“Yes?” said Douglas.

“Dad asked me to bring this in,” said Cliff. “It came up with our mail by mistake. He says he’s sorry.”

“Thank you, Cliff,” they murmured. He shuffled his feet and said awkwardly, “Good night, then.”

“Good night, Cliff,” they said and he went out.

“Oh Lord!” Alleyn said. “I’ve remembered. I left it in the annex. I’ll run up there and fetch it.”

He saw Terence Lynne’s hands check at their work.

“Shall I dodge up and get it?” Douglas offered.

“Not a bit of it, thanks Grace. I’ll do my own tedious job. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll get a coat and run up there.”

He returned to the hall. Cliff was in the passage heading to the kitchen. Fabian had gone. Alleyn ran upstairs. A flashlight bobbed in the long passage and came to rest on the workroom door. Fabian’s hand reached out to the lock. “Hi,” Alleyn called down the passage, “you had it.” The light shone in his eyes.”

“What?”

“My cigarette case. You took it away from the unspeakable Albert.”

“Oh, help! I put it on the piano. It’ll be all right.”

“I think I’ll get it. It’s rather special. Troy — my wife — gave it to me.”

“I’ll get it,” Fabian said.

“No, you’re going to work. It won’t take me a moment.”

He got his overcoat from his room. When he came out he found Fabian hovering uncertainly on the landing. “Look here,” he said, “you’d better let me — I mean—”

The telephone in the study gave two long rings. “There’s your call,” Fabian said. “Away with you. Lend me your coat, will you, it’s perishing cold.”

Alleyn threw his coat to him and ran downstairs. As he shut the study door he heard the rest of the party come out of the drawing-room. A moment later the front door banged.

The telephone repeated its double ring.

“There you are, Mr. Losse,” said the operator. “We’ve kept open for you. They’re waiting.”

It was P.C. Wetherbridge. “Message from the Sub-Inspector, sir. He’s left by car and ought to make it in four hours.”

“Gemini!”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Great work, Wetherbridge. Hope I haven’t cried Wolf.”

“I don’t get you too clear, sir. We’ve done that little job for you. I’ve got it noted down here. There are three likely stations.”

“Good for you,” said Alleyn warmly.

“Do you want to write the programs out, Mr. Alleyn?”

“No, no. Just read them to me.”

Wetherbridge cleared his throat and began: “Starting at seven-thirty, sir, and continuing till nine.” His voice droned on through a list of items. “… Syd Bando and the Rhythm Kids… I Got a Big Pink Momma… Garden Notes and Queries… Racing Commentary… News Summary… Half an Hour with the Jitterbugs… Anything there, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Nothing like it so far, but carry on. We’re looking for something a bit high-brow, Wetherbridge.”

“Old Melodies Made New?”

“Not quite. Carry on.”

“There’s only one other station that’s likely to come through clearly, up where you are.”

Alleyn thought: “I hope to God we’ve drawn a blank.”

“Here we go, sir. Seven-thirty, Twenty-first instalment of ‘The Vampire.’ Seven forty-five, Reading from Old Favourites. Eight-five, An Hour with the Masters.”

Alleyn’s hand tightened on the receiver. “Yes?” he said. “Any details?”

“There’s a lot of stuff in small print. Wait a jiffy, sir, if you don’t mind. I’m putting on my glasses.” Alleyn waited. “Here we are,” said Wetherbridge, and two hundred miles away a paper crackled. “Eight twenty-five,” said Wetherbridge, “ ‘Polonaise’ by Chopping but there’s a lot more. Back,” said Wetherbridge uncertainly, “or would it be Bark? The initials are J. S. It’s a pianna solo.”

“Go on please.”

“ ‘The Art of Fewje,’ ” said Wetherbridge. “I’d better spell that, Mr. Alleyn. F for Freddy, U for Uncle, G for George, U for Uncle, E for Edward? Any good?”

“Yes.”

“It seems to have knocked off at eight fifty-seven.”

“Yes.”

“Last on the list,” said Wetherbridge. “Will that be the article we’re looking for, sir?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Alleyn.

After they’d rung off he sat on for a minute or two, whistling dolefully. His hand went automatically to the pocket where he kept his cigarette case. It was quite ten minutes since Fabian went out. Perhaps he was waiting in the hall.

But the hall was empty and very still. An oil lamp, turned low, burnt on the table. Alleyn saw that only two candles remained from the nightly muster of six. The drawing-room party had evidently gone to bed. Fabian must be upstairs. Using his torch, Alleyn went quietly up to the landing. Light showed under the doors of the girls’ rooms, and farther down the passage, under Douglas’. There was none under Fabian’s door. Alleyn moved softly down the passage to the workroom. No light in there. He waited, listening, and then moved back towards the landing. A board creaked under his feet.

“Hullo!” called Douglas. “That you, Fab?”

“It’s me,” said Alleyn quietly.

Douglas’ door opened and he looked out. “Well, I wondered who it was,” he said, eyeing Alleyn dubiously. “I mean it seemed funny.”

“Another night prowler? Up to no good?”

“Well, I must say you sounded a bit stealthy. Anything you want, sir?”

“No,” said Alleyn. “Just sleuthing. Go to bed.”

Douglas grinned and withdrew his head. “Enjoy yourself,” Alleyn heard him say cheekily, and the door was shut.

Perhaps Fabian had left the cigarette case in his room and was already asleep. Odd, though, that he didn’t wait.

There was no cigarette case in his room. “Blast!” Alleyn muttered. “He can’t find it! The miserable Albert’s pinched it. Blast!”

He crept downstairs again. A faint glimmer of light showed at the end of the hall. A door into the kitchen passage was open. He went through it, and met Markins in the silver pantry, candle in hand.

“Just locking up, sir,” said Markins. “Were you wanting me?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Losse.”

“Wasn’t he up by the men’s quarters with you, Mr. Alleyn? About ten minutes ago.”

“He was probably there, but I wasn’t.”

“That’s funny,” Markins said, staring at him. “I’d ’ave sworn it was you.”

“He was wearing my coat.”

“Is that the case? Who was the other gentleman, then?”

“Not me. What other gentleman?”

Markins set his candle down and shut the door. “I was going up to the manager’s cottage,” he said. “I wanted to have a word with Mr. Johns. Cliff had just gone back there. The cottage is up the hill at the back of the annex, you know. When I came out of the back door here, I thought I saw you on the main track to the men’s quarters, going towards the annex. I thought I’d cut across and see you, and I started up the path from the back door. You lose sight of the other track for a bit. I heard you call out something and I sung out ‘Hullo, sir?’ Then I heard you run downhill. When I came up to where you can see the track, you weren’t in sight.”

Alleyn took the tip of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Not me,” he said. “Mr. Losse.”

“It sounded like you, sir. I thought you must have been talking to someone else.”

“And apparently, on the telephone, I sounded like Mr. Losse. Damn it then,” Alleyn said irritably, “where is he? If he ran downhill why didn’t he come in? And who was he singing out to? Young Cliff?”

“No, sir. Cliff was home by then. When I got up to the cottage I asked him if he’d seen you and he said he hadn’t seen anybody. What was Mr. Losse doing, sir?”

Alleyn told him, “Come on,” he said. “I don’t like this. Let’s hunt him out.”

“There’s half a dozen things he might be doing, Mr. Alleyn.”

“What sort of things? We’ll go through your kitchen, Markins. Lead the way. I’ve got a torch.”

“Well,” said Markins, moving off, “letting water out of the truck radiator. It’s going to be a hard frost.”

“Would he run downhill to do that?”