“That will do, Miss Harris,” said Carrados violently. “You will please not answer any further questions.”

Miss Harris looked extremely startled, turned bright pink, and opened her eyes very wide indeed. She closed her lips in a prudent button.

“Go on, Miss Harris,” said Alleyn.

“Which do you wish me to do, Lady Carrados?” asked her secretary.

“I think you had better go on,” said the faint voice.

“Very well, Lady Carrados. You see, I had the pleasure of returning a letter that had been left behind at the vicarage.”

“That is an absolute lie,” said Carrados, loudly.

“Pardon me,” said Miss Harris, “but I cannot let that pass. I am speaking the truth.”

“Thank you, Miss Harris,” said Alleyn quickly. “Would you mind waiting outside for a moment? Fox.”

Fox shepherded her out.

“By God!” began Carrados. “If you take the word of a—”

“Wait a moment,” said Alleyn, “I think I shall go on with my story. Our case, Sir Herbert, is that you did, in fact, take this letter, and for some reason never gave it to the lady who afterwards married you. Our case is that, having read the letter, you kept it for eighteen years, in the drawer of a miniature writing-desk in your study.”

“I protest. I absolutely deny—”

“You deny this, too?”

“It is outrageous! I tell you this, sir, if I have any influence—”

“Just a moment,” said Alleyn, “Lady Carrados is speaking.”

The focus of attention shifted to the woman. She sat there as if she attended a meeting of some society in which she was interested. Her furs, her expensive, unnoticeable clothes, her gloves, her discreet make-up, might have been taken as symbols of controlled good breeding. It was the fierce rigidity of her figure that gave expression to her emotion. Her voice scarcely wavered. Alleyn realized that she was oblivious to her surroundings, and to the presence of other people in the room, and that seemed to him to be the most significant indication of her distress. She spoke directly to her husband.

“You knew! All these years you have watched me, and known how much I suffered. Why did you hide the letter? Why did you marry me, knowing my past history? It seems to me you must be mad. I understand now why you have watched me, why, since this awful business, you have never taken your eyes off me. You knew. You knew I was being blackmailed.” She caught her breath, and moved round stiffly until she faced her husband. “You’ve done it,” she whispered. “It’s you. You’re mad, and you’ve done it to torture me. You’ve always been jealous of Paddy. Ever since I told you it could never be the same with anyone else. You were jealous of dead Paddy.”

“Evelyn,” said Alleyn gently. She made a slight impatient gesture, but she spoke only to Carrados.

“You wrote those letters. It’s you.”

Carrados stared at her like an idiot. His mouth was open. His eyebrows were raised in a sort of imbecile astonishment. He shook his head from side to side.

“No,” he said. “No, Evelyn, no.”

“Make him tell you, Roderick,” she said, without turning her head.

“Sir Herbert,” said Alleyn. “Do you deny you kept this letter in the secret drawer of that desk?”

“Yes.”

Fox glanced at Alleyn, went out, and returned, after another deadly silence, with Bridget.

Lady Carrados gave a little moaning cry, and caught at her daughter’s hand.

“Miss O’Brien,” said Alleyn, “I’ve asked you to come here in order that the Assistant Commissioner may hear of an incident you related to me yesterday. You told me that on one occasion, when you were alone in the study of your stepfather’s house, you examined the miniature writing-cabinet in that room. You told me that when you pressed a tiny screw a triangular drawer opened out of the cabinet, and that there was a letter in it. Is this true?”

“Donna?” Bridget looked anxiously at her mother.

“Yes, yes, darling. Tell them. Whatever it is, tell them.”

“It’s quite true,” said Bridget.

“Your stepfather came into the study at this juncture?”

“Yes.”

“What was his attitude when he saw what you had done?”

“He was very angry indeed.”

“What did he do?”

“He twisted my arm, and bruised it.”

“A lie. The child has always hated me. Everything I have tried to do for her — a lie, a wicked spiteful lie!”

“Fox,” said Alleyn, “will you ask Sir Daniel to come in?”

Sir Daniel had evidently been sitting in the secretary’s office, as he came in almost immediately. When he saw the two Carradoses and Bridget, he greeted them exactly as if they were fellow guests at a party. He then shook hands with the Assistant Commissioner, and turned to Alleyn.

“Sir Daniel,” said Alleyn. “I’ve asked you to come in as I understand you were witness to a scene which Miss O’Brien has just described to us. It took place about two years ago. Do you remember that Miss O’Brien rang you up and asked you to come and see her mother who was unwell?”

“That has happened more than once,” said Davidson.

“On this particular visit you went into the study and talked to Miss O’Brien about a small French writing-cabinet.”

Davidson moved his eyebrows.

“Oh, yes?”

“Do you remember it?”

“I do. Very well.”

“You told her that there was probably a secret drawer in the box. Then you went upstairs to see Lady Carrados.”

“Yes. That’s how it was, I think.”

“When you returned, were Miss O’Brien and Sir Herbert together in the study?”

“Yes,” said Davidson, and set his lips in an extremely firm line.

“Will you describe the scene that followed?”

“I am afraid not, Mr Alleyn.”

“Why not?”

“Let us say, for reasons of professional etiquette.”

Lady Carrados said: “Sir Daniel, if you are thinking of me, I implore you to tell them what they want to know. I want the truth as much as anyone here. If I don’t know the truth now, I shall go to pieces.”

Davidson looked at her in astonishment.

“You want me to tell them about that afternoon?”

“Yes, yes, I do.”

“And you, Carrados?” Davidson stared at Carrados, as if he were a sort of curiosity.

“Davidson, I implore you to keep your head. I am sure you saw nothing that could be construed — that could be regarded as evidence — that — Davidson, you know me. You know that I’m not a vindictive man. You know.”

“Come,” said Alleyn, “we can cut this short. Sir Daniel, did you examine Miss O’Brien’s arm when you returned to the study?”

“I did,” said Davidson, turning his back on Carrados.

“What did you find?”

“A certain amount of contusion, for which I prescribed a lotion.”

“To what cause did you attribute these bruises?”

“They suggested that the arm had been tightly held, and twisted.”

“What were the relative positions of Sir Herbert and his stepdaughter when you came into the study?”

“He held her by the arm.”

“Would it be correct to say he was storming at her?”

Davidson looked thoughtfully at Bridget. They exchanged half-smiles. “He was shouting a good deal, certainly,” said Davidson dryly.

“Did you notice the writing-desk?”

“I don’t think I noticed it the second time I went into the room. I realized that Sir Herbert Carrados was talking about it when I came in.”

“Yes. Thank you, Sir Daniel. Will you and Miss O’Brien wait outside? We’ll see Mr Dimitri, if you please, Fox.”

Davidson and Bridget both went out. Dimitri was ushered in by Fox. He was very sleek, with a clean bandage round his cut finger, oil on his hair, scent on his person. He looked out of the corners of his eyes, and bowed extensively.

“Good evening, my lady. Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Mr Dimitri,” Alleyn began, “I have—”

“Stop.”

Carrados had got to his feet. He stood with his hand raised before his face in a curious gesture, half-defensive, half-declamatory. Then he slowly extended his arm, and pointed to Dimitri. The action was both ridiculous and alarming.