The day after Sorrell had received the little parcel at Mrs. Everett's. "All right. Go on.

"Well, I went 'ome and thought about it. I kept seeing 'is face. It had a bad grey kind of look in spite of its bein' so pleasant and all that. And I began to be sure that he meant to do Rosie in."

"Had your daughter been engaged to him?"

"Well, 'e said so. It was a boy-and-girl affair. They'd known each other ever since they were kids. Of course, Rosie wouldn't dream of marrying 'im now."

"All right. Go on."

"Well, I thought the only place 'e would be able to see 'er would be the theatre. You see, I went round specially to tell Rosie about it — I didn't see 'er very often — but she didn't seem to worry. She just said. 'Oh, Bert always talked through his hat anyway, and anyhow I don't see him any more. She 'ad such a lot of other things to think of, she wasn't worried. But I was, I tell you. I went that night and stood on the opposite side of the street, watching the people coming to the queues. But 'e didn't come. And I went to the matinee on Saturday and again in the evening, but 'e didn't come. And again on Monday night, and on Tuesday afternoon. And then on Tuesday night I saw 'im come alone, and I went and stood behind 'im in the queue at the pit door. After a while I saw a bulge in 'is right-'and coat pocket, and I felt it and it was hard. I was sure then that it was a revolver and that he was going to do Rosie in. So I just waited till the queue moved tight, like I said, and stuck the knife in 'im. He didn't make a sound. You'd think he didn't know anything had happened. And then I shoved in front, like I told you."

"Was Sorrell alone?"

"Yes."

"Who was standing alongside him?"

"For a while there was a dark young gentleman, very good-looking. And then an-other man came to talk to Bert, and pushed the young gentleman back next me."

"And who was behind you?"

"The lady and gentleman who gave evidence at the inquest."

"How is Rosie Markham your daughter?"

"Well, you see, my 'usband was a sailor — that's 'ow I got the knife from Spain — brought me lots of things, 'e did. But when Rosie was little, 'e got drowned; and 'is sister, who was very well married to Markham, offered to take 'er and bring 'er up as their own, 'cause they had no kids. So I let 'er go. And they brought 'er up proper, I'll say that for them. A real lady, my Rosie is. I went out charring for years, but since Rosie got money she bought what they call an annuity for me, and I live on that mostly now."

"How did your daughter know Sorrell?"

"The aunt that brought Bert up used to live next door to the Markhams, and Bert and Rosie went to the same school. They were very friendly then, of course. Then the aunt died when Bert was at the War."

"But it was after the War that they got engaged, surely?"

"They weren't what you would call engaged. They just had a notion for each other. Rosie was on tour in The Green Sunshade then, and they used to see each other when she was in town or near it."

"But Sorrell considered himself engaged?"

"Perhaps. Lots of men would like to be engaged to Rosie. As if Rosie would think of the likes of him!"

"But they kept up some kind of acquaintance?"

"Oh, yes, she let 'im come to see 'er at 'er flat sometimes, but she wouldn't go out with him, or anything like that. And she didn't 'ave 'im very often. I don't think she 'ad the heart to send him away for good, you see. She was letting 'im down gently, I think. But I'm not sure about all that, you know. I didn't go to see Rosie often myself. Not that she wasn't nice to me, but it wasn't fair on 'er. She didn't want a common old woman like me round, and 'er hobnobbin' with lords and things."

"Why did you not tell the police at once that Sorrell was threatening your daughter?"

"I thought about it, and then I thought, in the first place, I 'adn't any proof. Judging by the way you treated me today, I should think I was right. And in the second place, even supposing the police shut 'im up, they couldn't shut 'im up for good. He would just do 'er in when he came out. And I couldn't be always round watching 'im. So I thought it best to do it when I could. I 'ad that little knife, and I thought that would be a good way. I don't know anything about pistols and things."

"Tell me, Mrs. Wallis, did your daughter ever see that dagger?"

"No."

"Are you quite sure? Think a little."

"Yes; she did. I'm telling you a lie. When she was quite big, before she left school, they had a play of Shakespeare that had a dagger in it. I don't remember the name of it."

"Macbeth?" suggested Grant.

"Yes; that was it. And she was the heroine. She was always wonderful at acting, you know. Even when she was a little thing she was a fairy in a school pantomime. And I always went to see 'er. And when they were playing that thing Macbeth, I gave 'er a loan of the little dagger 'er father 'ad brought from Spain. Just for luck, you know. She gave it back to me when the play was over. But she kept the luck, all right. All 'er life she's been lucky. It was just luck that made Ladds see 'er when she was on tour, so that 'e told Barron about 'er, and Barron gave 'er an interview. That's 'ow she got 'er name — Ray Marcable. All the time she was dancing and singing and what not for him 'e kept saying, 'Remarkable! and so Rosie took that for 'er name. It's the same initials as 'er own — at least, as 'er adopted name, see?"

There was a silence. Both Barker, who had been wordless for some time, and Grant seemed to be temporarily at a loss. Only the fat woman with the red face seemed to be completely at her ease.

"There's one thing you must remember," she said. "Rosie's name must be kept out of this. Not a word about Rosie. You can say that I killed 'im because of 'im threatening my daughter, who is abroad."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Wallis, I can't hold out any hope of that. Miss Marcable's name is sure to come out."

"But it mustn't!" she said. "It mustn't! It'll spoil it all if she's dragged into it. Think of the scandal and the talk. Surely you gentlemen are clever enough to think of a way of avoiding that?"

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Wallis. We would if we could, but it won't be possible if your story is true."

"Oh, well," she said, with surprising equanimity, considering her former vehemence, "I don't suppose it will make such a very great difference to Rosie. Rosie is the greatest actress in Britain at the present time, and 'er position is too good for any-thing like that to spoil it. Only you must hang me before she comes back from America."

"It is a little too soon to talk of hanging," Barker said, with a faint smile. "Have you got the key of your house with you?"

"Yes; why?"

"If you hand it over to me, I'll send a man down to verify your story of the sheath of the knife. Where can he find it?"

"It's at the very bottom of the top left-hand drawer of the chest of drawers, in a box that had a scent-bottle in."

Barker called in a man, and gave him the key and the instructions. "And see you leave everything as you get it," Mrs. Wallis said tartly to the emissary.

When the man had gone, Grant pushed a piece of paper across his desk to her and ex-tended a pen. "Will you write your name and address there?" he said.

She took the pen in her left hand, and rather laboriously wrote what he had asked.

"You remember when I went to see you before the inquest?"

"Yes."

"You weren't left-handed then."

"I can use either hand for most things. There's a name for it, but I forget what it is. But when I'm doing anything very special, I use my left. Rosie, she's left-handed too. And so was my father."

"Why didn't you come before and tell us this story?" Barker asked.

"I didn't think you would get any one unless you got me. But when I saw in the paper that the police had a good case, and all that, I thought something would have to be done. And then today I went to the court to have a look at 'im." So she had been in that crowded court today without Grant having seen her! "'E didn't look bad even if he was foreign-looking. And 'e looked very ill. So I just went 'ome and cleared up and come along."