Nigel, by dint of widening his peephole, could see Fox going rapidly and thoroughly through the stage manager's pockets.

"Cigarette-case, two pounds in notes and cash, pocket-book, handkerchief, matches, no written matter at all. Want to see anything, sir?" he asked cheerfully.

"Not a thing. One last question. Would Gardener be certain to pull the trigger when he pretended to fire the shot into the Beaver?"

"Definitely certain. It was rehearsed most carefully. He always closed his left hand a fraction of a second before he pulled the trigger. That gave me the cue for the blank shot."

"I see, yes. Thank you so much. Good night, Mr. Simpson."

Fox and the stage manager walked away. Nigel was wondering if he might speak when Alleyn's face suddenly appeared close to the door. The inspector laid his finger on his nose and made a face at Nigel, who was rather shocked at this display. Alleyn opened the door and came out. Nigel saw men with a stretcher on the stage and suddenly shut the door to. Alleyn looked curiously, but not unsympathetically, at him.

"Exit an actor, eh?" he said.

"You're a callous old pig," said Nigel.

"Did you get all that down?"

"I did."

"Good boy. Hullo, who's this? Stay where you are and stand by."

Voices, noisy in argument, could be heard from somewhere near the stage door.

"What the hell d'yer mean?" someone inquired loudly. "It's my theatre. Get out of my light."

Nigel returned to his peephole. The body of Surbonadier had gone. Inspector Fox appeared in hot pursuit of a monster of a man in tails, with a gardenia in his coat. He advanced truculently upon Alleyn, uttering a sort of roaring noise.

"Mr. Jacob Saint, I believe," said the inspector politely.

"And who the devil are you?"

"From the Yard, Mr. Saint, and in charge of this unhappy business. I am sorry you should have to meet such shocking news—I see you have heard of the tragedy. Mr. Surbonadier was your nephew, wasn't he? May I offer my sympathy?"

"Who's the swine that did him in?"

"At present we don't know."

"Was he drunk?"

"Since you ask me—yes."

Jacob Saint eyed the inspector and suddenly threw his bulk into an arm-chair. Nigel was seized with an idea and began taking notes again.

"I was in front to-night," said Saint.

"I saw you," said Alleyn brightly.

"I didn't know he was dead, but I knew he was drunk. He did it himself."

"You think so?" Alleyn seemed quite unmoved by this announcement.

"Stavely rang me up at the Savoy. I was behind, earlier in the evening, and saw Arthur. He was tight then. I told him he'd have to get out at the end of the week. Couldn't face the music and killed himself."

"It would take extraordinary fortitude to load a revolver, play a part, and wait for another man to shoot you, I should have thought," remarked Alleyn mildly.

"He was drunk."