Wakeford’s reply was startling. “I’ve always thought it was Arthur Surbonadier,” he said.

“Gosh, Wakeford — this — this is simply terrific, honestly it is! Why did you think so?”

“Oh, I’ve nothing much to go on, but I knew the blighter and I’d written to him, so he could have forged my signature. He was Saint’s nephew and likely enough to have inside information.”

“But why would he do it? Old Saint paid for his education, and gave him everything he had.”

“They never got on though. And Surbonadier was always in debt. By the way, he wasn’t ‘Surbonadier’ in those days. He was Arthur Simes. Saint’s name is Simes, you know. Arthur crashed heavily soon after that, and was sent down. It was a very unsavoury business. Then Uncle Jacob gave him a chance on the boards and he hurriedly changed to ‘Surbonadier. ’ ”

“And he wasn’t paid for the article?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then I don’t see why—”

“Nor can I, except that he was an extraordinarily vindictive sort of chap, and was drinking heavily, even then.”

“Didn’t Saint suspect him?”

“Saint always swore that forgery was a ramp and that the story was written by me. Legally it didn’t arise. The ‘Mex’ was responsible, whoever wrote the stuff, and, thank the Lord, they believed me. It wasn’t quite my style, but it wasn’t a bad imitation.”

“Have you ever met Felix Gardener?”

“No. Why?”

“He’s a friend of mine. It’s a ghastly situation for him.”

“Awful. But the police don’t suspect him, surely?”

“No, I’m sure they don’t. But, you see, he did actually shoot Surbonadier. It’s an unpleasant thought for him.”

“Oh, terrible, I quite agree. Well, that’s all I can do to help you. What do I get? It’s not my line or I’d pinch your story.”

Nigel gave him a friendly but rather absentminded punch.

“Felix must have been a freshman when it happened. I wonder if he could let any light in on it himself. He may have known Surbonadier.”

“Try him. I must push off.”

“I’m terribly obliged to you, Wakeford.”

“Not a bit. Bung-oh,” said Wakeford genially, and went his ways.

Nigel was in two minds whether to rush off to Alleyn with his booty, or to seek out Gardener with what, he could not help feeling, was a piece of heartening news. In the end he plumped for Gardener and, in the fury of his zest, took a taxi to the studio-flat in Sloane Street.

Gardener was in. Nigel found him looking wretchedly lost and miserable. He had apparently been staring out of his window, and turned from there with a terribly startled face as Nigel walked in.

“Nigel!” he said breathlessly. “It’s — it’s you!”

“Hullo, old thing,” said Nigel.

“Hullo. I’ve been thinking. Look here, I believe they’ll get me for this. Last night I couldn’t think of anything, except how he looked when he fell, and then later — when it was getting light, you know — I began to see what would happen. I’ll be arrested for murder. And I won’t be able to prove anything. It’ll mean— being hanged.”

“Oh, shut your silly face up,” implored Nigel. “Why the devil should they think you did it? Don’t be fatuous.”

“I know why he asked me all that stuff. He thinks I planted the cartridges.”

“He damn’ well doesn’t. He’s on an entirely different tack, and it’s about that I’ve come to see you.”

“I’m sorry.” Gardener dropped into a chair and pressed his hand over his eyes. “I’m making an ass of myself. Fire away.”

“Do you remember the Jacob Saint libel case?”

Gardener stared.

“It’s funny you should ask that. I suddenly thought of it a little while ago.”

“That’s good. Think again. Did you know Surbonadier then?”

“He was sent down soon after I went to Cambridge, and we were at different colleges. His real name was Simes. Yes, I’d met him.”

“Did you ever think he wrote the article in the Morning Express that Saint brought the case about?”

“I’m afraid I’m rather vague about it now, but I remember hearing third-year men talk about it at the time.”

“Well, the article was sent in by an unknown writer purporting to be one of the ‘Mex’ staff. It came from Mossburn, near Cambridge.”

“I remember, now.” Gardener paused for a moment. “I should think it most unlikely Surbonadier wrote it. He’d hardly want to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs.”

“He was supposed to be on bad terms with his uncle.”

“Yes, that’s true. I remember hearing it. He was a most unaccountable chap, and subject to fits of the vilest sort of temper.”

“Why was he sent down?”

“On several accounts. A woman. And then he was mixed up with a drug-taking set. Fearful scandal.”

“Drugs, eh?”

“Yes. When Saint found out, he threatened to cut him off altogether. He survived that, and went down for good over some affair with a farmer’s daughter, I imagine. Oh, Lord, what’s the good of all this?”

“Can’t you see? If he wrote that article it’s quite possible he’s been blackmailing Saint for years.”

“You mean Saint — oh no.”

“Somebody did it.”

“I’m half inclined to think he did it himself. He’d have loved to send me to the gallows.” Gardener looked as though he forced himself to say this for the sheer horror of hearing the words. He reminded Nigel of a child opening the pages of a book that he knew would terrify him.

“Do get that idea out of your head, Felix. You’re the last man they’re thinking of,” he declared, and hoped he spoke the truth. “Can you remember the names of any men who were friendly with Surbonadier then?”

“There was a fearful swine called — what was his name? — oh, Gaynor. I can’t think of anyone else. He was killed in an aeroplane accident, I believe.”

“Not much good. If you remember anything more let me know. I’ll go now, and do, for the love of Mike, pull yourself together, old thing.”

“I’ll try. Good-bye, Nigel.”

“Good-bye. Don’t ring, I’ll let myself out.”

Gardener walked to the door and opened it. Nigel paused to collect his cigarette-case, which had slipped into a crevice of his chair. That was why Stephanie Vaughan didn’t see him as she came to the door.

“Felix,” she said, “I had to see you. You must help me. If they ask you about—”

“Do you remember Nigel Bathgate?” said Gardener.

She saw Nigel then, and couldn’t speak. He walked past her and downstairs without uttering another word.

Big Ben struck twelve noon as Nigel made his way back to Scotland Yard. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn was engaged, but Nigel was invited to take a seat in the passage outside his room. Presently the door opened and a roaring noise informed him of the presence of Mr. Jacob Saint.

“That’s all I know. You can ferret round till you’re blue in the face, but you won’t find anything else. I’m a plain man, inspector—”

“Oh, I don’t think so at all, Mr. Saint,” Alleyn said politely.

“And your comedy stuff makes me tired. It’s a suicide case. When’s the inquest?”

“To-morrow at eleven.”

Mr. Saint uttered a rumbling sound and walked out into the passage. He stared at Nigel, failed to recognize him, and made off in the direction of the stairs.

“Hullo, Bathgate,” said Alleyn from the doorway. “Come in.”

Nigel, by dint of terrific self-suppression, managed to report Wakeford with a certain air of nonchalance. Alleyn listened attentively.

“Wakeford’s theory is possible,” he said. “Surbonadier was a peculiar individual. He may have written the article, fathered it on to Wakeford, and hugged himself with the thought that he was dealing a sly blow at Uncle Jacob. We know he tried to blackmail him a week or so ago. It’s not as inconsistent as it seems.”

“Saint himself swore he didn’t do it — at the time of the trial, I mean.”

“Of course he did. If his nephew had proved to be the author, he would have seemed a better authority than a reporter eager for sensational copy. No — in a way it’s a reasonable theory.”