"They never got on though. And Surbonadier was always in debt. By the way, he wasn't 'Surbonadier' in those days. He was Arthur Simes. Saint's name is Simes, you know. Arthur crashed heavily soon after that, and was sent down. It was a very unsavoury business. Then Uncle Jacob gave him a chance on the boards and he hurriedly changed to 'Surbonadier.' "

"And he wasn't paid for the article?"

"No, of course not."

"Then I don't see why—"

"Nor can I, except that he was an extraordinarily vindictive sort of chap, and was drinking heavily, even then."

"Didn't Saint suspect him?"

"Saint always swore that forgery was a ramp and that the story was written by me. Legally it didn't arise. The 'Mex' was responsible, whoever wrote the stuff, and, thank the Lord, they believed me. It wasn't quite my style, but it wasn't a bad imitation."

"Have you ever met Felix Gardener?"

"No. Why?"

"He's a friend of mine. It's a ghastly situation for him."

"Awful. But the police don't suspect him, surely?"

"No, I'm sure they don't. But, you see, he did actually shoot Surbonadier. It's an unpleasant thought for him."

"Oh, terrible, I quite agree. Well, that's all I can do to help you. What do I get? It's not my line or I'd pinch your story."

Nigel gave him a friendly but rather absentminded punch.

"Felix must have been a freshman when it happened. I wonder if he could let any light in on it himself. He may have known Surbonadier."

"Try him. I must push off."

"I'm terribly obliged to you, Wakeford."

"Not a bit. Bung-oh," said Wakeford genially, and went his ways.

Nigel was in two minds whether to rush off to Alleyn with his booty, or to seek out Gardener with what, he could not help feeling, was a piece of heartening news. In the end he plumped for Gardener and, in the fury of his zest, took a taxi to the studio-flat in Sloane Street.

Gardener was in. Nigel found him looking wretchedly lost and miserable. He had apparently been staring out of his window, and turned from there with a terribly startled face as Nigel walked in.

"Nigel!" he said breathlessly. "It's—it's you!"

"Hullo, old thing," said Nigel.

"Hullo. I've been thinking. Look here, I believe they'll get me for this. Last night I couldn't think of anything, except how he looked when he fell, and then later—when it was getting light, you know—I began to see what would happen. I'll be arrested for murder. And I won't be able to prove anything. It'll mean—being hanged."

"Oh, shut your silly face up," implored Nigel. "Why the devil should they think you did it? Don't be fatuous."

"I know why he asked me all that stuff. He thinks I planted the cartridges."

"He damn' well doesn't. He's on an entirely different tack, and it's about that I've come to see you."