“Now, Doctor, why did Donald Morgan go to the Wainwrights’ playhouse the night he was killed?”

“Good God, how do I know?”

“Did you have an appointment to meet him there?”

“I had no appointment with him at all, at any time.”

“But you telephoned the Morgan house that afternoon?”

“I had not telephoned it since Morgan came back.”

“You telephoned it that day, Doctor. You called and made an appointment to meet Morgan that night.”

“That’s a lie. I never spoke to him, over the phone or otherwise.”

They shifted then. The police commissioner took over the inquiry. “Now see here, Doctor,” he said blandly, “we’re not trying to bully you. We only want the facts. About this playhouse. How well did you know it?”

“Fairly well. I’ve been in it several times.”

“You didn’t think it would be a good place for a quiet talk?”

“Why the hell should I? I could have talked to Morgan anywhere, anytime.”

But the one thing they had which could not be denied was Evans’s revolver. It lay on Stewart’s desk, and he picked it up and looked at it.

“Let’s get back to Evans, Doctor. When he was knocked out, his keys were taken, including one to the playhouse. That key was used to open the door of the playhouse the night Morgan was killed, and later found on your key ring. But Evans’s gun was taken too. It’s important to know where you were that night.”

Bill looked up. “How do you know that key was used? There were a dozen people in the house that night. Any one of them could have taken the one from the table in the west wing, slipped out and used it, and then put it back again.”

“Oh!” said Stewart. “So you know about the key at the Cloisters too. That’s interesting.”

But they were not through with Evans.

“On the night the watchman was attacked, where were you?”

“I have already testified to that. I made some calls. The rest of the time I spent with Mrs. Morgan.”

“You had expected to marry her?”

“I still do.”

There was more about Evans. It was obvious that they believed Bill had been behind his escape—if it was that—from the hospital.

“He recognized you when you struck him, and so you had to—let’s say—get him away. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Good God!” he shouted. “I’d done my best to save him, sewed up his head, saw him every day. Now you claim I killed him. Ask the hospital. Ask Tony Wainwright. Ask him if he thinks I did away with Evans. He knows better, if this gathering of prize damned fools doesn’t.”

Stewart kept his temper. He was still suave. He handled the gun gently. “All right, Doctor. Now this is Evans’s gun. It has been identified. We also have the serial number, on his license to carry it. You know where it was found. Can you account for its being in your desk?”