Mavis looked down at the grey and white muslin of her dress and the long white gloves she was holding. It was too hot to wear gloves. But her hands were not hot, they were deathly cold and damp.

She said, “Oh, yes,” in a fluttering voice.

“You were at the Ducks and Drakes with Mr. Craddock?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you leave?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would it be somewhere before one o’clock?”

“I think so… Oh, yes, it was, because my uncle and aunt really don’t like my being out late-not just in the ordinary way, you know. I haven’t got a key. They’re very strict and old-fashioned, so it means that someone has to sit up.”

This was one of the bits she had thought about. She felt pleased with herself, because really she was doing it very well. She went on, hurrying to get it over.

“So when I knew how late I was going to be, I rang up and said I would spend the night with Isabel Young-that is, Mrs. James Young, Upton Villa, Carrisbroke Road, Hampstead, Garden City.”

“Hm!” said the Inspector to himself, “Very pat with that address, aren’t you?” Then aloud, “And then, you came back here with Mr. Craddock?”

Mavis’s hands tightened on the gloves.

“Oh, no-of course I didn’t. I went to Isabel’s.”

He leaned forward.

“Miss Grey, I’m going to ask you to be careful. This is a murder case. Your friend Mrs. Young might say that you had stayed the night with her to get you out of a scrape with your uncle and aunt, but do you think she’ll stand up and swear to it on her oath in a court of justice?”

Mavis looked at him in a perfectly terrified manner.

“I did go there.”

“Not at one o’clock, Miss Grey. You came back here with Mr. Craddock. You were seen here.”

Mavis said, “Oh!” and lost her head. “Oh, I wasn’t-who saw me? There wasn’t anyone-Peter wouldn’t-”

“It was not Mr. Peter Renshaw. He has referred me to you. Now, Miss Grey-you were seen, and the best thing you can do is to tell the truth. Lies won’t get you anywhere, and trying to cover things up won’t get you anywhere. You can’t cover things up in a murder case.”

She leaned back, panting a little.

“It’s all very stupid. Of course I’ll tell you the truth. I really did mean to go to Isabel’s. But it’s such a long way, and when he-when Ross suggested that I should come back here and ask my cousin Lucy Craddock to put me up I thought I would.”

“Were you not aware that Miss Craddock was leaving for the Continent yesterday?”

“Ross said she had put off going-he really did, or I wouldn’t have come back here with him-I really wouldn’t. And when I found she had gone I just came in here to have a drink. And Ross was rude to me, so I went over to Peter, and he took me in.”

The Inspector considered this a very economical description. It took him a good deal of questioning to fill in the details-the crash that had waked Miss Bingham, and probably Mr. Peter Renshaw as well; the decanter that had smashed over Mr. Craddock’s head-and he seemed to have asked for it proper; and the girl’s headlong flight, clutching her torn dress-well, that fitted in all right with what Miss Bingham had seen. She hadn’t made any bones about it either, not once he got her going. He was left with no doubt in his mind that one cousin had been rude to her, and the other cousin had taken her in, and that except for a cut over the eye which he had richly deserved Mr. Ross Craddock was alive and hearty at 1 a.m. The question was, what had happened after that? Had Mr. Renshaw gone across to his cousin’s flat and come to such terms with him over the girl that it had ended in a revolver shot? It might have happened that way. Words running high. One at least of the two men flushed with liquor. Mr. Craddock getting out his revolver perhaps, and having it snatched from him. Some sort of a struggle, and-the shot. And the girl running in on them. Yes, it might have been that way very easily. Against it only Abbott’s remark-and by rights Abbott shouldn’t be making remarks-that if he and Miss Grey had both been out of the flat,“ Mr. Renshaw wouldn’t pass her and go in first.”

He studied Miss Mavis Grey with his chin in his hand. He thought she looked like a girl who has said her piece and got it over. She had let go of those gloves she had been wringing into knots and was sitting back. Colour a bit more natural too. He said,

“Did you notice what time the shot was fired?” and saw her flinch.

She caught her breath and said all in a hurry,

“Oh, no-how could I? I never heard any shot.”

“Not with your head right up against this wall? Mr. Renshaw gave you his bedroom, didn’t he? I’ve had a look at the flat, and the head of the bed is not three yards from where you’re sitting now, and not four from the place where Mr. Craddock was found. Come, come, Miss Grey, I think you must have heard that shot.”

“Oh, but I didn’t. I was so tired. I’d been dancing-it was so hot-I was dreadfully tired-I just slept. When I’m like that nothing wakes me-and there was a lot of traffic.”

“Did you hear the traffic in your sleep? Be careful, Miss Grey. You say you were asleep. Did you undress?”

“I took my dress off.”

“Then you must have put it on again, because you were wearing it when Miss Bingham saw you go back into Mr. Renshaw’s flat at three o’clock in the morning.”

“She couldn’t-she didn’t-I was asleep.”

“She is prepared to swear that she did. Don’t you think you had better tell me the truth, Miss Grey?”

A bright angry glow suffused the artificial colour in her cheeks and overflowed it. She clenched her hands over the gloves and said stubbornly,

“She saw me at one o’clock. She couldn’t have seen me at three-I was in bed and asleep.”

“Are you going to swear to that at the inquest?”

She gave a sort of gasp and said “Yes.”

He went on looking at her hard for a moment, and then said in an easy conversational voice,

“What about that dress you were wearing last night? I’d like to have a look at it. Did Lintott bring it along?”

“I haven’t got it. It was torn. I’ve thrown it away.”.

“Where?” said Inspector Lamb.

Mavis stared at him.

“Did you put it in your waste-paper basket, or what? If you did, I’m afraid Lintott will have to collect it, even if it’s gone into the dustbin.”

Mavis rushed into speech.

“I burnt it.”

“Where did you burn it?”

“In my bedroom fire, it wasn’t any use-it was all torn-I couldn’t have worn it. I-”

“Do you generally have a fire in your bedroom when the temperature is over eighty? Come, come, Miss Grey, what have you done with that dress?”

There was a knock on the door. He looked over his shoulder and said “Come in.”

Constable Lintott came into the room with a rolled-up bundle in his hand.

Mavis said “Oh!” and the Inspector said,

“Where did you find it, Lintott?”

“Chest of drawers in the bedroom-bottom drawer-pushed down under a lot of the old lady’s things.”

“All right, that’ll do. Put it down.”

Constable Lintott withdrew.

The Inspector got up out of his chair and shook out the bundle, which resolved itself into a long silver dress, a good deal torn, a good deal crushed. A large circular piece had been cut out of the front. He looked at Mavis, and Mavis looked at the dress. She hadn’t cut away quite enough. The stain had spread. As that dreadful fat man stood there holding it up, anybody-anybody could see why the piece had been cut out. It had been cut out because it had been soaked in blood.

Mavis burst into tears. The Inspector’s voice came to her through the sound of her own sobs.

“Now, Miss Grey-here’s your own dress telling its story plain enough. You were in this flat after Mr. Craddock was shot. Perhaps you were here when the shot was fired. You were here, and you knelt down and got the front of your dress all messed up with his blood, and then you went back to number nine and Miss Bingham saw you. She saw Mr. Renshaw inside his own flat, and she saw you go in. Now you just come across with what you know. Was it Mr. Renshaw who fired that shot?”