He put on his gloves and began to climb the ladder. “Again the answer is ‘No.’ The truth of the matter is I’m an incurable nosey parker. Detect I must, if I can.” He reached the first gallery, and peered about him, using his electric torch, and then went on up the ladder. “I wonder how she’s taking it? And Hambledon. Will they marry each other in due course, provided— After all, she may not be in love with Hambledon. Ah, here we are.”

He paused at the top gallery and switched on his torch.

Close beside him a batten, slung on ropes, ran across from his gallery to the opposite one. Across the batten hung a pulley and over the pulley was a rope. Looking down the far length of the rope, he saw it run away in sharp perspective from dark into light. He had a bird’s-eye view of the lamp-lit set, the tops of the wings, the flat white strip of table; and there, at the end of the rope in the middle of the table, a flattened object, rather like a beetle with a white head and paws. That was Alfred Meyer. The other end of the rope, terminating in an iron hook, was against the pulley. The hook had been secured to a ring in the end of the rope, and the red cord which Carolyn had cut was also tied to the ring. The cut end of the cord dangled in mid-air. On the hook he should have found the counterweight.

But there was no counterweight.

He looked again at the pulley. It was as he had thought. A loop of thin cord had been passed round the near end of the batten and tied to the gallery. It had served to pull the batten eighteen inches to one side. So that when the bottle dropped it was slightly to the right of the centre of the table.

“Stap me and sink me!” said Alleyn and returned to the stage. He found Ted Gascoigne by the stage-door. With him were two large dark men, wearing overcoats, scarves, and black felt hats; a police officer, a short pink-faced person who was obviously the divisional surgeon. “Do they call them divisional surgeons in this country?” wondered Alleyn.

They were some time at the stage-door. Gascoigne talked very fast and most confusedly. At last he took them on to the stage, where they were joined by Te Pokiha. From the wings Alleyn watched them make their examination. It gave him a curious feeling to look on while other men did his own job. They examined the end of the rope which was still knotted into the net enclosing the bottle, and the piece of red-bound wire cord that lay on the table. Gascoigne explained the mechanism of the descending jeroboam. They peered up into the grid. Gascoigne pointed out the other end of the red cord.

“When Miss Dacres cut it, it shot up,” he explained.

“Yes,” said the detective. “Ye-ees. That’s right. Ye-ees.”

“Out comes the old notebook,” said Alleyn to himself.

“Hullo,” said a voice at his elbow. It was Hambledon.

“Carolyn wants to see you,” he whispered. “What’s happening out there?”

“Police doing their stuff. Wants to see me, does she?”

“Yes. Come on.”

He led the way into the usual dark wooden passage. The star dressing-room was the first on the left. Hambledon knocked on the door, opened it, and led the way in. Carolyn sat at her dressing-table. She still wore the black lace dress she had put on for the party. Her hair was pushed back from her face as though she had sat with her head in her hands. Old Susan Max was with her. Susan sat comfortably in an arm-chair, radiating solid sense, but her eyes were anxious. They brightened when she saw Alleyn.

“Here he is, dear,” she said.

Carolyn turned her head slowly.

“Hullo,” she said.

“Hullo,” said Alleyn. “Humbledon says you want me.”

“Yes, I do.” Her hands were trembling violently. She pressed them together between her knees.

“I just thought I’d like you here,” said Carolyn. “I’ve killed him, haven’t I?”

“No!” said Hambledon violently.

“My dear!” said Susan.

“Well, I have. I cut the cord. That was what did it, wasn’t it?” She still looked at Alleyn.

“Yes,” said Alleyn in a very matter-of-fact voice, “that was what set the thing off. But you didn’t rig the apparatus, did you?”

“No. I didn’t know anything about it. It was a surprise.”

She caught her breath and a strange sound, something like laughter, came from her lips. Susan and Hambledon looked panicky.

“Oh!” cried Carolyn. “Oh! Oh!”

“Don’t!” said Alleyn. “Hysterics are a bad way of letting things go. You feel awful afterwards.”

She raised one of her hands and bit on it. Alleyn picked up a bottle of smelling-salts from the dressing-table and held it under her nose.

“Sniff hard,” he said.

Carolyn sniffed and gasped. Tears poured out of her eyes.

“That’s better. You’re crying black tears. I thought that stuff was waterproof. Look at yourself.”

She gazed helplessly at him and then turned to the glass. Susan gently wiped away the black tears.

“You are a queer one,” sobbed Carolyn.

“I know I am,” agreed Alleyn. “It’s a pose, really. Would you drink a little brandy if Hambledon got it for you?”

“No.”

“Yes, you would.” He looked good-humouredly at Hambledon, who was standing miserably by her chair. “Can you?” asked Alleyn.

“Yes — yes I’ll get it.” He hurried away.

Alleyn sat on one of the wicker baskets and spoke to old Susan.

“Well, Miss Max, our meetings are to be fraught with drama, it seems.”

“Ah,” said Susan with a sort of grunt.

“What do you mean?” asked Carolyn. She turned to the mirror and, very shakily, dabbed at her face with a powder-puff.

“Mr. Alleyn and I have met before, dear,” explained Susan. “Over that dreadful business with Felix Gardener, you know.”

“Yes. We spoke about it that night on the train.” Carolyn paused, and then she began to speak rapidly, urgently and with more command over her voice.

“That’s why I wanted to see you. That night on the train. You remember what — he — said. Someone had tried to kill him. Have you thought of that?”

“I have,” said Alleyn.

“Well then — I want you to tell me, please, is this anything to do with it? Has someone — the same someone — done to-night what they failed to do on the train? Mr. Alleyn — has someone murdered my husband?”

Alleyn was silent.

“Please answer me.”

“That’s a question for the police, you know.”

“But I want you to tell me what you think. I must know what you think.” She leant towards him. “You’re not on duty. You’re in a strange country, like all of us, and far away from your job. Don’t be official, please don’t. Tell me what you think?”

“Very well,” said Alleyn after a pause. “I think someone has interfered with the tackle that was rigged up for — for the stunt with the champagne, you know,”

“And that means murder?”

“If I am right — yes. It looks like it.”

“Shall you speak to the police? They are there now, aren’t they?”

“Yes. They are out there.”

“Well?”

“I regard myself as a layman, Miss Dacres. I shall certainly not butt in.” His voice was not final. He seemed to have left something unsaid. Carolyn looked fixedly at him and then turned to old Susan.

“Susie, darling, I want to talk to Mr. Alleyn. Do you mind? You’ve been an angel. Thank you so much. Come back soon.”

When Susan had gone Carolyn leant forward and touched Alleyn’s hand.

“Listen,” she said, “do you feel friendly towards me? You do, don’t you?”

“Quite friendly.”

“I want you for my friend. You don’t believe I could do anything very bad, do you? Or let anything very bad be done without making some effort to stop it?”

“What is in your mind?” he asked. “What are you trying to say?”

“If I should want your help — yes, that’s it — would you give it me?”

Her hand was still on his. She had patched up the stains made by her tears and her face looked beautiful again. He had seen her lean forward like that on the stage, it was a very characteristic gesture. Her eyes seemed to cry out to him.