Still looking straight before him, Warrender said, “Finished. She was replying.”

“Really? You stayed in the hall for some time then?”

“Longer,” he said, “than I’d intended. Didn’t realize the ceremony had begun, isn’t it.”

“Do you remember who the other people were? The ones who probably came out before Miss Bellamy from the conservatory?”

“Miss Cavendish and Saracen. And Timon Gantry, the producer-man. Your second-in-command went over all this and asked them to stay.”

“I’d just like, if you don’t mind, to sort it out for myself. Anyone else? The two guests who left early, for instance. Were they in the conservatory party?”

“Yes.”

“And left…?”

“First,” Warrender said loudly.

“So you caught them up in the hall. What were they doing in the hall, sir?”

“Talking. Leaving. I don’t know exactly.”

“You don’t remember to whom they were talking?”

“I cannot,” Charles said, “for the very life of me see why these two comparative strangers, who were gone long before anything happened, should be of the remotest interest to you.”

Alleyn said quickly, “I know that sounds quite unreasonable, but they do at the moment seem to have been the cause of other people’s behaviour.”

He saw that for some reason this observation had disturbed Warrender. He looked at Alleyn as if the latter had said something outrageous and penetrating.

“You see,” Alleyn explained, “in order to establish accident, one does have to make a formal inquiry into the movements of those persons who were nearest to Miss Bellamy up to the time of the accident.”

“Oh!” Warrender said flatly. “Yes. Possibly.”

“But — Mary — my wife — was there. Still there! Radiant. There, seen by everybody — I can’t imagine…” Charles sank back in his chair. “Never mind,” he murmured. “Go on.”

Warrender said, “Browne and his niece had, I think, been talking to Saracen and Miss Cavendish. When I came into the hall… They were — saying goodbye to Gantry.”

“I see. And nobody else was concerned in this leave-taking? In the hall?”

There was a long silence. Warrender looked as if somebody had tapped him smartly on the back of the head. His eyes started and he turned to Charles, who leant forward, grasping the arms of his chair.

“My God!” Warrender said. “Where is he? What’s become of him? Where’s Richard?”

Alleyn had been trained over a long period of time to distinguish between simulated and involuntary reactions in human behaviour. He was perhaps better equipped than many of his colleagues in this respect, being fortified by an instinct that he was particularly careful to mistrust. It seldom let him down. He thought now that, whereas Charles Templeton was quite simply astounded by his own forgetfulness, Warrender’s reaction was much less easily defined. Alleyn had a notion that Warrender’s reticence was of the formidable kind which conceals nothing but the essential.

It was Warrender, now, who produced an explanation.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just remembered something. Extraordinary we should have forgotten. We’re talking about Richard Dakers.”

“The playwright?”

“That’s the man. He’s — you may not know this — he was…” Warrender boggled inexplicably and looked at his boots. “He’s — he was my cousin’s — he was the Templetons’ ward.”

For the first time since Alleyn had entered the room, Charles Templeton looked briefly at Warrender.

“Does he know about this catastrophe?” Alleyn asked.

“No,” Warrender said, “he can’t know. Be a shock.”

Alleyn began to ask about Richard Dakers and found that they were both unwilling to talk about him. When had he last been seen? Charles remembered he had been in the conservatory. Warrender, pressed, admitted that Richard was in the hall, when Browne and his niece went away. Odd, Alleyn thought, that, as the climax of the party approached, no less than five of Miss Bellamy’s most intimate friends should turn their backs on her to say goodbye to two people whom her husband had described as comparative strangers. He hinted as much.

Warrender glanced at Charles and then said, “Point of fact they’re friends of Richard Dakers. His guests in a way. Naturally he wanted to see them off.”

“And having done so, he returned for the speeches and the cake-cutting ceremony?”

“I — ah… Not exactly,” Warrender said.

“No?”

“No. Ah, speaking out of school, isn’t it, but I rather fancy there’s an attraction. He — ah — he went out — they live in the next house.”

“Not,” Alleyn ejaculated, “Octavius Browne of the Pegasus?”

“Point of fact, yes,” Warrender said, looking astonished.

“And Mr. Dakers went out with them?”

“After them.”

“But you think he meant to join them?”

“Yes,” he said woodenly.

“And is perhaps with them still?”

Warrender was silent.

“Wouldn’t he mind missing the ceremony?” Alleyn asked.

Warrender embarked on an incomprehensible spate of broken phrases.

“If he’s there,” Charles said to Alleyn, “he ought to be told.”

“I’ll go,” Warrender said and moved to the door.

Alleyn said. “One minute, if you please.”

“What?”

“Shall we just see if he is there? It’ll save trouble, won’t it? May I use the telephone?”

He was at the telephone before they could reply and looking up the number.

“I know Octavius quite well,” he said pleasantly. “Splendid chap, isn’t he?”

Warrender looked at him resentfully. “If the boy’s there,” he said, “I’d prefer to tell him about this myself.”

“Of course,” Alleyn agreed heartily. “Ah, here we are.” He dialled a number. They heard a voice at the other end.

“Hullo,” Alleyn said. “Is Mr. Richard Dakers there by any chance?”

“No,” the voice said. “I’m sorry. He left some time ago.”

“Really? How long would you say?”

The voice replied indistinguishably.

“I see. Thank you so much. Sorry to have bothered you.”

He hung up. “He was only with them for a very short time,” he said. “He must have left, it seems, before this thing happened. They imagined he came straight back here.”

Warrender and Templeton were, he thought, at peculiar pains not to look at each other or at him. He said lightly, “Isn’t that a little odd? Wouldn’t you suppose he’d be sure to attend the birthday speeches?”

Perhaps each of them waited for the other to reply. After a moment Warrender barked out two words. “Lovers’ tiff?” he suggested.

“You think it might be that?”

“I think,” Warrender said angrily, “that whatever it was it’s got nothing to do with this — this tragedy. Good Lord, why should it!”

“I really do assure you,” Alleyn said, “that I wouldn’t worry you about these matters if I didn’t think it was necessary.”

“Matter of opinion,” Warrender said.

“Yes. A matter of opinion and mine may turn out to be wrong.”

He could see that Warrender was on the edge of some outburst and was restrained, it appeared, only by the presence of Charles Templeton.

“Perhaps,” Alleyn said, “we might just make quite sure that Mr. Dakers didn’t, in fact, come back. After all, it was a biggish party. Might he not have slipped in, unnoticed, and gone out again for some perfectly explainable reason? The servants might have noticed. If you would…”

Warrender jumped at this. “Certainly! I’ll come out with you.” And after a moment, “D’you mind, Charles?”

With extraordinary vehemence Charles said, “Do what you like. If he comes back I don’t want to see him. I…” He passed an unsteady hand across his eyes. “Sorry,” he said, presumably to Alleyn. “This has been a bit too much for me.”

“We’ll leave you to yourself,” Alleyn said. “Would you like Dr. Harkness to come in?”

“No. No. No. If I might be left alone. That’s all.”

“Of course.”

They went out. The hall was deserted except for the constable who waited anonymously in a corner. Alleyn said, “Will you excuse me for a moment?” and went to the constable.