"I've always wanted to be in on a real murder," remarked Sally thoughtfully. "How was he killed?"

"He had his head smashed," replied Neville.

Helen gave a moan, but her sister nodded with all the air of a connoisseur. "A blow from a blunt instrument," she said. "Any idea who did it?"

"No, but Helen may have."

Helen lifted her head. "I tell you I wasn't there!"

"Your shoes belie you, sweet."

"Yes, yes, but not when he was killed! I wasn't, I tell you, I wasn't!"

The monocle dropped out of Miss Drew's eye. She screwed it in again, bending a searching gaze upon her sister. "What do you mean - "yes, but not when he was killed"? Have you been round to Greystones tonight?"

Helen seemed uncertain how to answer, but after a moment she said: "Yes. Yes, I did go round to see Ernie.

I - I got sick of the noise of your typewriter, for one thing, and, for another, I - I wanted particularly to see him." "Look here!" said Sally, "you may as well spill it now as later! - what is there between you and Ernie F'letcher?"

"As a purist," said Neville, "I must take exception to your use of the present tense."

She rounded on him. "I suppose you're in on it, whatever it is? Then you'll dam' well tell me."

"It isn't what you think!" Helen said quickly. "Truly, it isn't, Sally! Oh, I admit I liked him, but not - not enough for that!"

"If you can tell Neville the truth you can tell it to me," said Sally. "And don't pull any stuff about going to see him because of my typewriter, because it won't wash."

"Tell her," advised Neville. "She likes sordid stories."

Helen flushed. "Need you call it that?"

He sighed. "Dear pet, I told you at the outset that I considered it too utterly trite and sordid to appeal to me. Why bring that up now?"

"You don't know what it is to be desperate," she said bitterly.