“Your boy friend has a talent for quick changes,” he said to Janey and hailed a taxi. Janey spoke to Maurice in an urgent undertone. Out of the corner of his eye Nigel saw him shrug his shoulders and give a gloomy assent. When they were in the taxi Janey said:

“Maurice is afraid he’s too much upset by last night to be much use to anybody, but I’ve decided to pay no attention to him. He’s coming.”

“Splendid!” cried Nigel.

“Marvellous, isn’t it?” said Maurice with a short laugh.

He was very restless in the taxi, complained that the man should have gone down Pont Street instead of through Cadogan Square, thought they were going to be run over in Sloane Street, insisted on paying the fare, and had a row with the driver over the charge. He lived in a small service flat at the top of Harrow Mansions in Lower Sloane Street — sitting room, bedroom, bathroom. It was comfortable enough, but characterless.

“At least it’s warm,” said Maurice, and switched on the heater. He opened a cupboard.

“We don’t want more drinks, do we?” ventured Janey.

“Isn’t this a party?” asked Maurice loudly, and dragged out half a dozen bottles.

He left them as soon as he had made the cocktails, carrying his own with him. The bathroom door slammed and a tap was turned on. Janey leant forward.

“There’s something I must tell you,” she said urgently.

Nigel found nothing to say and she went on, speaking nervously and quickly:

“It’s about Maurice. I know you must think him too impossible. He’s been poisonous”—She caught herself up with a gasp—“perfectly odious ever since you asked us up to your flat. It was nice of you to do that, and to take us out. But I want to tell you. Maurice can’t help himself. I suppose you know why?”

“Yes, I think so. It’s bad luck.”

“It’s frightful. Not only the cigarettes, but — worse than that. He’s taking it now, I know he is. You’ll see. When he comes back he’ll be excited and — and dreadfully friendly. He’s turning into a horrible stranger. You don’t know what the real Maurice is like.”

“How did he start?”

“It’s Father Garnette. He’s responsible. I think he must be the wickedest foulest beast that ever lived. You can tell your friend Alleyn that if you like. But he knows. Maurice told him last night. Mr. Alleyn could help Maurice if — He doesn’t think Maurice did it, does he? He can’t.”

“I honestly don’t believe he does. Honestly.”

“I know Maurice is — is innocent. But there’s something else. Something he knows and he won’t tell Mr. Alleyn. He won’t tell. He’s made me promise. Oh, what am I to do?”

“Break your promise.”

“I can’t, I can’t. He’d never trust me again and, you see, I can’t help him as long as he trusts me.” Her voice trembled. “It’s a shame to bother you with it.”

“Good Heavens, what nonsense. I’d like to help you both but — but look here, don’t tell me anything unless you want Alleyn to know. I ought to say that. I’m on his side, you see. But if you are hiding anything for Pringle’s sake — don’t, don’t, don’t. And if he’s hiding something for anybody else’s sake you must make him tell Alleyn. Do you remember the Unicorn Theatre case?”

“Yes, vaguely. It’s queer how one reads every word of murder trials and then forgets them. I’ll never forget this one, will I? We must speak softly. He’ll be back in a minute.”

“In the Unicorn case a man who knew and didn’t tell was — killed.”

“I remember now.”

“Is it something to do with this drug he’s taking?”

“How did you guess?”

“Then it is Garnette!” said Nigel.

“Ssh! No, for pity’s sake! Oh, what have I done!”

“What are you two burbling about?” called Maurice.

He sounded very much more cheerful. Janey looked up sharply and then made a despairing little gesture.

“About you, good-looking,” she called out.

Maurice laughed. “I must come out and stop that,” he said.

“Oh, God,” whispered Janey. She suddenly gripped Nigel’s arm. “It’s not Garnette, it’s not, it’s not,” she said fiercely. “I must see you again.”

“After the show,” murmured Nigel hurriedly. “I’ll come to the flat.”

“But — no — it’s impossible.”

“Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow morning. About eleven.”

“The inquest is at eleven.”

“Earlier, then.”

“What can you do, after all?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”

Janey got up and went to the gramophone. The theme song from “Fools Step In” blared out.

“The tune’s all right,” said Maurice, emerging from the bedroom, “but the words are fatuous, as usual.”

Nigel gazed at him in. astonishment. His eyes were very bright. He had an air of spurious gaiety. He was like a mechanical figure that had been overwound and might break. He talked loudly and incessantly, and laughed at everything he said. He kept repeating that they had plenty of time.

“Loads of time. Fifty gallons of time. Time, the unknown quantity in the celestial cocktail. Time, Like an ever-rolling drunk. Jane, you’re looking very seductive, my angel. ‘You’re no angel and I’m no saint’.”

He sat on the arm of her chair and began to stroke her neck. Suddenly he stooped and kissed her shoulder.

“ ‘And I sometimes lose my head.’ Don’t move.”

She sat quite still, staring miserably at Nigel.

“I think we’d better dine,” said Nigel. “It’s after seven.”

Maurice had slid down behind Janey and now pulled her to him. He slipped his arms round her and pressed his face against her bare shoulder.

“Shall we go with him, Janey? Or shall we stay here and step in where angels fear to tread?”

“Don’t do that, Blot. And don’t be rude about Mr. Bathgate’s party. No, get up, do.”

He laughed uproariously and pushed her away from him.

“Come on, then,” he said, “come on. I’m all for a party.”

They dined at the Hungaria. Maurice was very gay and rather noisy. He drank a good deal of champagne and ate next to nothing. Nigel was thankful when they got away. At the theatre Maurice seemed to quieten down. Toward the end of the second act he suddenly whispered that he had a splitting headache and leant forward in his stall with his head between his hands. The people round them obviously thought he was drunk. Nigel felt acutely uncomfortable. When the lights went up for the final curtain Maurice was leaning back again, his eyes half-closed and his face lividly white.

“Are you all right?” asked Nigel.

“Perfectly, thank you,” he said very clearly. “Is it all over?”

“Yes,” said Janey quickly, “stand up Maurice. They’re playing The King.”

He got up as though he was exhausted, but he was quiet enough as he followed them out into the street. In the taxi he sat absolutely still, his hands lying palm upwards on the seat. In the reflected light from the streets Nigel saw that his eyes were open. The pupils were the size of pin-points. Nigel looked questioningly at Janey. She nodded slightly. “I’ll see you in, Pringle,” said Nigel.

“No, thank you,” he said loudly.

“But, Maurice—”

“No, thank you; no, thank you; no, thank you. Damn you, for —’s sake leave me alone, will you.”

He had got out and now slammed the door shut, and without another look at them went quickly up the steps to the flats.

“Let him go,” said Janey.

Nigel said “99, Yeoman’s Row” to the man, and they drove away.

Janey began to laugh.

“Charming guest you’ve had for your party. Has anyone ever been quite so rude to you before? You must have enjoyed it.”