Doyle had drawn Guy aside. “What about that youth for the opening of the Inspector’s eyes?” he said in a low voice. “Just what I’d thought of, my dear fellow. Couldn’t be better. Come over as soon as you like after breakfast.” “Do these two know about keeping Dora dark, so to speak?” “By Jove, no! I’d forgotten all about it. As we’re keeping them in the dark ourselves, what reason can we give?” “Leave it to me,” adjured Mr. Doyle, thinking rapidly. He took Guy’s arm and drew him back to the little group by the door. “By the way, Nesbitt,” said Mr. Doyle loudly, “I wish you’d do me a favour. Please don’t tell anybody about Dora being here this week-end. She particularly doesn’t want her name mentioned in connection with this affair, as it would be so bad for her at the theatre. The management are very much down on any of the girls getting mixed up in murder mysteries; they think it’s bad for business. If it leaked out, Dora would probably get the sack.” “Of course, my dear chap,” said Guy gravely. “I quite understand. Nobody else knows?” “So far, no. Not even the police. Particularly not the police, I should say. And we’re going to smuggle her up to London to-morrow in time for the show. Thanks so much, Nesbitt, thanks so much.” Alan was staring at Dora with round eyes. “I say,” he said, in tones to match them, “you’re not on the stage, are you?” “I am,” Dora smiled, “yes.” “Coo! What are you in?” “Well, as there’s no Shakespeare season on at the moment, I’ve been keeping my hand in up to a few weeks ago in ‘Thumbs Up!’ at the Jollity.” “And legs, dearest,” murmured Mr. Doyle _sotto voce_. “Be honest.” “I say, were you really? I saw that last hols. Topping show!” Mr. Spence continued to stare with round eyes. His manner had changed considerably. In place of his former air of confident and slightly contemptuous assurance he now wore one of respect verging almost upon diffidence. George looked at his sister with envy. There would clearly be no frogs in her bed. “What part did you play?” asked Monica, who seemed to be sharing something of her brother’s feelings. She spoke humbly, as a disciple addressing his master or a mate his plumber. Dora laughed. “Well, not the lead exactly. I’m in the chorus.” “Coo!” observed Alan. “Are you a chorus-girl?” “I suppose I must be,” Dora admitted. “Am I?” she appealed to her fiancé. “Certainly you are. That’s why I’m marrying you. Clever men in the best novels are always infatuated by chorus-girls.” “Don’t you _love_ wearing all those beautiful costumes?” said Monica soulfully. “Dora has a very good opinion of her figure, yes,” remarked Mr. Doyle. “So have I, dear,” he added hastily, catching a glint in his lady’s eye. “And I think it’s very sporting of you to have joined the——” “That’ll do, Pat. That’s quite enough from you.”