"Woman," said Morgan, after taking a deep breath, "your language makes my gorge rise. I will not make goo-goo eyes at Mrs. Perrigord, or anybody else. Then there is this question of rehearsing. If you think I have any intention of sitting around while amateur conjurers break eggs in my hat and wild sopranos sing "The Rosary," you're cockeyed. Kindly stop drivelling, will you? I've been through too much to-day."
"Can you think of any better plan?"
"It has its points, I admit; but—"
"Very well, then," said Peggy, flushed with triumph and two whiskies. She lit a cigarette. "I'd do it myself with Mr. Perrigord, only I have to help uncle. I'm the Noises Off-Stage, you know: the horses, and Roland's horn, and all that, and I've got to get my effects set up this afternoon. I'll get it over as quickly as I can, because we must find that film. What I really can't understand is why our crook returned that emerald and yet didn't — I suppose he really didn't put the film back in Curt's cabin, did he? Do you think, we ought to look?"
Morgan made an irritable gesture.
"Don't you see that it wasn't the barber who did that? (XT-hand, you'd say that there was only one explanation of il. When we chucked it away, it landed either in Kyle's cabin or in the Perrigords'. The obvious answer is that one
of 'em found it in the cabin, meditated keeping it, then got scared at the row and sneaked it back to Sturton. But, damn it all! I can't believe that! Does it sound like Kyle? j It does not. Conversely, if Kyle is a masquerading crook i you can lay a strong wager that a cool hand like the Blind; Barber wouldn't return that emerald — as Whistler said. Wash out Kyle either because he's a crook or because he isn't. If he's genuinely a great brain specialist he wouldn't do one thing, and if he's genuinely a great crook he wouldn't do the other… And what have we left?"
"You think," demanded Peggy, "that nasty Mrs. Perrigord—?"
"No, I don't. Or friend Leslie, either. I can see Leslie handing over the emerald to Sturton with immense relish, and giving a long dissertation on the bad taste of gaudy baubles, but— Ah! News! Enter our squarehead."
He broke off and gestured to Captain Valvick, who had just shambled into the bar. The captain was puffing hard; his leathery face looked redder than ever, and, as he approached, he distilled like a wandering oven a strong aroma of Old Rob Roy.