"Yes. He knew that sort of thing didn't really count and we both had a horror of more scenes. We only spoke a few words, and then Felix went out on to the stage. The lights were still out, I remember. Have you got a cigarette, Mr. Alleyn? I should like one."

"I'm very sorry. I didn't think."

She took one from his case and he lit it for her. She touched her fingers against the back of his hand, and they seemed to look full in each other's face. Then she leant back again in her chair. They smoked in silence for a little time—Alleyn very composedly, Miss Vaughan not so composedly.

"Please tell me this," she said at last, very earnestly, "do you suspect anyone?"

"You cannot expect me to answer that," said Alleyn.

"Why not?"

"Everyone is under suspicion. Everyone is lying and acting."

"Even me? Have I lied or played a part?"

"I don't know," said Alleyn sombrely. "How should I?"

"How you dislike me, Inspector Alleyn!"

"You think so?" said Alleyn swiftly, and then, after a pause: "Do you ever do jigsaw puzzles?"

"Sometimes."

"And do you ever conceive an ardent distaste for a bit that won't fit in?"

"Yes."

"That is the only kind of personal prejudice a policeman can allow himself. I have that feeling for the pieces that don't fit. For the ones that do, I develop a queer sort of affection."

"And you can't fit me into your puzzle?"

"On the contrary, I think I have you—just where you belong."

"My cigarette is finished. Have you anything more to ask me? No, I don't want another."

"Only one more point. May I have your hand?"

She held out both her hands. Nigel was astonished to see him take them very lightly in his, and raise them to his face. He turned them over in his palms, and stood with his eyes closed, his lips almost touching them. She made no attempt to withdraw them, but she was less pale, and Nigel thought her hands trembled very slightly. Then he let them drop.

"Chanel No. 5," he said. "Thank you very much, Miss Vaughan."

She hid her hands swiftly in the fur sleeves of her coat. "I thought you were going to kiss them," she said lightly.

"I trust I know my place," said Alleyn. "Good night. Mr. Gardener is waiting for you."

"Good night. Do you want my address?"

"Please."

"Flat 10, The Nun's House, Shepheard's Market. Will you write it down?"

"There is no need. Good night."

She looked at him an instant and then went down the passage to the stage door. Nigel heard her calling:

"There you are, Felix"—and in a moment her footsteps had died away.

"Have you got that address down, Bathgate?" asked Alleyn anxiously.

"You old devil," said Nigel.

"Why?"

"Well. I don't know. I thought you didn't like her before, in the dressing-room."

"So did she."

"Now I'm not so sure."