When he had gone Alleyn, with the air of facing an unpleasant task, returned to the writing-desk. There were now nine people in the lounge, all ensconced behind newspapers. Six of them frankly folded their journals and turned their gaze on Alleyn. Two peered round the corners of their papers at him. The last, an old lady, lowered her paper until it masked the bottom part of her face like a yashmak, and glared at him unwinkingly over the top. Alleyn himself stared at a blank sheet of paper for minutes. At last he wrote quickly:

“Will you give me the pleasure of driving you out into the country for an hour or so? It will be an improvement on the hotel, I think.” [He paused, frowning, and then added:] “I hope my job will not make this suggestion intolerable.

RODERICK ALLEYN.

He was about to ring for someone to take this note to Carolyn’s room, when he became aware of a sense of release. A rustling and stirring among the nine bold starers informed him of the arrival of a new attraction and, glancing through the glass partition, he saw Hambledon coming downstairs. He went to meet him.

“Hullo, Alleyn. Good morning. I suppose you’ve been up for hours.”

“Not so many hours.”

“Any of our people down yet?”

“I haven’t seen them.”

“Gone to earth,” muttered Hambledon, “like rabbits. But they’ll have to come to light soon. Mason called us for noon at the theatre.”

“I don’t think you’ll get in there, do you know,” said Alleyn.

“Why? Oh—the police. I see. Well, I suppose it’ll be somewhere in the hotel.”

The lift came down and Mason got out of it. “’Morning, Hailey. ’Morning, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Hullo, George. Where are we meeting?’

“The people, here, have lent us the smoking-room. My God, Hailey, they’re locking us out of our own theatre. Do you know that? Locking us out!”

They gazed palely at each other.

“First time in thirty years experience it’s ever happened to me,” said Mason. “My God, what would Alf have thought! Locked out of our own house. It makes you feel awful, doesn’t it?”

“It’s all pretty awful, George.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Not remarkably well. Did you?”

“Damn’ queer thing, but it’s the first night for months that I haven’t been racked by dyspepsia—first time for months—and I lay there without a gurgle, thinking about Alf at night.” Mason stared solemnly at both of them. “That’s what you call irony,” he said.

“How will you let everybody know about the call for twelve?” asked Hambledon.

“I’ve got hold of Ted and he’s doing it.”

“Do you want Carolyn?”

“Have you seen her? How is she?”

“I haven’t seen her.”

Mason looked surprised.