You know what you can be charged with, don't you?

I could trust you to fake something up, even if I didn't.

No need to be cheeky. I've come to ask you a few questions, and I want civil answers.

Hurry up and ask them, then, and leave me alone. I've got to go out.

Just for a moment I thought that Mrs. Walker was going to break in, but when she tried to talk Stute silenced her instantly. He was completely at homes and master of the situation. He took a chair placed in front of the door and turned to Smythe.

I looked round the room. It was an unpleasant example of the disadvantages of selling cheap lacquer paints. The wood-work had been done in a lavish scarlet, the walls distempered by an amateur with raspberry pink. The furniture was inexpensive, but there was an abundance of cushions in vivid colours. Behind the girl was the bed from which she had risen, presumably, to open the door.

She herself was florid and pink as her background, with bright yellow hair and too many rings. She yawned as Stute faced her.

''What's your name?

Smythe.

Christian name?

Stella

Why do you call yourself Estelle then?

Professional name.

Indeed. What profession?

Stage. Chorus lady.

How long had you known Rogers?

Oh, I dunno without a lot of thinking. And I'm too sleepy to think now. A few years, anyway.

Why did you want to see him?

Miss Smythe yawned again. Why do you think? she asked. Just for the pleasure of a chat?

Mrs. Walker could control herself no longer.

She was ...

But Stute was too quick for her.

That's quite enough from you, he thundered.

Oh very well. If a lady can't . . .

Stute wheeled from her to Smythe and his voice drowned her grumbling.

You wanted money, I suppose?

Well, didn't I have reason? After all . . .

And you got it?

There was a pause, after which Miss Smythe seemed to think that it would be best to speak the truth.

He did give me a little present, she admitted.

And you gave him back his letters?

Smythe turned on Mrs. Walker. That's you again, she said. What business was it of yours?

But Stute was not going to allow arguments.

Did you? he repeated.

Well, yes.

When?

Before we left her house.

What did he do with the letters?

Burnt them.

Where?

On that Common place. I made him stop. I was getting b.u.mped to death on the back of that awful machine. I wasn't used to that sort of thing. If any gentleman has wanted to take me anywhere . . .

That'll do. So you stopped on the Common?

Just for a moment. There was nothing in it.

In what?

Oh, go on. You know what I mean. We only stopped for two ticks.

But long enough for him to burn the letters?

Yes. He put petrol over them. Well, he didn't want to go home with them in his pocket. Then he walked back to the motor-bike.

And rode into Braxham?

Well, not quite. He would wait just outside for a time.

Why was that?