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stupidly irrelevant, was a spike. It cast a thin shadow irregularly across the folds of the drape. On the margin of this picture, disappearing abruptly into shadow, was a white mound.
    “The drapery and the knife haven’t been touched since the victim died,” explained Blackman. “Of course, they disarranged the stuff a bit when they hauled her up.”
    “Of course,” said Alleyn. He walked over to the throne and examined the blade of the knife. It was rather like an oversized packing-needle, sharp, three-edged, and greatly tapered towards the point. It was stained a rusty brown. At the base, where it pierced the drape, there was the same discoloration, and in one or two of the folds small puddles of blood had seeped through the material and dried. Alleyn glanced at Dr. Ampthill.
    “I suppose there would be an effusion of blood when they pulled her off the knife?”
    “Oh yes, yes. The bleeding would probably continue until death. I understand that beyond lifting her away from the knife, they did not move her until she died. When I arrived the body was where it is now.”
    He turned to the sheeted mound that lay half inside the circle of light.
    “Shall I?”
    “Yes, please,” said Alleyn.
    Dr. Ampthill drew away the white sheet.
    Troy had folded Sonia’s hands over her naked breast. The shadow cut sharply across the wrists so that the lower half of the torso was lost. The shoulders, hands and head were violently lit. The lips were parted rigidly, showing the teeth. The eyes were only half closed. The plucked brows were raised as if in astonishment.
    “Rigor mortis is well established,” said the doctor. “She was apparently a healthy woman, and this place was well heated. The gas fire was not turned off until some time after she died. She has been dead eleven hours.”
    “Have you examined the wound, Dr. Ampthill?”
    “Superficially. The knife-blade was not absolutely vertical, evidently. It passed between the fourth and fifth ribs, and no doubt pierced the heart.”
    “Let us have a look at the wound.”
    Alleyn slid his long hands under the rigid body and turned it on its side. The patches of sunburn showed clearly on the back. About three inches to the left of the spine was a dark puncture. It looked very small and neat in spite of the traces of blood that surrounded it.
    “Ah, yes,” said Alleyn. “As you say. We had better have a photograph of this. Bailey, you go over the body for prints. You’d better tackle the drape, and the knife, and the top surface of the throne. Not likely to prove very useful, I’m afraid, but do your best.”
    While Thompson set up his camera, Alleyn turned up the working-lamps and browsed about the studio. Fox joined him.
    “Funny sort of case, sir,” said Fox. “Romantic.”
    “Good heavens, Fox, what a macabre idea of romance you’ve got.”
    “Well, sensational,” amended Fox. “The papers will make a big thing of it. We’ll have them all down in hordes before the night’s over.”
    “That reminds me — I must send a wire to the Bathgates. I’m due there to-morrow. To business, Brer Fox. Here we have the studio as it was when the class assembled this morning. Paint set out on the pallettes, you see. Canvases on all the easels. We’ve got seven versions of the pose.”
    “Very useful, I dare say,” conceded Fox. “Or, at any rate, the ones that look like something human may come in handy. That affair over on your left looks more like a set of worms than a naked female. I suppose it
is
meant for the deceased, isn’t it?”
    “I think so,” said Alleyn. “The artist is probably a surrealist or a vorticist or something.” He inspected the canvas and the paint-table in front of it.
    “Here we are. The name’s on the paint-box. Phillida Lee. It is a rum bit of work, Fox, no doubt of it. This big thing next door is more in our line. Very solid and simple.”
    He pointed to Katti Bostock’s enormous canvas.
    “Bold,” said Fox. He put on his