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Yard number. A man’s voice answered him very quickly.
    “I’m speaking for Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn,” said Nigel. “There’s been an accident at the Unicorn — a—a fatal accident. He wants you to send the usual people and constables at once.”
    “Very good,” said the voice. “Did you say fatal accident?”
    “Yes,” said Nigel, “I think so, and I think—” He stopped, gulped, and then his voice seemed to add of its own accord: “I think it looks like murder.”

CHAPTER IV
Alleyn Takes Over
    When Nigel got back to the stage he was surprised to find little alteration in the scene he had left. He did not realize how short a time he had been away. The doctor had finished his examination of Surbonadier’s body and stood looking down at him.
    Miss Vaughan was still on the stage. She was sobbing in the arms of old Susan Max. Felix Gardener was near her, but he seemed unaware of anyone but Alleyn and the doctor. He looked from one to the other, distractedly moving his head like someone in pain. When he saw Nigel he walked over to him swiftly and stood beside him. Nigel took hold of his arm and squeezed it. In the wings, masked in shadows, were groups of people.
    “I haven’t moved him,” said the doctor. “It’s a very superficial examination, but quite enough for your purpose. He was shot through the heart and died instantly.”
    “I shot him,” said Gardener suddenly. “I’ve killed him. I’ve killed Arthur.”
    The doctor glanced at him uneasily.
    “Shut up, Felix,” Nigel murmured. He looked at Alleyn. The inspector was standing talking to George Simpson. They walked to the prompt box. Simpson was showing Alleyn something. It was the gun he used for the faked report.
    “I never knew,” he kept saying. “They went off at the same time. I never knew. This was a blank. I never even pointed it. It couldn’t have done anything, could it?”
    Alleyn came back on to the stage. He spoke to all the people in the wings and on the set. “Will you all go to the wardrobe-room, please? I shall take statements later. You will, of course, want to change and take off your war paint. I am afraid I must forbid any access to the dressing-rooms until I have been through them, but I understand there is a wash-basin and a mirror in the wardrobe-room and I shall have your things sent in to you there. Just a moment, please. Don’t go yet.”
    Six men were making their way through the crowd in the wings. Three of the newcomers were uniformed constables. The others were plain clothes men. They were given place and walked on to the stage.
    “Well, Bailey,” said Alleyn.
    “Well, sir,” said one of the plain clothes men. “What’s the trouble?”
    “As you see.” Alleyn turned towards the body. The men pulled off their hats. One of them put a handbag down by Alleyn, who nodded. Detective-Sergeant Bailey, a fingerprint official, bent down and looked at the body.
    “You men,” said Alleyn to the constables, “take everyone to the wardrobe-room. One of you stay outside and one at the stage door. Nobody to come out or go in. Mr. Simpson will show you. He goes in too. Please, Mr. Simpson.”
    The stage manager started forward and looked wanly round the stage.
    “Everybody in the wardrobe-room, please,” he said, as though he was calling a rehearsal. He turned to the constables. “This way, please,” he added.
    He walked off the stage, a policeman following him. A second man waited a moment and then said:
    “Just move along, please, ladies and gentlemen.” Old Susan Max, roundabout, sensible, said: “Come along, dear,” to Miss Vaughan. Miss Vaughan stretched out her hands dumbly to Gardener, who did not look at her. She turned towards Alleyn, who watched her curiously, and then, with a very touching dignity, she let herself be led off by Susan Max. At the doorway she turned and looked again at the dead man, shuddered, and disappeared into the wings.
    “Lovely exit, wasn’t it?” said the