"You can search me, sir."

"Nigel Bathgate."

"You fatuous old bag of tripe!" shouted Nigel furiously. And then when he saw Fox's scandalised face: "I beg your pardon, inspector. Like Mr. Saint, I don't always appreciate your comedy. It is true, Inspector Fox," he added with quiet dignity, "that my fingerprints will be on that paper; but not all over it. Only at one edge, and then I remembered not to."

"You'll escape us this time, I'm afraid, sir," said Fox solemnly. He began to heave with subterranean chuckles. "Your face was a fair treat, Mr. Bathgate," he added.

"Well," said Alleyn, "having worked off my professional facetiousness, let's get down to it. In your list of properties offstage is there a typewriter?"

"There is. A Remington used in the first and last act."

"Where's it kept?"

"In the property-room, between whiles. I think they re-set the first act after the show, as a rule, so it would be on the stage when they all got down to the theatre, and in the property-room after the last act. We tested it for prints first just in case it might be in the picture. It showed Mr. Gardener's on the keys, and Props's prints at the sides, where he had carried it on."

"The fingerprint system's too well advertised nowadays for the poorest criminal to fall directly foul of it. Who used the typewriter in the last act? Oh, I remember—Gardener. Just let me get a copy of the letter and then give it to Bailey, will you, Fox? And get him to test the typewriter again. No, I'm not dotty. And now I must get things in order for the inquest. Thank the Lord it's a presentable coroner."

"Ah," agreed Fox heavily. "You may say that."

"How do you mean?" Nigel asked.

"Some of them," said Alleyn, "I positively believe, keep black caps in their hip pockets. Tiresome old creatures. However, this one is a sensible fellow, and we'll be through in no time."

"I'll get back to Fleet Street," said Nigel. "I'm meeting Felix and going to the inquest with him. His lawyer is going to be there."

"I expect there'll be a covey of 'em. My spies tell me St. Jacob has employed Phillip Phillips to watch the wheels go round. He's a brother of Phillips, K. C., who did St. Jacob so proud in the libel action. Very big game afoot."

"Well," said Nigel at the door, "we meet—"

"At Phillipi, in fact. Au revoir, Bathgate."