“We’d better walk. It looks odd our standing here talking.”

They had gone a little way before she said in a different voice, more alive, more natural,

“What was in the will? You’d better tell me.”

He laughed.

“Oh, you come off all right! You get your fifty thousand all the same- ‘To my dear cousin Agnes Masterman who has always been very kind to me!’ ” He gave that angry laugh again. “But I only get a beggarly five thousand, and no ‘dear’ in front of my name, while a solid forty-five thousand goes down the drain in charity! Do you expect me to lie down under that?”

The colour sprang into her cheeks. Just for a moment you could see what she would look like if she were happy. Her eyes brightened and her voice rang.

“But, Geoffrey-why didn’t you tell me? We can put the whole thing right. You can have the money-I don’t want it. You can take the fifty thousand and let me have what she was leaving you. You’ve only got to go to the solicitors and say you’ve found this later will. You can say it was hidden in her biscuit-box-and that’s absolutely true, because that’s where she did hide it, poor old thing. There won’t be any risk about it at all, and we’ll get rid of this nightmare which is killing me. It is, Geoffrey-it is!”

Her voice throbbed with passion though she kept it low. Her very walk had changed. It was she who had quickened the pace.

He looked at her with surprise.

“My dear Agnes-how vehement! If you really want to give forty-five thousand pounds away in charity, I don’t suppose I shall interfere. I’d no idea you had such an expensive conscience. I advise you to bridle it. Anyhow I haven’t got the will in my pocket, and Trower and Wakefield don’t live over the way, so I think the whole matter can wait until we get home. Meanwhile you’ll please to remember that if there’s any trouble over this Porlock business, any encouragement of the blackmail idea, I shan’t be in a position to produce that will. So if you want it produced you’ve got to put up a pretty good show for Scotland Yard.”

Chapter XXII

Mr. Carroll came into the study with a jaunty air. The cold blue eyes of Sergeant Abbott took him in from head to foot. Their owner decided that the fellow was putting on an act. Might mean nothing-putting on acts being more or less second nature to an actor. Might mean something to hide-according to Pearson, quite a lot. He sustained a slightly insolent return stare with equanimity and took up his pencil.

Mr. Carroll’s act, which permitted a derogatory glance at the Sergeant, tumbled over itself with bright helpfulness towards the Chief Inspector.

“You’ll understand I don’t know any of these people except Miss Lane -I’ve met her of course. But anything I can do to be of any help-”

“I take it you knew Mr. Porlock?”

Mr. Carroll’s crooked eyebrow rose.

“As a matter of fact, hardly at all. I’d met him once or twice in houses where I’ve had a professional engagement, so when he offered me one for this week-end-”

“You were here professionally?”

The eyebrow twitched, the whole crooked side of the face twitched in a crooked smile.

“My dear man, have you seen the rest of the house party? Wild horses wouldn’t have got me anywhere near them if I hadn’t been paid for it! And I don’t mind telling you I was going to put it to Porlock that I’d expect a bonus.” He settled himself back in his chair with a gesture which dismissed the Totes and Mastermans to some appropriate limbo, and said, “Well, go ahead-ask me all the questions you want to. I’m quite at your disposal, but not, I’m afraid, very useful. You see, I’d gone upstairs to wash after the charade-I was all smothered in paint-so I wasn’t on the scene when Porlock was knifed.”

“So I understand. This is Mr. Leigh’s sketch of the hall, showing everyone’s position when the lights came on after the murder.” He passed the paper across. “Will you take a look at it and tell me whether it corresponds with what you remember?”

Leonard Carroll looked, nodded, passed it back again, all between a couple of breaths.

“That’s O.K. by me. I was about the third step down. Tote coming out of the drawing-room. At least-” one side of his lip lifted a trifle-“I suppose that’s what it was meant to look like. And Moira Lane and Mrs. Oakley one on either side of Porlock. All very arresting and dramatic-especially when Mrs. Oakley went down on her knees and began to scream ‘Glen- Glen! Someone’s killed Glen!” I suppose you can’t tell me why she called him Glen, can you? As his name was Gregory, and his friends all called him Greg, one couldn’t help wondering, could one? Especially as I understand he had only met the lady once, a couple of days before. In which case her emotion seemed a little excessive, and one wondered how she came by quite a different Christian name.”

Lamb said, “Quite so. Now, Mr. Carroll-about your own movements. I have your statement here.” He lifted a paper from the blotting-pad. “I see you say that when the lights came on after the charade was over you were standing on that oak table in the hall, with Miss Lane just below. You were wearing a paper mask covered wifh luminous paint. You took it off and dropped it on the table. You then came forward, received the congratulations of your audience, and made your way upstairs to get the paint off your hands. Why did you go upstairs? The cloakroom was nearer, wasn’t it?”

“I’d left my dinner-jacket in my room. I was wearing a pullover.”

“How long were you away?”

“I don’t know-a few minutes.”

“You got the paint off your hands very quickly.”

Carroll gave his crooked smile.

“I’m a professional. You have to be quick between turns.”

“I see.”

“I wish I could be of more use. But there it is-I was well out of the way. I had just got to the top of the stairs, when the lights went out.”

“Could you see the hearth? There are switches there on the left-could you see who was nearest to them?”

“Afraid not. I’d just come to the corner. As soon as I got there the lights went out.”

Lamb leaned forward.

“Mr. Carroll, there are four sets of switches. The hall lights can be turned on or off from any of the four.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that.”

“Yet you arranged that the lights should be turned off for your charade and then turned on again.”

Carroll shrugged.

“Sorry-my mistake. I knew about the switches by the hearth of course. Masterman was in charge of the lighting for the charade-any other switches didn’t come into it.”

Lamb resumed.

“There are four sets of switches-one at the front door, one on the left-hand side of the hearth, one by the service door at the back of the hall, and one at the top of the stairs. Mr. Leigh turned the lights on at the front door after Mr. Porlock had been stabbed. There are his fingerprints on the switch. I think we may take it as certain that the lights were not turned off from there. That leaves the three other switches. You say Mr. Masterman used the switch by the hearth to turn the lights on after the charade?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that accounts for his fingerprints on that switch. If anyone else had touched it after he did, his prints would have been spoiled.”

“Perhaps he touched it again himself.”

“Just so. But there are two other switches that might have been used-the one by the service door, and the one at the top of the stairs.”

Leonard Carroll laughed.

“So handy for me! Sorry to disappoint you, but I didn’t even know that the switch was there. If I had known, and had wanted to stick a knife into Porlock-incidentally depriving myself of quite a handsome fee-how do you suppose I managed it? I should have had to fly down and back again, to reach him and be where Leigh saw me when the lights came on. I’m afraid it couldn’t be done.”