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to-morrow.”
    “I shall be at the Yard at eleven, should you wish to make a statement, Mr. Saint.”
    “Statement be damned.”
    “By all means. Good night.”
    Footsteps and then silence.
    “Still awake, Bathgate?” asked Alleyn.
    “Just,” said Nigel. “Let me come out there for a minute. I’m all pins and needles.”
    “Come out, come out, my dearest dear. What did you think of little Janet? And Uncle Jacob?”
    “Not much.” Nigel emerged and stood blinking. “By Jove, she told some stinking big whoppers.”
    “She did rather.”
    “I say — do you think—”
    “Only very confusedly. It’s all so muddly.”
    “I distrust you intensely,” said Nigel, “when you go on like that.”
    “Get back to your corner. Who shall we have next?”
    “Don’t ask me. It’s beastly cold on this stage.”
    “Shall we adjourn to a dressing-room?”
    “Good idea — whose?”
    “Bailey has been searching them while you were in your cosy corner. I rather fancy Arthur Surbonadier’s.”
    “You old ghoul. May I ask if you intend to search all the ladies?”
    “Don’t you think it quate nayce?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “P’r’aps you’re right. Hullo, Bailey.”
    The fingerprint expert reappeared.
    “I’ve been through the rooms,” he said in a bored voice. “No sign of the blanks. Got all their prints.”
    “Really — how?”
    “Oh, asked for them.” Bailey grinned sardonically. “You weren’t there, sir.”
    “That’s all right.” Alleyn disliked asking directly for fingerprints and preferred to pick them up without the owners’ knowledge. “Well,” he said, “we’d better get on with the good work.”
    “We could do with those dummies,” Bailey remarked. “Inspector Fox is searching the other men now, sir. Thought it would save you the trouble.”
    “Intelligent as well as kind. But he won’t find them.”
    “The dummies?” Bailey eyed his surprise.
    “The dummies. Unless our murderer is particularly vindictive.”
    “What’s this?” demanded Nigel suspiciously. “Isn’t a murderer usually rather vindictive?”
    “You don’t understand, I’m afraid,” said Alleyn kindly. “I think—” he added, turning to Bailey—“I think the cartridges will be in the obvious place.”
    “Obvious!” repeated Bailey. “You’ve got me beat, sir. Is there an obvious place?”
    “You’ll never make a murderer, Bailey. Before we move away let us have a look at that desk. It’s in the wings, there. Give me a hand.”
    Nigel stood near the centre of the stage. He had moved forward towards the wings, when a voice, raucous and detached, yelled above their heads.
    “Look out!”
    An instant later, Inspector Alleyn hurled himself full at Nigel, driving him backwards. He fell, sprawling across a chair, and at the same moment was aware of something else that fell from above, and crashed down deafeningly on to the stage. Something that raised a cloud of dust.
    He got to his feet shaken and bewildered. Lying on the stage was a shattered heap of broken glass. Alleyn stood near it, looking up into the flies.
    “Come down out of that,” he shouted.
    “Yessir. Coming, sir.”
    “Who the devil are you?” bawled Bailey suddenly.
    “Only the props, sir. I’m coming.”
    They stumbled into the wings, where they were all met by Inspector Fox who had run agitatedly from the wardrobe-room. They all peered up the wall of the stage. An iron ladder ran aloft into the shadows. Soft footsteps padded up there in the dark, and presently among the shadows a darker shape could be seen. The iron ladder vibrated very faintly. Somebody was coming down.

CHAPTER VII
Props
    The shadowy figure came very deliberately down the ladder. Nigel, Alleyn and Bailey did not speak, but fell back a little. Nigel was still shaken by his escape from the chandelier. He felt bewildered, and watched, without thinking, the rubber soles of a pair of dilapidated tennis shoes come down, rung by rung. The man did not turn his