“As a matter of fact,” Alleyn continued, “I have every intention of talking for hours.”

They beamed.

“What an angel you are, to be sure,” said Angela. “Bring that decanter next door. Don’t dare sit over it in here. The ladies are about to leave the dining-room.”

She got up; Alleyn opened the door for her, and she went through into Nigel’s little sitting-room, where she hastily cast four logs on the fire, pulled up a low table between two armchairs, and sat down on the hearth-rug.

“Come on!” she called sternly.

They came in. Alleyn put the decanter down reverently on the table, and in a moment they were all settled.

“Now,” said Angela, “I do call this fun.”

She looked from Nigel to Alleyn. Each had the contented air of the well-fed male. The fire blazed up with a roar and a crackle, lighting the inspector’s dark head and his admirable hands. He settled himself back and, easing his chin, turned and smiled at her.

“You may begin,” said Angela.

“But—where from?”

“From the beginning—well, from the operating theatre.”

“Oh. The remark I invariably make about the theatre is that it afforded the ideal setting for a murder. The whole place was cleaned up scientifically—hygienically—completely—as soon as the body of the victim was removed. No chance of a fingerprint, no significant bits and pieces left on the floor. Nothing. As a matter of fact, of course, had it been left exactly as it was, we should have found nothing that pointed to Roberts.” Alleyn fell silent again.

“Begin from where you first suspected Roberts,” suggested Nigel.

“From where you suspected him, rather. The funny little man, you know.”

“By gum, yes. So I did.”

“Did you?” Angela asked.