"Jenny!" whispered Surbonadier. He dropped his hand and the barrel of the gun shone blue. It hung limply from his fingers and as though in a dream he let Gardener take it from him.

"Thank you, Jennifer," said Gardener. Miss Vaughan, with a little laugh, lowered her gun.

"You don't have any luck, do you, Beaver?" she said.

Surbonadier uttered a curious little whinnying sound, turned, and clawed at Gardener's neck, forcing up his chin. Gardener's hand jerked up. The report of the revolver, anticipated by every nerve in the audience, was deafeningly loud. Surbonadier crumpled up and, turning a face that was blank of every expression but that of profound astonishment, fell in a heap at Gardener's feet. So far the acting honours in the scene had been even, but now Felix Gardener surpassed anything that had gone before. His face reflected, horribly, the surprise on Surbonadier's. He stood looking foolishly at the gun in his hand and then let it fall to the floor. He turned, bewildered, and peering at the audience as though asking a question. He looked at the stage exits as if he meditated an escape. Then he gazed at Stephanie Vaughan, who, in her turn, was looking with horror from him to what he had done. When at last he spoke—and his lips moved once or twice before any words were heard—it was with the voice of an automaton. Miss Vaughan replied like an echo. They spoke as though they were talking machines. Gardener kept his gaze fixed on the revolver. Once he made as if he would pick it up, but drew his hand back as though it were untouchable.

"God, that man can act!" said a voice behind Nigel. He woke up to feel Alleyn's hand on his knee.

"Is this the end?" the inspector whispered.

"Yes," said Nigel. "The curtain comes down in a moment."

"Then let's get out."

"What!"

"Let's get out," repeated Alleyn; and then, with a change of voice: "Are you looking for me?"

Their seats were on the aisle. Glancing up, Nigel saw that an usher was bending over his friend.

"Are you Inspector Alleyn, sir?"

"Yes. You want me. I'll come. Get up, Bathgate."

Completely at a loss, Nigel rose and followed Alleyn and the usher up the aisle, into the foyer, and out by a sort of office to the stage door alley. No one spoke until then, when the usher said:

"It's terrible, sir—it's terrible."

"Quite," said Alleyn coldly. "I know."

"Did you guess, sir? Have they all guessed?"

"I don't think so. Is someone going to ask for a doctor? Not that there's any hurry for that."

"My Gawd, sir, is he dead?"

"Of course he's dead."

As they approached the stage door old Blair came running out, wringing his hands.

Alleyn walked past him, followed by Nigel. A man in a dinner jacket, his face very white, came down the passage.

"Inspector Alleyn?" he said.