"When you were my guest. By God, my money's been well spent on you, Arthur!"

"Here's a copy." Surbonadier's shaking hand went to his pocket. He could not take his eyes off Saint. There was something automaton-like about him. Saint glanced at the paper and dropped it.

"If there's any more of this"—his voice rose to a shocking, raucous yell—"I'll have you up for blackmail. I'll ruin you. You'll never get another shop in London. You hear that?"

"I'll do it." Surbonadier backed away, actually as though he feared he would be attacked. "I'll do it." His hand was on the door. Jacob Saint stood up. He was six feet tall and enormous. He should have dominated the room—he was much the better animal of the two. Yet Surbonadier, unhealthy, too soft, and shaking visibly, had about him an air of sneaking mastery.

"I'm off," he said.

"No," said Saint. "No. Sit down again. I'll talk."

Surbonadier went back to his chair.

On the night of June 7th, after the first performance of The Rat and the Beaver, Felix Gardener gave a party in his flat in Sloane Street. He had invited all the other members of the cast, even old Susan Max, who got buccaneerish over the champagne, and talked about the parts she had played with Julius Knight in Australia. Janet Emerald, the "heavy" of the play, listened to her with an air of gloomy profundity. Stephanie Vaughan was very much the leading lady, very tranquil, very gracious, carelessly kind to everyone and obviously pliant to Felix Gardener himself. Nigel Bathgate, the only journalist at the party and an old Cambridge friend of Felix, wondered if he and Miss Vaughan were about to announce their engagement. Surely their mutual attentiveness meant something more than mere theatrical effusion. Arthur Surbonadier was there, rather too friendly with everybody, thought Nigel, who disliked him; and J. Barclay Crammer, who disliked him even more, glared at Surbonadier across the table. Dulcie Deamer, the jeune fille of the play, was also the jeune fille of the party. And Howard Melville ran her a good second in registering youthful charm, youthful bashfulness and something else that was genuinely youthful and rather pleasing. Jacob Saint was there, loudly jovial and jovially loud. "My company, my actors, my show," he seemed to shout continually, and indeed did. To the playwright, who was present and submissive, Saint actually referred as "my author." The playwright remained submissive. Even George Simpson, the stage manager, was present, and it was he who began the conversation that Nigel was to recall a few weeks later, and relate to his friend, Detective-Inspector Alleyn.

"That business with the gun went off all right, Felix," Simpson said, "though I must say I was nervous about it. I hate a fake."

"Was it all right from the front?" asked Surbonadier, turning to Nigel Bathgate.

"What do you mean?" asked Nigel. "What business with the gun?"