“Yes. I’d swear to it.”

“And did you look at the portrait of Miss Seacliff?”

Troy turned her face away from him.

“No,” she said gruffly, “I funked it. Poor sort of business, wasn’t it?” She laughed shortly.

Alleyn made a quick movement, stopped himself, and said: “I don’t think so. Did either of you go down to the studio at any time during yesterday, do you know?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I didn’t, and Katti had an article to do for The Palette and was writing in the library all day. She’s got a series of articles on the Italian primitives running in The Palette. You’d better ask her about yesterday.”

“I will. To return to your own movements. You went out to paint in the garden?”

“Yes. At eleven o’clock. The Bossicote church bell had just stopped. I worked till about two o’clock and came in for a late lunch. After lunch I cleaned up my brushes at the house. I hadn’t gone to the studio. Katti and I had a good glare at my sketch, and then she read over her article and began to type it. I sat in here, working out an idea for a decorative panel on odd bits of paper. Seacliff and Pilgrim arrived in his car for tea at five, and the others came by the six o’clock bus.”

“Sonia Gluck with them?”

“Yes.”

“Did you all spend the evening together?”

“The class has a sort of common-room at the back of the house. In my grandfather’s day it was really a kind of ballroom, but when my father lost most of his money, part of the house was shut up, including this place. I had a lot of odds and ends of furniture put into it and let them use it. It’s behind the dining-room, at the end of an odd little passage. They all went in there after dinner on Sunday — yesterday — evening. I looked in for a little while.”

“They were all there?”

“I think so. Pilgrim and Seacliff wandered out through the french window into the garden. I suppose they wanted to enjoy the amenities of betrothal.”

Alleyn laughed unexpectedly. He had a very pleasant laugh.

“What’s the matter?” asked Troy.

‘“The amenities of betrothal,’” quoted Alleyn.

“Well, what’s wrong with that?”

“Such a grand little phrase!”

For a moment there was no constraint between them. They looked at each other as if they were old friends.

“Well,” said Troy, “they came back looking very smug and complacent and self-conscious, and all the others were rather funny about it. Except Sonia, who looked like thunder. It’s quite true, what Seacliff says. Sonia, you see, was the main attraction last year, as far as the men-students were concerned. She used to hold a sort of court in the rest-times and fancied herself as a Bohemian siren, poor little idiot. Then Seacliff came and wiped her eye. She was beside herself with chagrin. You’ve seen what Seacliff is like. She doesn’t exactly disguise the fact that she is attractive to men, does she? Katti says she’s a successful nymphomaniac.”

“Pilgrim seems an honest-to-God sort of fellow.”

“He’s a nice fellow, Pilgrim.”

“Do you approve of the engagement?”

“No, I don’t. I think she’s after his title.”

“You don’t mean to say he’s a son of the Methodist peer?”

“Yes, he is. And the Methodist peer may leave us for crowns and harps any moment now. The old gentlemen’s failing.”

“I see.”

“As a matter of fact—” Troy hesitated.

“Yes?”

“I don’t know that it matters.”

“Please, tell me anything you can think of.”

“You may attach too much importance to it.”

“We are warned against that at the Yard, you know.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Troy stiffly. “I was merely going to say that I thought Basil Pilgrim had been worried about something since his engagement.”

“Have you any idea what it was?”

“I thought at first it might have been his father’s illness, but somehow I don’t think it was that.”

“Perhaps he has already regretted his choice. The trapped feeling.”

“I don’t think so,” said Troy still more stiffly. “I fancy it was something to do with Sonia.”

“With the model?”

“I simply meant that I thought he felt uncomfortable about Sonia. She was always uttering little jeers about engaged couples. I think they made Pilgrim feel uncomfortable.”

“Do you imagine there has ever been anything between Pilgrim and Sonia Gluck?”

“I have no idea,” said Troy.

There was a tap on the door, and Fox came in.

“I got through, sir. They’ll get busy at once. The men have finished in the studio.”

“Ask them to wait. I’ll see them in a minute.”

“Have you finished with me?” asked Troy, standing up.

“Yes, thank you, Miss Troy,” said Alleyn formally. “If you wouldn’t mind giving us the names and addresses of the people you met in London, I should be very grateful. You see, we are obliged to check all statements of this sort.”

“I quite understand,” answered Troy coldly.

She gave the names and addresses of her host and hostess, of the people she met in the club, and of the man who took her to lunch — John Bellasca, 44, Little Belgrave Street.

“The club porter may be useful,” she said, “his name’s Jackson. He may have noticed my goings out and comings in. I remember that I asked him the time, and got him to call taxis. The sort of things people do when they wish to establish alibis, I understand.”

“They occasionally do them at normal times, I believe,” said Alleyn. “Thank you, Miss Troy. I won’t bother you any more for the moment. Do you mind joining the others until we have finished this business?”

“Not at all,” answered Troy with extreme grandeur. “Please use this room as much as you like. Good evening, good evening.”

“Good evening, miss,” said Fox.

Troy made an impressive exit.

The lady seems a bit upset,” said Fox mildly, when Troy had gone.

“I irritate the lady,” answered Alleyn.

“You do, sir? I always think you’ve got a very pleasant way with female witnesses. Sort of informal and at the same time very polite.”

“Thank you, Fox,” said Alleyn wryly.

“Learn anything useful, sir?”

“She says the drape was in the second position on Saturday afternoon.”

“Stretched out straight?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said Fox, “if she’s telling the truth, it looks as though the knife was fixed up between the time this Mr. Malmsley walked out on Friday afternoon and the time Miss Troy looked in on Saturday. That’s if Malmsley was telling the truth when he said the drape was crumpled and flat on Friday afternoon. It all points one way, chief, doesn’t it?”

“It does, Brer Fox, it does.”

“The Yard’s getting straight on to chasing up this Mr. Garcia. I’ve rung all the stations round this district and asked them to make inquiries. I got a pretty fair description of him from the cook, and Bailey found a couple of photographs of the whole crowd in the studio. Here’s one of them.”

He thrust a massive hand inside his pocket and produced a half-plate group of Troy and her class. It had been taken in the garden.

“There’s the model, Fox. Look!”

Fox gravely put on his spectacles and contemplated the photograph.

“Yes, that’s the girl,” he said. “She looks merry, doesn’t she, sir?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn slowly. “Very merry.”

“That’ll be this Garcia, then,” Fox continued. He pointed a stubby finger at a figure on the outside of the group. Alleyn took out a lens and held it over the photograph. Up leaped a thin, unshaven face, with an untidy lock of dark hair falling across the forehead. The eyes were set rather close and the brows met above the thin nose. The lips were unexpectedly full. Garcia had scowled straight into the camera. Alleyn gave Fox the lens.

“Yes,” said Fox, after a look through it, “we’ll have enlargements done at once. Bailey’s got the other. He says it will enlarge very nicely.”