‘What you have told me is very serious, Lady Dwighton. I must ask you to go to your room till I have–er–made arrangements.’

She nodded and rose to her feet. She was quite composed now, grave and cold.

As she turned toward the door, Mr Quin spoke. ‘What did you do with the revolver, Lady Dwighton?’

A flicker of uncertainty passed across her face. ‘I–I dropped it there on the floor. No, I think I threw it out of the window–oh! I can’t remember now. What does it matter? I hardly knew what I was doing. It doesn’t matter, does it?’

‘No,’ said Mr Quin. ‘I hardly think it matters.’

She looked at him in perplexity with a shade of something that might have been alarm. Then she flung back her head and went imperiously out of the room. Mr Satterthwaite hastened after her. She might, he felt, collapse at any minute. But she was already halfway up the staircase, displaying no sign of her earlier weakness. The scared-looking maid was standing at the foot of the stairway, and Mr Satterthwaite spoke to her authoritatively.

‘Look after your mistress,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir.’ The girl prepared to ascend after the blue-robed figure. ‘Oh, please, sir, they don’t suspect him, do they?’

‘Suspect whom?’

‘Jennings, sir. Oh! Indeed, sir, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘Jennings? No, of course not. Go and look after your mistress.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The girl ran quickly up the staircase. Mr Satterthwaite returned to the room he had just vacated.

Colonel Melrose was saying heavily, ‘Well, I’m jiggered. There’s more in this than meets the eye. It–it’s like those dashed silly things heroines do in many novels.’

‘It’s unreal,’ agreed Mr Satterthwaite. ‘It’s like something on the stage.’

Mr Quin nodded. ‘Yes, you admire the drama, do you not? You are a man who appreciates good acting when you see it.’

Mr Satterthwaite looked hard at him.

In the silence that followed a far-off sound came to their ears.

‘Sounds like a shot,’ said Colonel Melrose. ‘One of the keepers, I daresay. That’s probably what she heard. Perhaps she went down to see. She wouldn’t go close or examine the body. She’d leap at once to the conclusion–’

‘Mr Delangua, sir.’ It was the old butler who spoke, standing apologetically in the doorway.

‘Eh?’ said Melrose. ‘What’s that?’

‘Mr Delangua is here, sir, and would like to speak to you if he may.’

Colonel Melrose leaned back in his chair. ‘Show him in,’ he said grimly.

A moment later Paul Delangua stood in the doorway. As Colonel Melrose had hinted, there was something un-English about him–the easy grace of his movements, the dark, handsome face, the eyes set a little too near together. There hung about him the air of the Renaissance. He and Laura Dwighton suggested the same atmosphere.