“There!” said Nigel triumphantly. He turned proudly to Gardener. For once Alleyn was behaving nicely as a detective.

“Marvellous!” said Gardener.

“You don’t mean to tell me I’m right?” said Alleyn.

“Not far out. But I use the revolver as a policeman, the pipe as a gun-man, and don’t wear that suit in this piece at all.”

“Which only goes to show,” said Alleyn, grinning, “that intuition is as good as induction any day.” They lit cigarettes and Nigel and Gardener began a long reminiscent yarn about their Cambridge days.

The door opened again and a little dried-up man in an alpaca jacket came in.

“Ready, Mr. Gardener?” he asked, scarcely glancing at the others.

Gardener took off his wrap, and the dresser got a coat from under the sheet and helped him into it. “You need a touch more powder, sir, if I may say so,” he remarked. “It’s a warm night.”

“That gun business all right?” asked Gardener, turning back to the mirror.

“Props says so. Let me give you a brush, if you please, Mr. Gardener.”

“Oh, get along with you, Nannie,” rejoined Gardener. He submitted good-humouredly to the clothes brush.

“Handkerchief,” murmured the dresser, flicking one into the jacket. “Pouch in side pocket. Pipe. Are you right, sir?”

“Right as rain — run along.”

“Thank you, sir. Shall I take the weapon to Mr. Surbonadier, sir?”

“Yes. Go along to Mr. Surbonadier’s room. My compliments, and will he join these gentlemen as my guests for supper?” He took up the revolver.

“Certainly, sir,” said the dresser, and went out.

“Bit of a character, that,” said Gardener. “You will sup with me, won’t you? I’ve asked Surbonadier because he dislikes me. It will add piquancy to the dressed crab.”

“Quarter hour, please. Quarter hour, please,” said the voice outside.