“Do you know, nurse,” he said, “until the Dawn does break I rather think I’d pipe down a bit if I were you. Unless you really fancy the martyr’s crown, you’re talking like a remarkably silly woman. You had as good a chance as anyone else of pumping hyoscine into the deceased. You’re now shrieking your motive into my capitalist face. I’m not threatening you. No, you’d better not say anything more at the moment, but when the mantle of Mr. Kakaroff is laid aside you may think it advisable to make a statement. Until then, Nurse Banks, if you’ll forgive me the suggestion, I should really pipe down. Will you tell Nurse Harden I’m ready?”

He opened the door for her. She stood for a moment staring above his head. Then she walked to the door, paused, and looked directly at him.

“I’ll tell you this much,” she said. “Neither Phillips nor Harden did it. Phillips is a conscientious surgeon and Harden is a conscientious nurse. They are hidebound by their professional code, both of them.”

With which emphatic assertion she left him. Alleyn screwed his face sideways and opened his notebook. Here, in an incredibly fine and upright hand he wrote: “Thoms— conversation about hyoscine,” and after a moment’s hesitation: “P. and H.—hidebound by their professional code, says the B.”

He wrote busily, shut his little book, glanced up, and gave a start of surprise. Jane Harden had come in so quietly that he had not heard her. There she stood, her fingers twisted together, staring at the inspector. He had thought at the inquest that she was very good-looking. Now, with the white veil behind it, the extreme pallor of her face was less emphatic. She was beautiful, with that peculiar beauty that covers delicate bone. The contour of the forehead and cheek-bones, the little hollows of the temples, and the fine-drawn arches of the eyes had the quality of a Holbein drawing. The eyes themselves were a very dark grey, the nose absolutely straight and the mouth, rather too small, with dropping corners, was at once sensuous and obstinate.

“I beg your pardon,” said Alleyn; “I did not hear you come in. Please sit down.”

He pulled forward the nearest of the preposterous chairs, turning it towards the window. The afternoon had darkened and a chilly sort of gloom masked the ceiling and corners of the room. Jane Harden sat down and clasped the knobs of the chair-arms with long fingers that even the exigencies of nursing had not reddened.

“I expect you know why I’m here?” said Alleyn.

“What was the—is the post-mortem finished?” She spoke quite evenly, but with a kind of breathlessness.

“Yes. He was murdered. Hyoscine.”

She seemed to stiffen and became uncannily still.

“So the hunt is up,” added Alleyn calmly.

“Hyoscine,” she whispered. “Hyoscine. How much?”