“It was founded and built up by Mr. Meyer, wasn’t it?” asked Alleyn. “He was actually the only begetter?”

“He and George Mason,” said Gascoigne. “They made it together. George was a damn’ good actor in his day — character, you know — never played straight parts. The governor met him somewhere and they doubled up. Yes, they started forty years ago as Mason & Meyer’s Dramas, Ltd. A lot of omies the others were then, doing umpty-shows in the smalls.”

“That leaves me gaping,” said Alleyn apologetically. “What is an ‘omie,’ Miss Max, and how does one recognise an umpty-show?”

“Ted means they were bad actors doing worse shows in one-eyed towns up and down the provinces,” said Susan.

“Yes,” continued Gascoigne, “and to-day it’s the biggest theatre combine in Europe. Wonderful achievement.”

“It’ll be ‘George Mason’ only now,” said Liversidge suddenly.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Yes,” said little Ackroyd. He looked under his lashes at Gascoigne. “George will be a very wealthy man.”

At once Alleyn sensed a feeling of panic, of protest. Susan Max, who obviously disliked Ackroyd, planted her fat little hands on her knees and squared her shoulders.

“George Mason,” she said loudly, “would rather be back advancing ‘The Worst Woman in London’ than have this happen.”

“Certainly.” Gascoigne backed her up emphatically. “I’ve stage-managed for the Firm for twenty-five years and it’s been a happy little family for every day of it. Every day of it. Big as they are, they’ve gone on taking a personal interest. They run their own shows. Of course, this is just a holiday — but look at the way they’ve kept with the crowd. Mr. Meyer was down in the office every morning and, make no mistake, he came down to work. He was honest, and by God, you can’t say that for many of ’em. He and George were the whitest men in management.”

“Ah!” said Susan, ruffling her plumage, and looking with approval at Gascoigne.

“Well,” rumbled old Vernon, “I’ve no quarrel with Inky-P., and I hope to God George keeps me with him.”

“All right, all right,” protested Ackroyd, “I’m not saying George isn’t the curly-headed boy, am I, even if he hasn’t always been quite quite?”

“What d’you mean by that?” demanded Vernon.

“I seem to remember hearing something- about a company left stranded in America in the good old days,” said Ackroyd. “Just one of those stories, you know, just one of those stories.”

“Then why repeat it?” snapped Vernon.

“Hear, hear,” said Gascoigne.

“Oh, dear, dear, how I do get myself in wrong, don’t I?” cooed Ackroyd. He turned to Gascoigne. “You keep on yammering about this bloody champagne stunt, Ted. You say it was fool-proof, accident-proof, all the rest of it. Well — if it was, somebody’s murdered Alfred Meyer. Now!”

Valerie Gaynes screamed and rushed across the room to the empty chair by Liversidge.

“Frankie!” she sobbed. “Frankie! Not that! It’s not true what they’re saying — not true.”

“There, kiddy, there, there!” crooned Mr. Liversidge, stroking her arm and looking unpleasantly protective.

The door opened and George Mason returned. His round face was still very white.

“I’m sorry, everyone,” he said simply, and returned to his seat.

“Better. Mr. Mason?” asked Susan.

“Yes, thanks, Susie. Ashamed of myself. Where’s Carolyn and Hailey?”

“Still out there.”

“While we’re all together,” said Mason quietly, “I’d just like to say that whatever happens I think I’d better call the company for midday to-morrow. I’ll try and work out what’s best to be done. Everyone on stage at twelve, please, Mr. Gascoigne.”

“Certainly, Mr. Mason,” said Ted Gascoigne. “Twelve o’clock to-morrow morning, please, ladies and gentlemen.”

Packer came in.

“The chief would like to see the stage staff.”

The little group at the far end of the room came forward and filed out through the door.

“Just a moment,” said Mason suddenly. “Where are Miss Dacres and Mr. Hambledon?”

“I think they’ve gone, sir.”

“Gone?”

“They’ve arrested them!” screamed Valerie Gaynes. “My God, they’ve arrested them!”

