“I’m damned glad you don’t,” said Arthur Surbonadier. “I loathe guns and I sweat blood in that scene. The price one pays,” he added heavily, “for being an actor.” He glanced at his uncle, Jacob Saint.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” muttered J. Barclay Crammer in a bitterly scornful aside to Gardener.

“It’s your own gun, isn’t it, Felix?” he said aloud.

“Yes,” said Felix Gardener. “It was my brother’s— went all through Flanders with him.” His voice deepened. “I’m not leaving it in the theatre. Too precious. Here it is.” A little silence fell upon the company as he produced a service revolver and laid it on the table.

“It makes the play seem rather paltry,” said the author of the play.

They spoke no more of the gun.

On the morning of June 14th, when The Rat and the Beaver had run a week to full houses, Felix Gardener sent Nigel Bathgate two complimentary tickets for the stalls. Angela North, who does not come into this story, was away from London, so Nigel rang up Scotland Yard and asked for his friend, Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.

“Are you doing anything to-night?” he said.

“What do you want me to do?” said the voice in the receiver.

“How cautious you are!” said Nigel. “I’ve got a couple of seats for the show at the Unicorn. Felix Gardener gave them to me.”

“You do know a lot of exciting people!” remarked the inspector. “I’ll come with pleasure. Dine with me first, won’t you?”

“You dine with me. It’s my party.”

“Really? This promises well.”

“That’s splendid!” said Nigel. “I’ll pick you up at a quarter to seven.”

“Right you are. I’m due for a night off,” said the voice. “Thank you, Bathgate. Good-bye.”