He turned to her a face so suddenly translated into gentleness that she could not answer him.

“I — it’s gone now.”

“When I look at you I suppose all other expression is lost in an effect of general besottedness.”

“How can I answer that?” said Troy.

“Don’t. I’m sorry. What did you mean?”

“You looked savage.”

“I feel it when I think of Bunchy.”

“I can understand that.”

“The hunt is up,” said Alleyn. “Have you ever read in the crime books about the relentless detective who swears he’ll get his man if it takes him. the rest of his life? That’s me, Troy, and I always thought it rather a bogus idea. It is bogus in a way, too. The real heroes of criminal investigation are Detective-Constables X, Y and Z — the men in the ranks who follow up all the dreary threads of routine without any personal feeling or interest, who swear no full round oaths, but who, nevertheless, do get their men in the end; and with a bit of luck and the infinite capacity for taking pains. Detective-Constables X, Y and Z are going to be kept damned busy until this gentleman is laid by the heels. I can promise them that.”

“I don’t feel like that,” said Troy. “I mean, I don’t feel anything in particular about this murderer except that I think he must be mad. I know he should be found but I can’t feel savage about him. It’s simply Bunchy who did no harm in this world; no harm at all, lying dead and lonely. I must go now, and see what I can do for Mildred. Has Donald come in?”

“Not yet. Do you know where he is staying?”

“He wouldn’t tell Mildred because he thought she would tell Bunchy, and he wanted to be independent. She’s got the telephone number. I’ve seen it written on the memorandum in her room. I suppose you heard about the difference?”

“Yes, from Mildred. It was his debts, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Mildred has always spoilt Donald. He’s not a bad child really. He will be terribly upset.” Alleyn looked at the photograph. “Did you see him at the dance?”

“Yes. He danced a lot with Bridgie O’Brien.”

“Did he stay until the end, do you know?”

“I didn’t stay till the end myself. Mildred and I left at half-past one. She dropped me at my club. Bunchy — Bunchy — was seeing us home, but he came and asked us if we’d mind going without him. He said he was feeling gay.”

“Did you see much of him, please?”

“I danced three times with him. He was very gay.”

“Troy, did you notice anything? Anything at all?”

“What sort of things?”

“Did there seem to be any hint of something behind his gaiety? As if, do you know, he was thinking in the back of his head?”

Troy sat on the edge of the desk and pulled off her cap. The morning sun came through the window and dappled her short dark hair with blue lights. It caught the fine angle of her jaw and her cheek-bone. It shone into her eyes, making her screw them up as she did when she painted. She drew off her green gloves and Alleyn watched her thin intelligent hands slide out of their sheaths and lie delicately in the fur of her green jacket. He wondered if he would ever recover from the love of her.

He said: “Tell me everything that happened last night while you were with Bunchy. Look back into your memory before it loses its edge and see if there is anything there that seemed a little out of the ordinary. Anything, no matter how insignificant.”

“I’ll try,” said Troy. “There was nothing when we danced except — yes. We collided once with another couple. It was a Mrs Halcut-Hackett. Do you know her?”

“Yes. Well?”

“It’s a tiny thing, but you say that doesn’t matter. She was dancing with a tall coarse-looking man. Bunchy apologized before he saw who they were. He danced very bouncily, you know, and always apologized when there were collisions. Then we swung round and he saw them. I felt his hand tighten suddenly and I looked over his shoulder at them. The man’s red face had gone quite pale and Mrs Halcut-Hackett looked very odd. Frightened. I asked Bunchy who the man was and he said: ‘Feller called Withers,’ in a queer frozen little voice. I said: ‘Don’t you like him?’ and he said: ‘Not much, m’dear,’ and then began to talk about something else.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “That’s interesting. Anything more?”

“Later on, Bunchy and I went to chaperones’ corner. You know, the end of the ballroom where they all sit. Your mother was there. Mrs Halcut-Hackett came up with her husband and then the girl she’s bringing out arrived with that old ass Carrados. The girl had toothache, she said, but I’m afraid the wretched child was really not having a great success. There’s something so blasted cruel and barbaric about this season game,” said Troy vigorously.

“I know.”

“Your mother noticed it. We said something to each other. Well, General Halcut-Hackett said he’d take the girl home and Bunchy offered to take Mrs Halcut-Hackett home later on. The General thanked him but she looked extraordinarily put out and seemed to me to avoid answering. I got the impression that she hated the idea. There was one other thing just about then. Wait a second! Bunchy started a conversation about punctuality with old Lucy Lorrimer. You know?”

“Lord, yes. She’s a friend of my mama’s. Dotty.”

“That’s her. She twitted Bunchy about being late or something and Mrs Halcut-Hackett suddenly said in a loud, high voice that she knew all about Bunchy’s punctual habits and could vouch for them. It sounds nothing, but for some extraordinary reason it made everybody feel uncomfortable.”

“Can you remember exactly what she said?”

Troy ran her fingers through her hair and scowled thoughtfully.

“No, not exactly. It was just that she knew he always kept appointments. Your mother might remember. I went away to dance soon after that. Evelyn Carrados was there but—”

“But what?”

“You’ll think I’m inventing vague mysteries but I thought she seemed very upset, too. Nothing to do with Bunchy. She looked ill. I heard someone say afterwards that she nearly fainted in the supper-room. She looked rather as if she might when I saw her. I noticed her hands were tense. I’ve often thought I’d like to paint Evelyn’s hands. They’re beautiful. I watched them last night. She kept clutching a great fat bag in her lap. Bunchy sat between her and your mother and he gave each of them a little pat — you know Bunchy’s way. His hand touched Evelyn’s bag and she started as if he’d hurt her and her fingers tightened. I can see them now, white, with highlights on the knuckles, dug into the gold stuff of the bag. I thought again I’d like to paint them and call the thing: “Hands of a frightened woman.” And then later on — but look here,” said Troy, “I’m simply maundering.”

“God bless your good painter’s eyes, you’re not. Go on.”

“Well, some time after supper when I’d danced again with Bunchy, I sat out with him in the ballroom. We were talking away and he was telling me one of his little stories, a ridiculous one about Lucy Lorrimer sending a wreath to a wedding and a toasting-fork to a funeral, when he suddenly stopped dead and stared over my shoulder. I turned and saw he was looking at Evelyn Carrados. There was nothing much to stare at. She still looked shaken, but that was all. Dimitri, the catering man you know, was giving her back that bag. I suppose she’d left it somewhere. What’s the matter?”

Alleyn had made a little exclamation.

He said: “That great fat bag you had noticed earlier in the evening?”

“Yes. But it wasn’t so fat this time,” said Troy quickly. “Now I think of it, it was quite limp and flat. You see, I was looking at her hands again. I remember thinking subconsciously that it seemed such a large bag for a ball-dress. Mildred came up and we left soon after that. I’m afraid that’s all.”

“Afraid? Troy, you don’t know what an important person you are.”

“Don’t I?”