“You think we might get a print of the murderer’s hand on the panelled side of the staircase?”

“Or on the balustrade. I am not clear as to the height reached by the stair at a point immediately opposite the switches.”

Frank Abbott said thoughtfully,

“It’s worth trying for. But if he was wearing gloves, it’s a wash-out.”

Miss Silver gave her gentle cough.

“I think it very improbable that he would have been wearing gloves. By the way, I assume that no glove has been found.”

“No.”

“It would almost certainly have been marked with paint. I do not believe that the murderer wore a glove. He would have so short a time to dispose of it. It would be much simpler and safer to wipe the hilt of the dagger. To return to a possible print on the side of the staircase. It would, I think, be likely to be a left-hand print, since the right hand would either be holding the dagger or ready to take hold of it without an instant of delay.”

The cold blue eyes held a spark of admiration. Frank Abbott said,

“Any more aces?”

“My dear Frank!”

“I should like to know. You know what the Chief is like when you pull a fast one.”

“My dear Frank!”

His eyes teased as well as admired.

“Come-as man to man, is that all?”

Miss Silver was indulgent to the young. She smiled benignly, gave her slight cough, and said,

“For the moment.”

Chapter XXIX

The evening which ensued was a curious one. If the house party had seemed strangely incompatible whilst still held together by the rich and genial personality of Gregory Porlock, there were, now that he was dead, no longer any points of contact between its various members. If the original bond had been fear, it had been camouflaged by all that social sense could suggest. To vary the metaphor-if the current ran cold below, there had been a certain glitter on the surface. There was now nothing but a collection of frightened and uncomfortable people constrained to one another’s company and dreadfully conscious that the shadow which lay across them was to deepen before it lifted, and that for one of them it would most probably never lift at all.

A little, as it were, on the edge of all this gloom, Justin could approve the manner in which Dorinda played a new and difficult part. She was the hostess, but there should be no stressing of the fact. She carried it quietly and simply-a young girl called to take some older person’s place. She showed a charming consideration to Miss Masterman, with her dark, drawn face, and to Mrs. Tote, more like a mouse than ever-a very unhappy mouse which had been crying its eyes out.

Miss Masterman had no response to make. She was now entirely given up to waiting for a reply to the letter which she had sent. All her intelligence, all her emotions, her whole consciousness, waited ardently for the moment when she would be free from the burden which she had carried for these intolerable months. Alone amongst those present she was not primarily concerned with Gregory Porlock and the manner of his death. There was not really room in her mind for anything except the release for which she waited.

Miss Silver was probably the only person who enjoyed her dinner. She appreciated good food, and even a murder in the house could not obscure the superlative excellence of Mrs. Rodger’s cooking. When they adjourned to the drawing-room she produced her knitting. The pale pink infant’s vest now approaching completion awoke a faint spark of interest in Mrs. Tote. Before she knew where she was she was telling this comfortingly dowdy little person all about Allie and Allie’s baby, and how she hoped there would be another. “Not too soon, because I don’t hold with that, but it doesn’t do to put off too long either, because if it comes to years between like you get nowadays, where’s the company for the children? Every one of them’s an only child, as you may say, and when all’s said and done, what a child wants is company, and not a lot of grownups keeping it on the strain. A child wants other children to tumble about with and fight and make up with. I only had the one myself-at least only the one that lived, but I know what children ought to have.”

Miss Silver agreeing, they became quite cozy over a knitting-stitch.

Miss Masterman took up the paper. She did not read it, but if you hold up a newspaper, people leave you alone, and all she wanted was to be left alone.

Moira Lane turned from the fire, looked for a moment at Dorinda, and said,

“Come and talk to me.” Then she laughed. “For God’s sake let’s be human! I don’t think you did it, and I hope you don’t think I did, but if you do you might as well say so. Let’s get into the other settee and stop being polite and inhibited. Who do you think did do it? I don’t mind saying, whoever the murderer was, he did an uncommonly good job. Greg was poison. If he’s your uncle, you probably know as much about that as I do.”

Dorinda looked into the blue dancing eyes. The dance was a defiant one. She thought about Morgiana dancing in front of the Captain of the Forty Thieves and plunging a dagger up to the hilt in his breast. A feeling of horror came over her. It showed in her voice as she said,

“Not my uncle-my aunt’s husband.”

Moira’s laugh rang out.

“Who cares what he was? He was poison! And you’re just choked up with inhibitions. You’d be a lot more comfortable without them. What were you thinking about just now when you looked as if you’d caught me red-handed?”

Something gave way. Dorinda said,

“Morgiana and the Captain of the Forty Thieves-out of the Arabian Nights, where she stabs him.”

Moira was lighting a cigarette. Her hand was as steady as a rock. The flame of the match caught the paper and crept in along the brown shreds of tobacco. She threw the match into the fire and drew at the cigarette until the whole tip glowed red. Then, and not till then, she turned an interested gaze upon Dorinda.

“Do you know, I believe you’re clever, because I can just see myself doing that. She danced, didn’t she? Well, you could work yourself up like that-couldn’t you? Of course you’d have to hate the man to start with, but however much I hated anyone, I couldn’t stick a knife into him in cold blood-could you? It gives me pins and needles to think of it. But you might be able to work yourself up to it with some good whirling music and the sort of dance that gets faster and faster and faster-” She broke off, rather pale.

Dorinda said quickly, “You said I was clever. I’m going to tell you you’re stupid. It’s idiotic to talk like that, and you ought to have the sense to know it without being told.”

Moira blew out a little cloud of smoke. Her delicate eyebrows rose.

“Going to tell the police?” Her voice was lazy.

Dorinda said, “Don’t be silly!” as sharply as if they had both been schoolgirls.

“It might interest them,” said the lazy voice.

“I shouldn’t think so.”

Moira laughed.

“Do you know, I like you.”

“Thank you!”

“You needn’t be sarcastic-I meant it. I oughtn’t to, because I suppose you’re my hated rival. Justin’s in love with you, isn’t he?”

“Oh, no!”

Dorinda hadn’t blushed. She had turned rather pale. The gold-brown eyes looked at Moira with inescapable candour.

“Oh, no-he isn’t!”

Moira seemed amused.

“Did he tell you so?”

Dorinda held her head up.

“He is my cousin, and he has been very good to me. I am very fond of him, and I hope he is fond of me.”

Moira said, “Go on hoping!” Then she laughed. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you ought to tell the truth-unless you can put up a really convincing lie? Which you can’t. I can, but I’m not going to. I could have done with Justin myself, but I shan’t get him. I might have done if it hadn’t been for you.” She blew out another little cloud of smoke. “I don’t mean to say that I’m in off the deep end, so you needn’t lock your door in case I creep in in the middle of the night with another of those daggers. But I could have done with Justin, and I’ve an idea that he could have done with me if there hadn’t been any Dorinda Brown. So what a good thing I like you, isn’t it?”