“No, really not, thanks. I promised Wade I’d ring him up before eleven-thirty, so if you don’t mind—”

“You can telephone from here.”

“It may be rather a lengthy conversation, so perhaps I’d better leave it until I get to Middleton.”

“Come along, then,” rejoined Te Pokiha courteously. “I mustn’t try to keep you, I suppose.”

“It’s been a delightful evening.”

“I hope it is not to be the last.”

They drove back in the starlight. To Alleyn it seemed strange that it was only that morning—a short eighteen hours ago—that he had stood in the deserted street to watch dawn break over the mountains. It seemed to be ages ago. So much had happened. Carolyn by the little stream, talking about her husband, the bush bird whistling “She was only a bird—” with a wrinkled human face, Gordon Palmer drinking whisky that poured itself out of the neck of a gargantuan champagne bottle. “Don’t do that, it shouldn’t be interfered with.” “But my old dad taught me. It used to go big in vordevil.” And there was Wade running up and down a ladder like a performing monkey and saying: “Eight minutes for refreshments at the central police station.” “Don’t do that, you’ll muddle the prints.” “It’s all right if you sound your horn at the top. This horn is called a beep-beep. Listen—beep-beep—”

“This horn is called a ‘beep-beep’,” said Te Pokiha. “It reminds me of the Paris streets.”

“Lord love us, I’ve been asleep,” said Alleyn.

“If you will allow me to say so, I think you’re overtaxing your strength a little. You look tired. Aren’t you supposed to be on a holiday.”

“I’ll be able to sink back into sloth tomorrow.”

“As soon as that?”

“I hope so. Here we are at the hotel, I see. Well, thank you so much, Te Pokiha. It’s been an extremely interesting evening.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been of little use as far as your case is concerned.”

“On the contrary,” said Alleyn, “you have given me a piece of exceedingly valuable information.”

“Really? I mustn’t ask questions, I suppose. Good night.”

“Good night.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Alleyn as Maskelyne

ALLEYN SLEPT HEAVILY and dreamlessly until half-past nine. He had arranged to meet Wade at ten, and the inspector was waiting for him when he came out of the breakfast-room. They walked down to the theatre together.

“I’ve fixed it with old Singleton, Mr. Alleyn. He’ll be there waiting for us. He’s a funny old chap. Dismal Joe, the stage-hands call him; quite an old character in his way, he is, with a great gift of the gab. He says he’s an old actor and I believe it’s a fact, too.”

“Another actor! I remember giving him my name. He seemed rather a rum old article.”

“It’s a theatre show this, isn’t it, sir?”

They walked on in silence, and then Wade said:

“Well, Mr. Alleyn, I hope you’re quite satisfied with the work we’ve done for you.”