“And you, my dear Beryl?” Lillie asked, over her coffee cup. Her laugh was light. “I’m so sorry I had to leave you yesterday evening. I expect you were well entertained-although I daresay that it is a rare wife who goes off to a romantic supper with her husband when she is on holiday from home. Most wives of my acquaintance prefer to have supper with their lovers.”

“Mine is a rare husband,” Kate replied, “whom I much prefer to a lover.” She buttered her muffin. “But I’m afraid my evening with Lord Charles was somewhat less than romantic. There was a murder in the alleyway and-”

“A murder!” Lillie exclaimed. She put down her cup and pulled on her cigarette, her eyebrows delicately arched under the hair that was fluffed across her forehead. “Good heavens, how utterly delicious! Oh, my dear Beryl, do tell me all about it!”

“There was nothing delicious about it at all,” Kate said gravely. “It was quite sordid, I’m afraid. One of the Newmarket bookmakers was shot to death in the alleyway behind the Great Horse.”

“But your imagination must have been roused, certainly,” Lillie replied, the smoke drifting from her nostrils. “You have written about murders in your stories. As I recall, there’s a murder in ‘The Duchess.’ The man who attempts to sell the stolen jewels-he’s murdered, isn’t he?” She closed her eyes. “I can see it on the stage already, Beryl. It will be a thrilling play, full of drama and high morality.” She opened her eyes wide and raised one arm in a sweeping gesture. “The duchess’s stolen jewels are redeemed! The villain receives his just punishment! Cecil Howard will love it. He is always looking for the moral in every play he reviews, the nasty man.”

Kate thought that very soon she should have to disabuse Mrs. Langtry of her mistaken notion that “The Duchess” was going to be staged-but not quite yet. “The difficulty,” she said, “is that fictional murders are quite different from real ones. There was a great deal of blood last night, real blood. The ground was soaked with it. And the victim couldn’t pick himself up when the curtain came down and go out to take his bows, or hear the applause of the audience, or read the reviews of his performance. He was dead, and his poor wife and children-”

“Oh, pooh,” Lillie scoffed, resting her cigarette on a small silver ashtray and picking up her cup. “Bookmakers don’t have wives and children. They have mean little men who run after them with black books. That’s where they keep the names of the people who owe them money.”

“This one had a wife,” Kate said. “He wore a wedding ring.”

Lillie’s laugh tinkled merrily. “How like an author to observe such a thing, Beryl! Who, pray tell, was this poor bookmaker who expired in the alley? Perhaps I know him.” She laughed. “Perhaps I even owe him a pound or two.” She made a wry face and added, in a different voice. “In fact, I am sure I owe him a pound or two. I doubt there’s a bookmaker in town to whom I don’t owe something.”

“His name is Day, I believe,” Kate said, putting down her fork. “He seems to have been called Badger.” Suddenly she was not very hungry, thinking of poor Mr. Day’s family gathered around a breakfast table where one chair was vacant and would never be filled. Whatever his occupation, he was a human being, who had felt love and anger and fear and-

There was a strangled sound, and a crash of porcelain. Kate looked up to see that Lillie’s face had gone ashen. Her eyes were wide and dark. The cup lay broken on the table, and a splash of coffee stained the bodice of Lillie’s blue silk dress.

“Lillie!” Kate exclaimed, putting her hand on the other’s arm. “Are you all right? Shall I call someone?” She reached for the small brass bell that sat on the table. “The butler? Or would you prefer your maid?”

“No!” Lillie shook her head violently and sucked in her breath with a small gasping noise. She made a fist and held it to her mouth, coughing. “I’m-I’m fine. A mouthful of coffee just went the wrong way down.” She coughed again, and began to fan herself violently with her other hand. “Such a little thing, really. Don’t trouble yourself, please.”

The momentary lapse into what had seemed to Kate like real emotion was almost under control and the actress had nearly regained command-but not quite. The rouge on Lillie’s cheeks showed as bright circles against the pallor of her skin and the hand at her mouth was trembling.

Kate sat back. “I know that sometimes it helps to talk about things that distress us,” she said quietly. It was true, or at least it had always been so with her, and she spoke with unfeigned compassion. “I would hold anything you share with me in the utmost confidence, Lillie.”

For a brief instant, Lillie’s eyes met hers. Her lips trembled and she seemed on the very edge of speaking. But then she stepped back from the brink.

“There’s nothing to share, my dear,” she said, with an enormous effort at naturalness. She reached for her damask napkin and dropped it onto the small puddle of coffee, which was threatening to drip off the table and onto the floor. “I was… merely startled. You see, I know Mr. Day. Anyone who has ever placed a bet at the racecourse knows him.” She forced a careless smile. “He’s become rather a Newmarket fixture, and I must say that he’s taken a great deal of my money over the past few years.” She closed her eyes briefly and opened them again, wide. “But of course winning and losing is part of the game of racing. One doesn’t hold his successes against him.”

Kate gave Lillie a sympathetic look. “Oh, of course,” she said, and added, tactfully, “I’m sure I would be quite startled if one of my acquaintances were to suffer a similar fate. Had you seen him recently?”

Ignoring the question, Lillie glanced down at her stained bodice and pushed back her chair. “My, haven’t I made a right royal mess of myself,” she said with a shaky laugh. “I’ll go and change. And when I come back, you can ask me all the questions you like and write down every answer in that notebook of yours.”

Kate watched her make her exit-an impressive one, under the circumstances. But Kate, and Beryl Bardwell, were left to wonder what secret connection had existed between Lillie Langtry and the murdered bookmaker. Her reaction had been so dramatic, yet so real. Was it merely surprise, or something more? Was she afraid? Of what? Of whom? Why?

But Kate also knew that while Lillie Langtry might pretend to complete candor, the answers to these questions were not likely to come from her.

St. James proved to be a cobbled street only one block long not far from the Jockey Club and the Subscription Rooms, where bookmakers and racehorse owners assembled and called over the racing card on the night before a big race. Number Twenty-nine was a narrow, two-story redbrick building with a small plate-glass window set in the front, hung with heavy green draperies to prevent curious passersby from seeing within. On the outside of the window was painted Alfred Day, Racing Commissions in ornate black lettering trimmed and bordered in gold. A folded copy of the Sporting Times lay on the stoop where it had been tossed and a CLOSED sign hung crookedly across the front door. Charles pressed his face to the glass and peered into the dark interior, but he could see nothing.