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ass; and I’m not sure I oughtn’t to arrest you as a something-or-other after the fact.”
    “My Gawd, I never done it, sir!”
    “I’m delighted to hear you say so. Why, then, should you wish to shield the murderer? Oh, well, if you won’t answer me, you won’t; and I refuse to go on giving an imitation of a gentleman talking to himself. I shall have to detain you in a police station, Props.”
    A kind of tremor seemed to shake the man. His arms twitched convulsively and his eyes widened. Nigel, who was not familiar with the after-effects of shell-shock, watched him with reluctant curiosity. Alleyn looked at him attentively.
    “Well?” he said.
    “I never done it,” said Props in a breathless whisper. “I never done it. You don’t want to lock me up. I was standing in the prompt box and if I thought I seen a bloke or it might have been a woman, moving round in the dark—” He stopped short.
    “You’d much better say so,” said Alleyn.
    “I don’t want to get nobody in for the job. He was a swine. Whoever done it, done no ’arm, to my way of thinking.”
    “You didn’t care for Mr. Surbonadier?”
    Props uttered a few well-chosen and highly illuminating words. “He was” were the only two of them that were printable.
    “Why do you say that?” asked Alleyn. “Has he ever done you any harm?”
    The man made as if to speak, hesitated, and then, to Nigel’s horror and embarrassment, began to cry.
    “Fox,” said Alleyn, “will you and Mr. Bathgate muster the rest of the stage staff, one by one, in a dressing-room or somewhere, and see if you can get any information from them? You know what we want. Unless anything crops up, you can let them go home. I’ll sing out when I’ve finished.”
    Nigel thankfully followed Inspector Fox down the dressing-room passage and, Fox having unlocked the door, into Felix Gardener’s room. It seemed an age since they had sat there, listening to his friend’s views on the characteristics of actors.
    “Well, sir,” said Inspector Fox, “I reckon that’s our man.”
    “Do you really think so? Poor devil!”
    “He’s just the type. Neurotic, highly-strung sort of bloke.”
    “But,” objected Nigel, “his alibi is supported by the stage manager.”
    “Yes — but suppose the cartridges he gave to the stage manager were the real Mackay?”
    “What about the loose shell and the sand? That was true enough.”
    “Might have been loose when he put them in that drawer earlier in the evening — long before the blackout. Looks pretty queer, you must admit, sir. He scuttles up there into the grid when we are rounding up everyone else, and then, when Chief Inspector Alleyn says he’ll take a look in the desk, Master Props lets loose that glass affair, hoping to get down in the confusion and slip out the dummies.”
    “Yes, but that chandelier business was so damn’ silly,” protested Nigel, “and if he did the murder, he’s by no means silly. And why plant the dummies there, and then take such a clumsy and suspicious way of trying to divert your attention?”
    “We’ll have to get you in the force, sir,” said Inspector Fox good-humouredly. “But all the same I think he’s our man. The chief will be getting something now, I don’t doubt. Well, sir, I’ll just get the rest of the staff along.”
    The observations made by the rest of the staff of the Unicorn were singularly uninteresting. They were all in the property-room at the time of the black-out, preparing to enjoy a game of poker. In the words of their head, one Mr. Bert Willings: “They didn’t know nuffing abaht it.” Questioned about Props, Mr. Willings said: “Props was a funny bloke, very jumpy-like, and kep‖ hisself to hisself.”
    “Married?” asked Inspector Fox.
    No, Props was not married, but he kep’ company with Trixie Beadle, Miss Vaughan’s dresser, wot was ole Bill Beadle’s daughter. Ole Bill Beadle was Mr. Gardener’s dresser.
    “Who dressed Mr. Surbonadier?”
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