“Well,” said Barker, after a moment’s silence, “I’ll never talk to you about your flair again, Grant. Do you think she’s mad?”

“If logic carried to excess is madness, then she is,” Grant said.

“But she seems to have no feelings on the subject at all — either for herself or for Sorrell.”

“No. Perhaps she is crazy.”

“There’s no chance of its not being true? It’s a far less believable story in my eyes than the Lamont one.”

“Oh, yes, it’s true,” Grant said. “There’s not a doubt of it. It seems strange to you only because you haven’t lived with the case as I have. The whole thing falls into place now — Sorrell’s suicide, the gift of the money to Lamont, the booking of the passage, the brooch. I was a fool not to have seen that the initials might as well have been R. M. But I was obsessed by the Ratcliffe women at the time. Not that reading the initials the other way would have helped me too much, if Mrs. Wallis hadn’t turned up with her confession. Still, I ought to have connected it with Ray Marcable. On the very first day of the investigations, I went down to the Woffington to have a talk with the doorkeeper, and I saw Ray Marcable then, and she gave me tea. Over tea I described the dagger to her — the description was going to the Press that evening. She looked so startled that I was almost certain that she had seen something like that before. But there wasn’t any way of making her tell if she didn’t want to, so I left it, and from beginning to end of the case there has been nothing to connect her with it until now. Sorrell must have intended to go to America as soon as he knew that she was going. Poor devil! She might be Ray Marcable to the rest of the world, and a very big star, but he never got over thinking of her as Rosie Markham. That was his tragedy. She, of course, isn’t a bit like that. It’s a long time since Ray Marcable thought of herself as Rosie Markham. I expect she made it definite that there was nothing doing when she returned the brooch he had had made for her. A brooch like that wouldn’t have meant anything to Ray Marcable. He had really meant to go to America till the Thursday evening, when he got the parcel Mrs. Everett talked about. That was the brooch, and that evidently tore it. She may have announced her intention of marrying Lacing, for all I know. You saw that he had gone out on the same boat with her? Sorrell must have made up his mind then that he would shoot her and commit suicide. The Woffington pit isn’t the best place for shots at the stage with a revolver, but I expect he counted on the fuss there would be at the end. It isn’t so very long since I saw half the pit in the orchestra at the end of a last night at the Arena. Or perhaps he meant to do it as she was leaving the theatre after the show. I don’t know. He could have done it in the afternoon quite easily — he and Lamont went to the stalls — but he didn’t. I don’t think he wanted his friends to know if there was the remotest chance that they mightn’t. You see, he tried to fit things so that they would take it for granted that he was on his way to America. That explains the lack of clues. Neither Mrs. Everett nor Lamont would connect the suicide of an unknown man who had killed Ray Marcable with the man they thought was on the Queen of Arabia. He probably forgot that meeting in the street with Mrs. Wallis, or didn’t think that his secret thoughts had been so obvious to her. When you come to think of it, it was rather cute of her to spot what he intended. Of course, she had the clue — she knew about Ray. But she was the only one who would be able to connect him with Ray Marcable. Ray Marcable never went anywhere with him, of course. He tried to do the best he could for his friend by handing over his wad, with instructions, as Lamont said, that it wasn’t to be opened till the Thursday. Do you think Sorrell thought there was a chance that his friend would never know what had become of him, or do you think he didn’t care so long as the deed was well over before they found out?”

“Search me!” said Barker. “I don’t think he was too sane either.”

“No,” said Grant, considering, “I don’t think Sorrell was crazy. It’s just what Lamont said about him — he thought for a long time about something, and then did exactly what he intended. The only thing he didn’t reckon with was Mrs. Wallis — and you’ll admit she isn’t the kind of quantity you’d expect to find butting around in an ordinary crowd. He couldn’t have been a bad sort, Sorrell. Even to the last he kept up the jape about going to America. His packing was perfect — but Lamont was packing at the same time, and probably in and out of the room all the time. He hadn’t a single letter or photograph of Ray Marcable. He must have made a clean sweep when he made up his mind what he was going to do. Only, he forgot the brooch. It fell out of a pocket, as I told you.”

“Do you think Ray Marcable suspected the truth?”

“No; I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because Ray Marcable is one of the most self-absorbed people in this era. In any case, she remembered the dagger from my description of it, but she had no reason to connect the man who was murdered with Sorrell, and therefore wouldn’t connect her mother with the affair at all. The Yard didn’t know Sorrell’s identity until Monday, and that was the day she left for the States. I shall be very much surprised if she knows, even yet, that the dead man was Sorrell. I shouldn’t think she reads much in the Press but the gossip column, and America isn’t interested in the queue murder.”

“Then there’s a shock in store for her,” said Barker sorrowfully.

“There is,” said Grant grimly. “And at least there is a pleasant on............