"And yet," said Alleyn, "half the victory is yours. From my heart I am sorry that it had to happen as it did. If I thought it would make any difference I would say I hated myself when I held you in my arms. It would only be half true. My thoughts were a mixture of grovel and glory."

"What will happen to him?" she said suddenly. Her eyes dilated.

"I don't know. He will be tried. He's guilty and he's a bad hat. You don't love him. Don't act. Don't pretend. It's going to be ghastly for you, but you left off loving him when you knew he'd done it."

"Yes, that's quite true."

She began to weep, not at all beautifully, but with her face screwed up and with harsh sobs. He looked gravely at her and when she put out her hand, put his handkerchief into it. He went to Surbonadier's dressing-room and found a nickel flask with whisky in it. With a grimace he washed a glass out and poured out a stiff nip. He took it back to her.

"Drink this. It'll put you together."

She swallowed it, gasped, and shuddered.

"Now I'll get you a taxi," said Alleyn.

Nigel turned into the dock when he saw them come out. She got into the taxi.

"Good-bye," she said. "You know where to find me if—I'm wanted."

"Yes, you poor thing."

She held out her hand and, after a moment's hesitation, he kissed it.

"You'll recover," he told her. "Good-bye."

He gave the address to the driver and stood for some time in the empty yard. Then he went back to Nigel.

"Well?" he said. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," said Nigel.

"All right. Lay back your ears. Here goes."

He pulled forward a couple of dingy arm-chairs and rolled back the doors of the dock, letting in a thin flood of sunshine.

"Here goes," he repeated and, lighting a cigarette, began his discourse.