“Says she sent her off to doll herself up for the party. Now Miss Dacres could have slipped round to the ladder at the back, fixed the gear, and then gone to her room. When did she come in to the party, sir?”

“She came in last,” said Alleyn, and up through his mind welled the memory of Carolyn hooting melodiously as she came down the passage, of Ackroyd opening the door on to the stage, of Carolyn making her entrance, of himself going to meet her.

“Last!” exclaimed Wade. “Last of the lot, and alone.”

“No. Not alone. Hailey Hambledon, Mr. Mason, and Mr. Meyer went and fetched her.”

“That makes no odds,” said Wade.

“What about Mr. Hambledon?” asked Alleyn.

“He says he left the stage with the others after the final curtain and went to his dressing-room. His dresser was there but he didn’t want him and sent him away.”

“Yes. He was wearing a dinner-jacket. He’d only need to take his make-up off.”

“He could have gone up the first time, sir. As soon as the dresser had gone he could have slipped back to the stage and round to the ladder at the rear. It would have been after Mr. Meyer and Bert okayed the gear.”

“How does he stand for the second visit? He stayed behind with us—and the body—and left the stage while Gascoigne, Bert, and I were still there. Said he was going to Miss Dacres’s room. He was there when I arrived later on. He went out, at my suggestion, to get some brandy. I don’t think he was away long enough to go up to the grid and get the brandy as well. Might have had time, I suppose, but it would have been damn’ quick work.”

“As far as Mr. Hambledon is concerned we haven’t got a motive, sir, have we?”

Alleyn raised an eyebrow.

“I suppose you may say we haven’t,” he said slowly.

“Is there anything—” began Wade.

“No, no. Nothing.”

A knock on the outside door heralded the entrance of Packer.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but are you ready for another?”

“Yes—all right—all right,” said Wade impatiently. “Send—”

“Beg pardon, sir, but Mr. Ackroyd says could you see him next? He says there’s something he’d like to tell you, particular.”

“Ackroyd? Which is he?”

“The comedian,” said Alleyn.

“Good-oh, then, Packer. Send him along.”

Packer went away with Cass.

“What’s biting Mr. Ackroyd, I wonder?” said Wade.

“I wonder,” murmured Alleyn.

“Is he one of their swell turns, sir? The funny man, is he?”

“Dreadfully funny,” said Alleyn.

“I haven’t seen the show. I like a good laugh, but these stage plays seem kind of feeble-minded after the flicks, I reckon. Nothing but talk. I don’t mind a bit of vordervil. Still, if it’s funny—”