Bunchy Gospell speaking to Dimitri at the foot of the stairs. This was the last thing Sir Daniel saw before he, too, went out into the fog.

He supposed that those moments in the hall would be regarded by the police as highly significant. The papers said that the police wished to establish the identity of the second fare. Naturally, since he was obviously the murderer! The taxi-driver had described him as a well-dressed gentleman who, with Lord Robert, had entered the cab about two hundred yards up the street from Marsdon House. “Was it one of the guests?” asked the paper. That meant the police would get statements from everyone who left the house about the same time as Lord Robert. The last thing in the world that Sir Daniel wanted was to appear as a principal witness at the inquest. That sort of publicity did a fashionable physician no good. His name in block capitals, as likely as not, across the front sheets of the penny press and before you knew where you were some fool would say: “Davidson? Wasn’t he mixed up in that murder case?” He might even have to say he saw the Halcut-Hackett woman go out, with Withers in hot pursuit. Mrs Halcut-Hackett was one of his most lucrative patients. On the other hand, he would look extremely undignified if they found out that he was one of the last to leave and had not come forward to say so. It might even look suspicious. Sir Daniel swore picturesquely in French, reached for his telephone and dialled WHI1212.

Colombo Dimitri in his smart flat in the Cromwell Road drew the attention of his confidential servant to the headlines.

“What a tragedy,” he said. “It may be bad for us at the beginning of the season. Nobody feels very gay after a murder. He was so popular, too. It is most unfortunate.”

“Yes, monsieur,” said the confidential servant.

“I must have been almost the last person to speak with him,” continued Dimitri, “unless, of course, this dastardly assassin addressed him. Lord Robert came to me in the hall and asked me if I had seen Mrs Halcut-Hackett. I told him I had just seen her go away. He thanked me and left. I, of course, remained in the hall. Several of the guests spoke to me after that, I recollect. And then, an hour later, when I had left, but my men were still busy, the police rang up. He was a charming personality. I am very, very sorry.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“It would be a pleasant gesture for us to send flowers. Remind me of it. In the meantime, if you please, no gossip. I must instruct the staff on this point. I absolutely insist upon it. The affair must not be discussed.”

“C’est entendu, monsieur.”

“In respect of malicious tittle-tattle,” said Dimitri virtuously, “our firm is in the well-known position of Caesar’s wife.” He glanced at his servant’s face. It wore a puzzled expression. “She did not appear in gossip columns,” explained Dimitri.

Miss Harris finished her cup of tea but her bread and butter remained untasted on her plate. She told herself she did not fancy it. Miss Harris was gravely upset. She had encountered a question to which she did not know the answer and she found herself unable to stuff it away in one of her pigeon-holes. The truth was Miss Harris’s heart was touched. She had seen Lord Robert several times in Lady Carrados’s house and last night Lord Robert had danced with her. When Lady Carrados asked Miss Harris if she would like to come to the ball she had never for a moment expected to dance at it. She had expected to spend a gratifying but exceedingly lonely night watching the fruits of her own labours. Her expectations had been realized until the moment when Lord Robert asked her to dance, and from then onwards Miss Harris had known a sort of respectable rapture. He had found her on the upper landing where she was sitting by herself outside the little green boudoir. She had just come out of the “Ladies” and had had an embarrassing experience practically in the doorway. So she had sat on a chair on the landing to recover her poise and because there did not seem to be anywhere else much to go. Then she had pulled herself together and gone down to the ballroom. She was trying to look happy and not lost when Lord Robert came up and remembered his request that they should dance. And dance they did, round and round in the fast Viennese waltz, and Lord Robert had said he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much for ages. They had joined a group of dizzily “right” people and one of them, Miss Agatha Troy the famous painter it was, had talked to her as if they had been introduced. And then, when the band played another fast Viennese waltz because they were fashionable, Miss Harris and Lord Robert had danced again and had afterwards taken champagne at the buffet. That had been quite late — not long before the ball ended. How charming he had been, making her laugh a great deal and feel like a human young woman of thirty and not a dependent young lady of no age at all.

And now, here he was, murdered.

Miss Harris was so upset that she could not eat her breakfast. She glanced automatically at her watch. Twelve o’clock. She was to be at Lady Carrados’s house by two in case she was needed. If she was quick she would have time to write an exciting letter home to the Buckinghamshire vicarage. The girl-friend with whom she shared the flatlet was still asleep. She was a night operator in a telephone exchange. But Miss Harris’s bosom could contain this dreadful news no longer. She rose, opened the bedroom door and said:

“Smithy!”

“Uh!”

“Smithy, something awful has happened. Listen!”

“Uh?”

“The girl has just brought in a paper. It’s about Lord Gospell. I mean Lord Robert Gospell. You know. I told you about him last night—”

“For God’s sake!” said Miss Smith. “Did you have to wake me up again to hear all about your social successes?”

“No, but Smithy, listen! It’s simply frightful! He’s murdered.”

Miss Smith sat up in bed looking like a sort of fabulous goddess in her mass of tin curling-pins.

“My dear, he isn’t,” said Miss Smith.

“My dear, he is!” said Miss Harris.

When Alleyn had finished his examination of the study he sat at Lord Robert’s desk and telephoned to Marsdon House. He was answered by one of his own men.

“Is Mr Fox there, Bailey?”

“Yes, sir. He’s upstairs. I’ll just tell him.”

Alleyn waited. Before him on the desk was a small, fat notebook and upon the opened page he read again in Lord Robert’s finicky writing the notes he had made on his case: