Before long they heard voices in the passage outside. The door opened and the divisional surgeon came in. He walked over to Saint and bent down to make an examination. He took the pulse, holding up the fat, white wrist and looking placidly at his watch. Then he injected something. Saint's lips parted and came together again clumsily.

"Better," he whispered breathlessly.

"I think so," said the doctor. "We'll keep you quiet a little longer and then take you away, where you'll be more comfortable."

He looked at Alleyn and the others.

"We'll leave him for a moment, I think," he said. They went out of the room. Nigel followed, leaving Fox, who shut the door. They walked along the passage a little way.

"Yes, it's his heart," said the doctor. "It's pretty nasty. He's a sick man. Who's his doctor?"

"Sir Everard Sim," said Alleyn.

"Oh, yes. Well, he'd better see him. Is he under arrest?"

"He is."

"H'm. Nuisance. I'll get an ambulance and wait for him. Leave me a couple of men. I'll ring up Sir Everard. Saint's pretty dickey, but he'll pull round."

"Right," said Alleyn. "You'll fix up here then, will you? I'll leave Fox to see to it."

"Oh," said the doctor, "while I think of it. There's a message for you at the Yard. They asked me to tell you. Someone called Albert Hickson is very anxious to see you. It's about this case. He wouldn't talk to anyone else."

"Albert Hickson," Nigel exclaimed. "Why, that's Props!"

"Hullo," said Alleyn, "you've come to live, have you? You've no business here at all. I must get back to the Yard."

Nigel retreated, but he managed to slip innocently back into the car with Alleyn, who raised no objection. The chief inspector was rather silent. As they drew near Scotland Yard he turned to Nigel.

"Bathgate," he said, "is your news of the arrest out by now?"

"Yes," Nigel assured him. "I didn't ring up to stop it—it will be all over London already. Wonderful, isn't it?" he added modestly.

"All over London already. Yes. That'll be it," murmured Alleyn.

Nigel followed him, dog-like, into the Yard. The man who had seen Props was produced.

"Was he carrying a newspaper?"

"Yes, sir."

"Notice which one?"

The constable had noticed and was eager to say so. Props had carried Nigel's paper.

"You're rather wasted at this job," said Alleyn curtly. "You use your eyes."

The constable flushed with pleasure, and produced a sheet of paper.

"He left this message, sir, and said that he'd call again."

"Thank you."

Nigel, still hopeful, followed Alleyn to his room. At the door Alleyn paused politely.

"May I come in?" he asked. "Or do you wish to be alone?"

Nigel assumed the frank and manly deportment of an eager young American in a crook film. He gazed raptly at Alleyn, wagged his head sideways, and said with emotion:

"Gee, Chief, you're—you're a regular guy."