"I believe you, old thing."

"I feel better," said Felix Gardener. "Let's dine."

The dinner was an excellent one, and the wine extremely good. They talked about many things, sometimes harking back to the case, but now with less sense of restraint. Once Gardener said suddenly:

"It's pretty gruesome to think of the immediate future of—of the Simes family."

"Then don't think of it. What's happening at the Unicorn?"

"You mean about production? Would you believe it, he actually thought of going on with The Rat and the Beaver."

"What!"

"Yes, he did. As soon as the police were out of it. Of course I refused to carry on, and so did Stephanie. The others didn't like it, but didn't actually refuse. Then he began to wonder if after all it would be a big attraction—with other people playing the leads. The papers might comment unfavourably. So a new piece goes into rehearsal next week."

"What'll you do?"

"Oh, I'll wait. There are other managements." He grimaced wryly. "They tell me I'm a sort of popular figure, and it's helped my publicity. Maudlin sympathy coupled with morbid curiosity, I suppose. Come into the studio room."

They sat down in front of the fire. The front door bell of the flat rang, and Gardener's servant came through with a letter.

"This has just come by special messenger, sir," he said. "There's no answer."

Gardener slit the envelope and drew out a sheet of paper. Nigel lit a cigarette and wandered round the room. He had paused in front of a photograph of Gardener's brother when he was recalled by an exclamation from his host.

"For Heaven's sake," murmured Gardener, "what's all this in aid of?"

He held out the sheet of paper.

It contained a solitary typewritten paragraph, which Nigel read with bewilderment:

"If your job and your life are any use to you, mind your business or you'll lose both. Forget what's past, or you will get worse than a sore foot."

Nigel and Gardener stared at one another in utter bewilderment.

"Coo lumme!" said Nigel at last.

"Not 'alf," agreed Gardener with emphasis.

"Have you got a sore foot?" Nigel inquired.

"Yes, I have. I told you somebody trod on it."

"Somebody who smelt like Jacob Saint?"

"I only thought so. I wasn't sure."

"Look here," said Nigel, "this is no joke. Alleyn ought to know about it."

"Oh, help."

"Well, he ought to, anyway. I'll ring him up, if I may."

"Where will you find him?"

Nigel paused and considered. Possibly Alleyn might not want him to disclose his whereabouts. Nigel did not even know if he would still be at Surbonadier's flat. He looked up the number in the directory and dialled it.

"He may not be at home," he said deceitfully. Again, he could hear the bell pealing in the flat in Gerald's Row. Again there was no answer. He felt vaguely uneasy.

"Nobody there?" said Gardener.