"Of course it is. You've learnt to observe. You can be of the greatest help to me. Now, can you tell me, Miss Max, exactly what happened after Mr. Simpson put the mat straight?"

"Now, let me think," said Susan Max. There was a dead silence. Miss Emerald gave a sob.

"Yes," said Susan suddenly. "Janet was upset and talking to poor Arthur, who was a little pizzicato."

"Pizzicato?"

"A little too much wine taken. Pity. Well, they whispered together and then he said to her—No. I'm telling stories. She said to him: 'Are you all right?'; and he said to her: 'No, I'm all blanky wrong,' using language as he did so. I didn't hear the next bit, but presently he said in an extremely disagreeable manner: 'You can't talk about influence, Janet. You wouldn't be where you are without it.' More whispers. I didn't listen. I measured my scarf round George Simpson's neck. Then when he went off to the prompt corner——No, I've left out a bit. Wait. Before that, when George put the cartridges in the drawer, Janet said she was always afraid he'd forget them—do you remember, dear? And then after all the other bit about poor Arthur being drunk and influence and so forth, you followed over to the prompt corner and I recollect that you had another whisper with him—with George Simpson, I mean, of course. There you are!" Miss Max ended with a sort of triumphant gaiety.

"Bravo!" cried Alleyn. "Top marks. We shall have to get you into the force."

"Oh, yes, I dare say. Well, now. Is that all? Can I go?"

"I shall be sorry to lose you."

Nigel had waited for an outburst from Miss Emerald—a denial, an explanation, another bout of hysteria. Instead there was dead silence. He wished he could see Janet Emerald and Jacob Saint.

"It's a shocking thing," said Susan Max abruptly. "It's a very shocking thing for a young man to die as Arthur Surbonadier died. Not himself. Angry. For he was angry, you know."

"What about?"

"All sorts of things. Not satisfied with the casting. Unhappy over other matters too, I believe. I suppose it's murder?"

"It looks like it."

"And poor Felix. You're not running away with the idea Felix had anything to do with it, I hope? Except pulling the trigger, poor fellow. Um?"

"Why not?" Janet Emerald demanded. "Why not Felix Gardener? He shot him. It was his revolver. Why is everybody so sure he knew nothing about it? Stephanie doing brave heroine stuff all over him. Everybody treating him like an invalid. While I—I—am treated like a criminal. It's infamous."