Alleyn told him that Bennington, when he came down to the theatre, had had a letter from Brod in his pocket and Poole said angrily: ‘Why the hell shouldn’t he? What of it?’

‘The letter is not to be found.’

‘My dear chap, I suppose he chucked it out or burnt it or something.’

‘I hardly think so,’ said Alleyn. ‘He told Miss Hamilton it was his trump card.’

Poole was completely still for some moments. Then he turned away to the dressing-shelf and looked for his cigarettes.

‘Now what in the wide world,’ he said with his back to Alleyn, ‘could he have meant by a trump card?’

‘That,’ said Alleyn, ‘is what, above everything else, I should very much like to know.’

‘I don’t suppose it means a damn thing, after all. It certainly doesn’t to me.’

He turned to offer his cigarettes but found that Alleyn had his own case open in his hands. ‘I’d ask you to have a drink,’ Poole said, ‘but I don’t keep it in the dressing-room during the show. If you’d come to the office—’

‘Nothing I’d like more but we don’t have it in the working hours either.’

‘Of course not. Stupid of me.’ Poole glanced at his dress for the ball and then at his watch. ‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that my business-manager is enjoying himself with my guests at my party.’

‘He rang up some time ago to inquire. There was no message for you.’

‘Thank you.’ Poole leant against the dressing-shelf and lit his cigarette.

‘It seems to me,’ Alleyn said, ‘that there is something you want to say to me. I’ve not brought a witness in here. If what you say is likely to be wanted as evidence I’ll ask you to repeat it formally. If not, it will have no official significance.’