“It’s Nigel!” cried the Lampreys and Frid shouted: “Nigel! Come in, my angel! We’re all locked up but Mr. Alleyn said you could come.”

“Hullo, my dear!” answered the voice. “I know. I’ll be there in a jiffy. They’re just asking—oh, thanks. Tell him I’ll come and see him later on, will you? Where are we? Thanks.”

The constable admitted a robust young man who, to Roberta’s colonial eyes, instantly recalled the fashionable illustrated papers, so compactly did his clothes fit him, and so efficiently barbered and finished did he seem, with his hair drilled back from his reddish face, his brushed-up moustaches, and his air of social efficiency. He came in with a lunging movement, smoothing the back of his head and grinning engagingly, and rather anxiously, at the Lampreys.

“Nigel, my dear,” cried Charlot, “we’re so delighted to see you. Did you think it too queer of Frid to ring up? Everyone else did.”

“I thought it marvellous of Frid,” said Nigel Bathgate. “Hullo, Charles, I’m terribly sorry about whatever it all is.”

“Damnable, isn’t it,” said Lord Charles gently. “Sit down. Have a drink.”

“Robin,” said Henry, “You haven’t met Nigel, have you? Mr. Bathgate, Miss Grey.”

Roberta, while she shook hands, had time to be pleased because Henry did not seem to forget she was there. As soon as Henry remembered Roberta, so did all the other Lampreys.

“Poor Robin,” said Charlot, “she’s just this second arrived from the remotest antipodes to be hurled into a family homicide. Do get your drink quickly, Nigel, and listen to our frightful story. We’re so dreadfully worried, but we thought that if we were having a cause célèbre you might as well get in first.”

“And perhaps stave off the press-men,” added Frid. “You will, won’t you, Nigel? It really is a scoop for you.”

“But what is?” asked Nigel Bathgate. “I only got your message ten minutes ago and of course I came round at once. Why are Alleyn and his merry-men all over the place? What’s occurred?”

The Lampreys embarked on a simultaneous narrative. Roberta was greatly impressed by the adroit manner in which Nigel Bathgate managed to disentangle cold facts from a welter of Lampreysian embroideries. His round red face grew more and more solemn as the story unfolded. He looked in dismay from one to another of the Lampreys and finally, with a significant grimace, jerked his head in the direction of the constable.

“Oh, we’ve given up bothering about him,” said Frid. “At first we talked French but really there’s nothing left to conceal. Aunt Kit told Mr. Alleyn about the financial crisis and Daddy had to come clean about the bum.”

“What?”

“My dear Nigel,” said Lord Charles, “there’s a man in possession. Could anything look worse?”

“And as for the twins,” said Frid, “your boy friend turned them inside out and hung them up to dry.”

“And I m-may t-tell you, Frid,” said Stephen, “that he knows just what we did in the dining-room. You would wipe your painted mouth on the carpet, wouldn’t you?”