"I think that will do." Alleyn turned to the divisional surgeon, who knelt beside Surbonadier and closed the painted eyelids. Bailey, who had just gone off the stage for a moment, reappeared with a length of brocade, with which he covered the body. It was a flamboyant thing, flame-coloured and gold.

"The revolver will, of course, show Mr. Gardener's prints," Alleyn said. "But you will test it for others, please, Bailey. It was in his dressing-room at seven-twenty, when I saw it." Bailey glanced at him in surprise. "The dresser took it to Mr. Surbonadier some time between seven-thirty and seven-forty-five. It was then unloaded and Surbonadier himself loaded it on the stage. We must remember that everyone in the cast knew exactly what would happen. Mr. Gardener was certain to do precisely what he did do—press the barrel of the revolver into Surbonadier above the heart and pull the trigger. There may be a remote possibility that Surbonadier was accidentally supplied with genuine ammunition. It seems scarcely likely. If he was deliberately supplied with live cartridges, the person responsible would be tolerably certain of results. Surbonadier was scarcely off the stage after he loaded the gun, and while on the stage would not fire, since even an unloaded revolver makes a loud click if this is done. Gardener would be certain to pull the trigger. His hand was in full view of the audience and the illusion had to be complete. Am I right, Mr. Stavely?"

"Yes. Yes, I think so, but, you know, the production is not my province, inspector. I belong to the front of the house. The producer is in Manchester, but Mr. Simpson, the general manager, would be your best authority—or Gardener himself."

"Of course, yes. Will you be kind enough to get Mr. Simpson for me? Oh—and, Mr. Stavely, take Detective-Sergeant Bailey with you and show him the dressing-rooms. Bailey, don't disturb any room but Miss Max's. From that you may take a towel and soap and a pot of grease. They take their paint off with grease, don't they? Take the stuff to the wardrobe-room, then lock the dressing-room doors and let 'em wash. And, Fox"—he turned to the second plain clothes man—"be a saint and ring for the mortuary van. Mr. Stavely will take you to the telephone. Sorry to be a bit Hitlerish, but it'll save time." He smiled charmingly at Stavely and the doctor. "Thank you very much, Dr. Milner. I shan't bother you any more to-night, but I've got your address. I'm sure you're longing to get away."

The doctor looked very much as though he was longing to stay. However, he departed meekly, escorted by the divisional surgeon. The others went on their errands and Nigel was left alone with Alleyn.