They all lurched along the narrow corridor off which the two sleepers opened. They passed the first door and Meyer led them in at the second. The “de luxe” sleeper was a small cabin with two narrow bunks and a wash-basin. Carolyn Dacres, wearing some sort of gorgeous dressing-robe, sat on the bottom bunk. Her arms were clasped round her knees. Her long reddish-brown hair hung in a thick twist over her shoulder.

“Hullo!” she said, looking at the tall man. “Hailey says he thinks you’d better hear all about it.”

“I’m sure you’d rather talk over whatever has happened among yourselves. I assure you I’ve no desire to butt in.”

“Look here,” said Hambledon, “do let me explain—about you, I mean.”

“Very well,” said the tall man, looking politely resigned.

“We all knew him as ‘Mr. R. Allen’ on board,” began Hambledon. “That’s what he was in the passenger list. It was only tonight, in the train, that I realised he was Roderick Alleyn—E.Y.N.—Chief Detective-Inspector, C.I.D., and full musical honours with a salute of two sawn-off shotguns.”

“My God!” said Mr. Meyer plaintively. It was his stock expression.

“Why—” said Carolyn Dacres, “why then you’re—yes, of course. ‘The Handsome Inspector.’ Don’t you remember, Pooh? The Gardener case? Our photographs were side by side in the Tatler that week, Mr. Alleyn.”

“The only occasion,” said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, “on which I have felt there was any compensation for newspaper publicity.”

“Any compensation,” broke in Mr. Meyer. “My God! Well now, as you are an expert, will you listen to this? Sit down for God’s sake. Move up, Carol.”

Alleyn sat on a trunk, Hambledon on the floor, and Meyer plumped down beside his wife. His large face was very white and his fat hands shook slightly.

“I’m all upset,” he said.

“I’ll try to explain,” said Miss Dacres. “You see Hailey darling—and Mr. Alleyn—Alfie-Pooh sat up late. He had a lot of correspondence to get through, and he brought his type-writer in here. Some time before we got to the last station he thought he would go out to that shocking little platform for a breath of fresh air. Didn’t you, darling?”

Mr. Meyer nodded gloomily.

“We were at that time travelling up or down a thing that I think they call the corkscrew. The guard, who is an exceedingly nice man, and so, so well informed, told us all about it. It appears that this corkscrew—”

“Spiral,” corrected Mr. Meyer.

“Yes, darling. This spiral is quite remarkable as railway lines go. One is continually catching one’s own tail and the guard’s wagon is quite often in front of the engine.”

“Really, Carolyn!” expostulated Hambledon.