VI

“The one my husband and I saw leave the booth. You see, Sir Arthur, there must have been a second man dressed in newspaper at the Ball. By the way, what was your own costume?”

“Mine? I went as a seventeenth century executioner.”

“How very appropriate,” said Tuppence softly.

“Appropriate, Mrs. Beresford? What do you mean by appropriate?”

“For the part you played. Shall I tell you my ideas on the subject, Sir Arthur? The newspaper dress is easily put on over that of an executioner. Previously a little note has been slipped into Captain Hale’s hand, asking him not to speak to a certain lady. But the lady herself knows nothing of that note. She goes to the Ace of Spades at the appointed time, and sees the figure she expects to see. They go into the booth. He takes her in his arms, I think, and kisses her⁠—the kiss of a Judas, and as he kisses he strikes with the dagger. She only utters one faint cry and he covers that with a laugh. Presently he goes away⁠—and to the last, horrified and bewildered, she believes her lover is the man who killed her.

“But she has torn a small fragment from the costume. The murderer notices that⁠—he is a man who pays great attention to detail. To make the case absolutely clear against his victim the fragment must seem to have been torn from Captain Hale’s costume. That would present great difficulties unless the two men happened to be living in the same house. Then, of course, the thing would be simplicity itself. He makes an exact duplicate of the tear in Captain Hale’s costume⁠—then he burns his own and prepares to play the part of the loyal friend.”

Tuppence paused.

“Well, Sir Arthur?”

Sir Arthur rose and made her a bow.