“D’you mean he gave it to you?” asked Ackroyd.

“Well—yes. He made me take it. I said it didn’t matter—but he made me. And now he’s lying there—mur—”

“That’s just like him,” said Courtney Broadhead. “He was wonderfully generous.”

“You’ve experienced his generosity, have you, Court?” asked Liversidge.

“Yes.” Broadhead looked straight at him. “I have indeed.”

“Tell us about it, Court,” invited Gordon Palmer.

“Shut up, Gordon,” said Mr. Weston, speaking for the first time since Alleyn had been in the room. “Don’t nosy-park.”

“Well,” said Liversidge, who seemed to have recovered a good deal of his composure. “Well. It’s nice to have an extra quid or two in your pocket. Thanks to you, Court, old boy, I’ve got one or two. I’ll take you on again at Two’s Wild whenever you like.”

“You were lucky at poker, were you, Mr. Liversidge?” asked Alleyn lightly.

“I was. And poor old Court couldn’t hold a court card.” He laughed.

“Must you?” said little Ackroyd. “Oh, must you?”

“I think it’s awful to make jokes,” began Valerie, “when you think—”

“We’re making epitaphs,” said Gordon Palmer. “Or Court is, at any rate.” He glanced defiantly at Weston, and then turned to Broadhead. “I’ve got a question to ask you, Courtney. I’ve got a particular reason for asking it.”

“What is it?” said Broadhead.

“It’s this. Where did you get the money to pay your poker debts?”

In the shocked silence that followed this amazing sentence Alleyn watched Liversidge. Liversidge himself watched Courtney Broadhead.

“I haven’t the smallest objection to telling you,” said Broadhead. His face was scarlet, but he faced young Palmer collectedly. “Mr. Meyer lent it to me.”

“Oh,” said Gordon. He glanced sheepishly at Liversidge.

“Gordon!” Geoffrey Weston remarked dispassionately. “You’re a bounder.”

“‘Carruthers, you cad, you have disgraced the old school tie,’” jeered Gordon. “Really, Geoff, you’re too superb.”

“You’re asking for a hiding,” continued Mr. Weston, “and I’ve a damn’ good mind to give it you.”

“I shall run away. I run faster than you. Don’t be a ninny, Geoff. I said I had reason for asking my question. I had. A damn’ good reason. The day we left the ship Courtney asked me if I’d mind waiting for my winnings till he began to draw his money. I said no, that was all right. He said he’d been a fool and was in the soup. That night, in the train, Val found she’d been robbed of a hundred quid. Next day Courtney paid Frankie Liversidge and me every penny he owed us. He said afterwards he’d had a windfall. Now he says Mr. Meyer lent him the cash. Well, that’s very charming. Pity, in a way, that Mr. Meyer isn’t here to—”

“You damned little tripe-hound,” bawled Courtney Broadhead, and made for him.