"Well, all the better. If you decide to help us, Mr. Bathgate, I'm sure you won't regret it and I'm sure Chief Inspector Alleyn will be very pleased."

Nigel looked at his large, comfortable face and suddenly liked him very much.

"It's nice of you to bother, inspector," he said. "I was a bit disgruntled. He made me feel such an ass and—and I do admire him so very much."

"You're not alone in that, sir. Well, I must be off. Going my way, sir?"

"I'm for Chester Terrace."

"And I'm for the Yard. No rest for the wicked. Good night, sir."

"Good night, inspector."

Nigel's flat in Chester Terrace was a short walk from Gerald's Row. He strode along quickly, still rather miserable over his lecture from Alleyn. He had only gone a couple of hundred yards when a taxi passed him, moving slowly along the kerb as though cruising for a passenger. Nigel automatically shook his head, and then saw that the man had a fare—a woman. As the cab passed him a streamer of light from the street lamp caught her face. It was Stephanie Vaughan. She gave no hint of recognition, and in a moment had passed him. He turned and stared after the taxi. She must have misunderstood, he thought, and is going now to the flat. However, the man drove slowly down the little street, past Surbonadier's windows, and then turned off to the left and disappeared.

"Rum!" thought Nigel and walked on thoughtfully. "Very rum!" he said aloud.

Back in his own flat he turned on the light and, after further cogitation, decided to try and put himself in a better mood by writing to Angela North, who does not come into this story. She was an ardent admirer of Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn and would know just how raw Nigel felt. Would she suggest he kept in the game? Would she tell him his scruples about "pumping" Gardener were ridiculous? He couldn't ask her without breaking confidence. Damn it all, what was he going to do? Perhaps he'd better go to the Queen's in Cliveden Place and have an evening meal. He wasn't hungry. Alleyn was fed up with him and had made him feel young, and a prig. He knew, Good Lord, that Felix hadn't murdered Arthur Surbonadier. Why shouldn't he ask him if——

The telephone pealed shrilly. Nigel muttered and grumbled and took off the receiver.

Gardener's voice came urgently.

"Is that you, Nigel? Look here, I want to see you. There's something I didn't tell you, about Cambridge, this morning. I was a fool. Could I see you now?"

"Yes," said Nigel. "Yes."

"Will you come here or would you rather I came to you? How about dining here with me? Will you?"

"Yes," said Nigel. "Thank you, Felix."

"Well, don't change—come along now."

"Yes," said Nigel. "Thank you, Felix."