“C-st!” said Mason savagely. “Can no one keep that girl quiet!”

“They’ve just gone home, miss,” said Packer.

Chapter VIII

MONEY

“The sooner you get down-stage and find yourself the better, young lady,” said Mason, when the staff had gone. “What’s the idea of all this tragedy stuff?”

“Oh, I can’t help it,” wailed Valerie. “I can’t help it. I can’t help it.”

“Nonsense,” said old Susan very loudly. “Carolyn and Hailey arrestedl The very idea!”

“I’m sorry. It was just him saying they’d gone. And it flashed through my mind — my poor tormented mind — how fond he is of her. I mean, we all know, and it was just—”

“Never mind, now,” interrupted Liversidge. “Think of something else.”

“That’s a suggestion,” said Alleyn cheerfully. “Think of all the money you lost, Miss Gaynes. It’s never turned up, I suppose?”

This had a salutary effect. Valerie stopped sobbing and caught her breath.

“No — I—no, it hasn’t. But Mr. Meyer was — was awfully sweet. He — he advanced it to me — the same amount. And to think—”

“Really! Very kind of him.”

“Yes. He said he felt responsible, as I was under his wing. He said the Firm wouldn’t let its people be out of pocket. And to think he’s d—”

“D’you mean he gave it to you?” asked Ackroyd.

“Well — yes. He made me take it. I said it didn’t matter — but he made me. And now he’s lying there— mur—”

“That’s just like him,” said Courtney Broadhead. “He was wonderfully generous.”

“You’ve experienced his generosity, have you, Court?” asked Liversidge.

“Yes.” Broadhead looked straight at him. “I have indeed.”

“Tell us about it, Court,” invited Gordon Palmer.

“Shut up, Gordon,” said Mr. Weston, speaking for the first time since Alleyn had been in the room. “Don’t nosy-park.”

“Well,” said Liversidge, who seemed to have recovered a good deal of his composure. “Well. It’s nice to have an extra quid or two in your pocket. Thanks to you, Court, old boy, I’ve got one or two. I’ll take you on again at Two’s Wild whenever you like.”

“You were lucky at poker, were you, Mr. Liversidge?” asked Alleyn lightly.

“I was. And poor old Court couldn’t hold a court card.” He laughed.

“Must you?” said little Ackroyd. “Oh, must you?”

“I think it’s awful to make jokes,” began Valerie, “when you think—”

“We’re making epitaphs,” said Gordon Palmer. “Or Court is, at any rate.” He glanced defiantly at Weston, and then turned to Broadhead. “I’ve got a question to ask you, Courtney. I’ve got a particular reason for asking it.”

“What is it?” said Broadhead.

“It’s this. Where did you get the money to pay your poker debts?”

In the shocked silence that followed this amazing sentence Alleyn watched Liversidge. Liversidge himself watched Courtney Broadhead.

“I haven’t the smallest objection to telling you,” said Broadhead. His face was scarlet, but he faced young Palmer collectedly. “Mr. Meyer lent it to me.”

“Oh,” said Gordon. He glanced sheepishly at Liversidge.

“Gordon!” Geoffrey Weston remarked dispassionately. “You’re a bounder.”

“ ‘Carruthers, you cad, you have disgraced the old school tie,’ ” jeered Gordon. “Really, Geoff, you’re too superb.”

“You’re asking for a hiding,” continued Mr. Weston, “and I’ve a damn’ good mind to give it you.”

“I shall run away. I run faster than you. Don’t be a ninny, Geoff. I said I had reason for asking my question. I had. A damn’ good reason. The day we left the ship Courtney asked me if I’d mind waiting for my winnings till he began to draw his money. I said no, that was all right. He said he’d been a fool and was in the soup. That night, in the train, Val found she’d been robbed of a hundred quid. The next day Courtney paid Frankie Liversidge and me every penny he owed us. He said afterwards he’d had a windfall. Now he says Mr. Meyer lent him the cash. Well, that’s very charming. Pity, in a way, that Mr. Meyer isn’t here to—”