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enlightened. “Madge Crane is a Star, then?” he ventured.
    “You really hadn’t heard of her?” Miss Flecker chuckled maliciously. “She would be pleased. Madge is one of the First Ladies of British Films.”
    “First La—” Humbleby shook his head in bafflement. “Whatever can that mean?”
    “Well, I think it means that she’s no longer obliged to make films in which she has to show her legs.” Miss Flecker delivered this judgment with notable dispassion. “And that saves everyone a lot of trouble, because they always did have to be filmed very carefully if they were going to come out looking like anything at all.”
    The door opened and the youth called Johnny appeared with two cups of tea, which he handed to Fen and Humbleby. “We’ve finished off the biscuits,” he announced without visible remorse, “so I’m afraid you’ll have to do without… Judy, the L.S.O. is hanging about on Stage Two complaining because Griswold hasn’t turned up. Where is he?”
    “He had to go to Denham to see Muir about something or other, and he said he might be late. Calm them, Johnny, calm them. Tell them to sit down and practise a symphony. Has Ireland arrived yet?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Well, mind you behave respectfully to him when he does.”
    “You don’t think,” said Johnny wistfully, “that it would be a good idea for me to run them through a few of the music sections while they’re waiting?”
    “No, I don’t. Go away and get on with your work.”
    Johnny retired in dejection, and Miss Flecker was saying “Well now…” when the telephone rang. “Damn,” she said. “Excuse me… Yes, put him through… Good morning, Dr. Bush—Geoffrey, I should say… Triple woodwind? Well, I imagine it might be managed; I’ll ask Mr. Griswold… It’ll be the Philharmonia, yes.” Dr. Bush crackled prolongedly, “No measurements for reels four and five yet? All right, I’ll nag them… Yes, I know you can’t be expected to write a score if you haven’t got any measurements… No, there’s not the least chance of postponing the recording; you’ll just have to work all night as well as all day… Have you sent any of the score to the copyists yet? … Well, you’d better get on with it, hadn’t you?… See you at the recording… No… Certainly not. Good-bye.”
    She put down the instrument. “A composer,” she explained soberly, like one who refers to some necessary but unromantic bodily function. “I’m sorry things have to get hectic the moment you arrive. Perhaps now we shall have a few minutes’ peace.” She retrieved her cup and drank the tepid tea in it with a grimace. “Oh, Lord, measurements… Johnny!” she called; and when that individual put his head hopefully in at the door: “Johnny, get on to Loring, will you, and tell him Dr. Bush is waiting for the measurements for reels four and five of Escape to Purgatory.”
    “He’ll only go all pathetic on me,” said Johnny, his optimism abating at this request, “and say they’re doing their best.”
    “Tell him they must do better if they want any incidental music for those reels… And, Johnny, see to it that I’m not disturbed for ten minutes, please.”
    With a doleful nod Johnny vanished, and Miss Flecker relaxed gratefully in her chair. “At last,” she said. “And I really do apologise.”
    “Not at all,” said Humbleby. “It’s we who should apologise for interrupting you.” He produced a notebook and a gold propelling pencil and cleared his throat premonitorily. “Now as regards this girl…”
    “Are you in a position”—Miss Flecker spoke a trifle warily—“to tell me why you want to know about her?”
    “Certainly.” And Humbleby eyed her in an innocent-seeming way which in reality masked swift and shrewd powers of observation. “She has committed suicide.”
    For a moment there was silence. Clearly Miss Flecker was shocked, though the only sign she gave was a slight lifting of the