Surely their mutual attentiveness meant something more than mere theatrical effusion. Arthur Surbonadier was there, rather too friendly with everybody, thought Nigel, who disliked him; and J. Barclay Crammer, who disliked him even more, glared at Surbonadier across the table. Dulcie Deamer, the jeune fille of the play, was also the jeune fille of the party. And Howard Melville ran her a good second in registering youthful charm, youthful bashfulness and something else that was genuinely youthful and rather pleasing. Jacob Saint was there, loudly jovial and jovially loud. “My company, my actors, my show,” he seemed to shout continually, and indeed did. To the playwright, who was present and submissive, Saint actually referred as “my author.” The playwright remained submissive. Even George Simpson, the stage manager, was present, and it was he who began the conversation that Nigel was to recall a few weeks later, and relate to his friend, Detective-Inspector Alleyn.

“That business with the gun went off all right, Felix,” Simpson said, “though I must say I was nervous about it. I hate a fake.”

“Was it all right from the front?” asked Surbonadier, turning to Nigel Bathgate.

“What do you mean?” asked Nigel. “What business with the gun?”

“My God, he doesn’t even remember it!” sighed Felix Gardener. “In the third act, my dear chap, I shoot the Beaver — Arthur — Mr. Surbonadier at close range and he falls down dead.”

“Of course I remember that,” said Nigel, rather nettled. “It was perfectly all right. Most convincing. The gun went off.”

“The gun went off!” screamed Miss Dulcie Deamer hilariously. “Did you hear him, Felix?”

“The gun didn’t go off,” said the stage manager. “That’s just the point. I fire another off in the prompt corner and Felix jerks his hand. You see, he shoots the Beaver at close range — actually presses the barrel of the revolver into his waistcoat, so we can’t use a blank — it would scorch his clothes. The cartridges that the Beaver loads his gun with are all duds — empty shells.”