"Here," said Alleyn. "Is the curtain down?"

"I don't think so. Shall I go out in front and ask for a doctor? We didn't realise. I didn't stop the show. Nobody realised—they don't know in front—I don't think they know in front. He said we ought to send for you," the man gabbled on madly. They reached the wings just as the curtain came down; Stephanie Vaughan and Gardener were still on the stage. The applause from the auditorium broke like a storm of hail. Simpson, the stage manager, darted out of the prompt corner. As soon as the fringe of the curtain touched the stage Miss Vaughan screamed and hurled her arms round Gardener's neck. Simpson held back the curtain, looking with horror at Surbonadier, who lay close to his feet. The man in evening dress, who was the business manager, stepped through. The orchestra blared out the first note of the National Anthem, but the man must have held up his hand or spoken to them, because the noise of the one note petered out foolishly. On the stage they heard the business manager speaking to the audience.

"If there is a doctor in front, will he kindly come round to the stage door? Thank you."

The orchestra again struck up the National Anthem. Behind the curtain Alleyn spoke to Simpson.

"Go to the street door and stop anyone from leaving. No one is to go out. You understand? Bathgate, find a telephone and get the Yard. Tell them from me what has happened and ask them to send the usual people. Say I'll want constables." He turned to the business manager, who had come through the curtain. "Show Mr. Bathgate the way to the nearest telephone and then come back here." He knelt down by Surbonadier.

The business manager glanced at Nigel.

"Where's a telephone?" asked Nigel.

"Yes, of course," said the business manager. "I'll show you."

They went together through a door in the proscenium that led to the auditorium, almost colliding with a tall man in a tail coat.

"I'm the doctor," he said. "What's it all about?"

"On the stage," said Nigel, "if you'll go through." The doctor glanced at him and went on to the stage.

In the auditorium the last stragglers were still finding their way out. Some women with their heads together stood with bundles of dust sheets in their arms.

"Get on with your work," said the business manager savagely. "My name's Stavely, Mr.—Mr.—"

"Bathgate," said Nigel.

"Yes, of course. This is a terrible business, Mr. Bathgate."

"No one," thought Nigel, "seems to be able to say anything but this."

They crossed the foyer into an office. People were still standing about the entrance and a woman said:

"You're not very clear about taxis, are you, darling?"

Nigel, at the telephone, remembered the Yard number. A man's voice answered him very quickly.