"My God, he doesn't even remember it!" sighed Felix Gardener. "In the third act, my dear chap, I shoot the Beaver—Arthur—Mr. Surbonadier at close range and he falls down dead."

"Of course I remember that," said Nigel, rather nettled. "It was perfectly all right. Most convincing. The gun went off."

"The gun went off!" screamed Miss Dulcie Reamer hilariously. "Did you hear him, Felix?"

"The gun didn't go off," said the stage manager. "That's just the point. I fire another off in the prompt corner and Felix jerks his hand. You see, he shoots the Beaver at close range—actually presses the barrel of the revolver into his waistcoat, so we can't use a blank—it would scorch his clothes. The cartridges that the Beaver loads his gun with are all duds—empty shells."

"I'm damned glad you don't," said Arthur Surbonadier. "I loathe guns and I sweat blood in that scene. The price one pays," he added heavily, "for being an actor." He glanced at his uncle, Jacob Saint.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" muttered J. Barclay Crammer in a bitterly scornful aside to Gardener.

"It's your own gun, isn't it, Felix?" he said aloud.

"Yes," said Felix Gardener. "It was my brother's—went all through Flanders with him." His voice deepened. "I'm not leaving it in the theatre. Too precious. Here it is." A little silence fell upon the company as he produced a service revolver and laid it on the table.

"It makes the play seem rather paltry," said the author of the play.

They spoke no more of the gun.

On the morning of June 14th, when The Rat and the Beaver had run a week to full houses, Felix Gardener sent Nigel Bathgate two complimentary tickets for the stalls. Angela North, who does not come into this story, was away from London, so Nigel rang up Scotland Yard and asked for his friend, Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.

"Are you doing anything to-night?" he said.

"What do you want me to do?" said the voice in the receiver.

"How cautious you are!" said Nigel. "I've got a couple of seats for the show at the Unicorn. Felix Gardener gave them to me."

"You do know a lot of exciting people!" remarked the inspector. "I'll come with pleasure. Dine with me first, won't you?"

"You dine with me. It's my party."

"Really? This promises well."

"That's splendid!" said Nigel. "I'll pick you up at a quarter to seven."

"Right you are. I'm due for a night off," said the voice. "Thank you, Bathgate. Good-bye."

"Hope you enjoy it," said Nigel, but the receiver had gone dead.