the way you’re handling this. If you’re suggesting that Terry’s got anything to be ashamed about—’

‘Be quiet!’