"What are you doing with those bloody blues?" he inquired. His voice was deadened by carpets and furniture. Someone far above answered. A switch clicked and the set was suddenly illuminated. A pair of feet appeared above Nigel's face; he looked up and saw dimly the electricians' platform, on which one man stood with his hand on the switch-board and another sat dangling his legs. Blair led them into the bright entry, which turned out to be another passage. Along this passage on the left were the dressing-room doors, the first marked with a tarnished star. From behind all the doors came the sound of muffled voices—cosy, busy, at home. It was very warm. A man with a worried expression hurried round an elbow in the passage. As he passed he looked at them inquisitively.

"That's George Simpson, the stage manager," whispered Nigel importantly. Old Blair knocked on the second door.

There was a pause and then a pleasant baritone voice called:

"Hullo, who is it?"

Blair opened the door two inches and said: "Your visitors, Mr. Gardener."

"What? Oh, yes. Half a second," called the voice. And then to someone inside: "I quite agree with you, old boy, but what can you do? No, don't go." A chair scraped and in a moment the door was opened. "Come in, come in," said Felix Gardener.

They crossed the threshold and Inspector Alleyn found himself, for the first time in his life, in an actor's dressing-room and shaking hands with the actor.

Felix Gardener was not a preposterously good-looking man; not, that is to say, so handsome that the male section of his audience longed at times to give him a kick in the pants. He had, however, the elusive quality of distinction. His straw-coloured hair was thick and lay sleekly on his neatly shaped head. His eyes, scarcely the width of an eye apart, were surprisingly blue, his nose straight and narrow; his mouth, generously large and curiously folded in at the corners, was a joy to newspaper cartoonists. His jaw-line was sharply marked, giving emphasis to a face otherwise rather fine-drawn. He was tall, carried himself beautifully, but not too much like a showman, and he had a really delightful speaking voice, light but resonant. He was said by women to have "It"; by men to be a very decent fellow; and by critics to be an actor of outstanding ability.

"I'm so glad you've come round," he said to Alleyn. "Do sit down. Oh—may I introduce Mr. Barclay Crammer? Mr. Alleyn. Bathgate you've met."

J. Barclay Crammer was a character actor. He was just sufficiently well known for people to say "Who is that man?" when he walked on to the stage, and not quite distinctive enough for them to bother to look him up in the programme. He was dark, full-faced, and a good character actor. He looked bad-tempered, thought Nigel, who had met him once before at Gardener's first-night supper-party.