“What time must we leave?” Janet asked.

“We shouldn’t start later than six,” said Roger, “the curtain rises at a quarter past seven and I don’t suppose we’ll be able to get a cab.” He reached out for his cup and then sat upright, hearing footsteps on the front path. The lounge was at the front of the house.

The footsteps were heavy and deliberate.

“Darling, why are you on edge so?” demanded Janet. “It’s probably the laundryman.” She put the lid over a dish of toasted crumpets and hurried to the front door. Roger glanced towards the hall, not knowing himself why he felt so worked up, until he heard Abbott’s familiar voice.

“Good afternoon,” said the Superintendent, “is Inspector West in, please ?”

“Yes, he’s at home,” said Janet, her tone reflecting the keenness of her disappointment.

“Ask him to be good enough to spare me a few minutes, will you? I am Superintendent Abbott of New Scotland Yard.”

“Yes, I know,” said Janet. She asked Abbott into the hall, then came to tell Roger, who was standing up and sipping his tea.

“Shall I ask him in here?”

“Yes, you’d better,” said Roger, reluctantly.

“I suppose I’ll have to offer him some tea,” said Janet. She made a moué and then went out into the hall again, but she sounded brighter as she invited Abbott to come into the lounge.

“It is a private matter, Mrs West. I would rather see him alone,” Abbott said.

Roger went into the hall with a manner which could hardly be called inviting.

“Wouldn’t a phone call have done as well?” He was on surer ground in his home than at the Yard. He saw Detective Sergeant Martin standing by the gate, looking gloomier because it was raining harder. Drops fell from the turned-down brim of his trilby. Roger frowned and added more sharply : “What is it?”