“Nasty little bit of work,” thought Nigel, and followed him.

Evidently Father Garnette lived behind the altar. They had entered a small flat. The room directly behind was furnished as a sort of mythological study. This much he took in as Claude glided across the room and snatched up something that looked like a sacramental tea-cosy. A telephone stood revealed.

“Thank you,” said Nigel, and hoped Claude would go away. He remained, gazing trustfully at Nigel.

Sunday evening. Unless he had an important case on hand, Alleyn ought to be at home. Nigel dialled the number and waited, conscious of his own heartbeat and of his dry mouth.

“Hullo!”

“Hullo — May I speak to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn? Oh, it’s you. You are in, then. It’s Nigel Bathgate here.”

“Good evening, Bathgate. What’s the matter?”

“I’m ringing from a hall, the — the House of the Sacred Flame in Knocklatchers Row off Chester Terrace, just opposite my flat.”

“I know Knocklatchers Row. It’s in my division.”

“A woman died here ten minutes ago. I think you’d better come.”

“Are you alone?”

“No.”

“You wretched young man, what’s the matter with you? Is the lady murdered?”

“How should I know?”

“Why the devil didn’t you ring the Yard? I suppose I’d better do it.”

“I think you ought to come. I’m holding the congregation. At least,” added Nigel confusedly, “they are.”

“You are quite unintelligible. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Thank you.”

Nigel hung up the receiver.

“Fancy you knowing Alleyn of Scotland Yard,” fluted Claude. “How perfectly marvellous! You are lucky.”

“I think we had better go back,” said Nigel.

“I’d much rather stay here. I’m afraid. Did you ever see anything so perfectly dreadful as Miss Quayne’s face? Please do tell me — do you think it’s suicide?”