They all stood still. A sibilant whisper came from above the canvas cloth. It alternated with a faint creak. At a place near its border, the cloth bulged slightly as if some small object was touching it on the upper surface. The impress made by this object appeared and disappeared regularly, synchronising with the sibilant whisper.

"That will do very well," said Alleyn. "Have you unlocked the dressing-room doors?"

Apparently this had been done. Alleyn went on to the stage and glanced round. It was still set for the scene when Surbonadier loaded the revolver. The curtain was up and the shrouded seats looked very faint in the dark. A lance of sunlight slanted through a crevice in a blind above the gallery. Footsteps sounded in the passage and Mr. George Simpson appeared. He looked nervously round the wings, saw Alleyn, and uttered a little apologetic noise.

"Oh, there you are, Mr. Simpson," said Alleyn. "I've been trying to pretend I'm a stage manager. Any fault to find with the scene?"

Simpson walked down to the float and surveyed the stage. Something of his professional manner seemed to return to the little man.

"It's quite in order, I think," he said.

"Perhaps I'd better wait until the company appears before I explain my motive in calling you all this morning."

"Some of them are outside now."

"Right. Will you treat Detective-Sergeant Watkins as your call-boy? As soon as everybody's here we'll have them on the stage and I'll speak to them."

Sergeant Watkins was produced. He and Simpson eyed each other doubtfully.

"What's that you've got in your hand, Watkins?" asked Alleyn suddenly.

"It's one of your cards, sir. The young gentleman I saw yesterday, if you remember, sir, came along. He just wanted to sit in the stalls."

"Let me see it."

Alleyn surveyed, rather grimly, his own visiting-card with: "Admit bearer to theatre. R. A." scribbled across it in his own writing. It was the one he had given Nigel before they arrested Saint. With remarkable forethought Mr. Bathgate had clung to the bit of pasteboard and had produced it again when occasion arose.

With a slightly accentuated jaw-line, Inspector Alleyn advanced to the footlights and gazed into the swimming darkness of the stalls.

"Mr. Bathgate," he said.

Silence.

"Mr. Bathgate," lied Alleyn, "I can see you."

"You're not looking in my direction at all," declared an indignant voice.

"Come here," Alleyn said.

"I won't."

"If you please."

There was a mulish silence and then Alleyn said mildly:

"House lights, Mr. Simpson, if you please."

Simpson scuttled up the iron ladder and in a moment the stalls were revealed in all their shrouded grimness.

In the centre of Row F, alonely little figure among the dust sheets, sat Nigel. Alleyn beckoned. Nigel rose sheepishly and processed down the centre aisle.

"Now," said Alleyn, when the culprit reached the curtain of the well. "Now, my enterprising Pressman."

Nigel smirked but did not reply.