Grant motioned him to a chair, and the youth, with a completely un-English grace, subsided sideways on to it, still clutching his hat, and began to talk.
"I saw you tonight at Laurent's. I am in the pantry there. I clean the silver and things like that. They told me who you were, and after I think for a while, I decided to tell you all about it."
"A very good idea," said Grant. "Carry on. Are you Italian?"
"No; I am French. My name is Raoul Legarde."
"All right; carry on."
"I was in the queue the night the man was killed. It was my night off. For a long time I was standing next the man. He trod on my foot in accident, and after that we talked a little — about the play. I was on the outside and he was next the wall. Then a man came to talk to him and came in in front of me. The man who was new wanted something from the other man. He stayed until the door opened and the people moved. He was angry about something. They were not quarrelling — not as we quarrel — but I think they were angry. When the murder happened I ran away. I did not want to be mixed up with the police. But tonight I saw you, and you looked gentil, and so I made up my mind to tell you all about it."
"Why didn't you come to Scotland Yard and tell me?"
"I do not trust the Sыreté. They make very much out of nothing. And I have no friends in London."
"When the man came to talk to the man who was murdered, and pushed you back a place, who was between you and the theatre wall?"
"A woman in black."