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      Pilgrim, Ormerin, Hatchett and Valmai Seacliff began a discussion about the possibility of using the knife in the manner suggested by Malmsley’s illustration. Phillida Lee joined in.

      ‘Where would the knife enter the body?’ asked Seacliff.

      ‘Just here,’ said Pilgrim, putting his hand on her back and keeping it there. ‘Behind your heart. Valmai.’

      She turned her head and looked at him through half-closed eyes. Hatchett stared at her. Malmsley smiled curiously. Pilgrim had turned rather white.

      ‘Can you feel it beating?’ asked Seacliff softly.

      ‘If I move my hand—here.’

      ‘Oh, come off it,’ said the model violently. She walked over to Garcia. ‘I don’t believe you could kill anybody like that. Do you, Garcia?’

      Garcia grunted unintelligibly. He, too, was staring at Valmai Seacliff.

      ‘How would he know where to put the dagger?’ demanded Katti Bostock suddenly. She drew a streak of background colour across her canvas.

      ‘Can’t we try it out?’ asked Hatchett.

      ‘If you like,’ said Troy. ‘Mark the throne before you move it.’

      Basil Pilgrim chalked the position of the throne on the floor, and then he and Ormerin tipped it up. The rest of the class looked on with gathering interest. By following the chalked-out line on the throne they could see the spot where the heart would come, and after a little experiment found the plot of this spot on the underneath surface of the throne.

      ‘Now, you see,’ said Ormerin, ‘the jealous wife would drive the knife through from underneath.’

      ‘Incidentally taking the edge off,’ said Basil Pilgrim.

      ‘You could force it through the crack between the boards,’ said Garcia suddenly, from the window.

      ‘How? It’d fall out when she was shoved down.’

      ‘No, it wouldn’t. Look here.’

      ‘Don’t break the knife and don’t damage the throne,’ said Troy.

      ‘I get you,’ said Hatchett eagerly. ‘The dagger’s wider at the base. The boards would press on it. You’d have to hammer it through. Look, I’ll bet you it could be done. There you are, I’ll betcher.’

      ‘Not interested, I’m afraid,’ said Malmsley.

      ‘Let’s try,’ said Pilgrim. ‘May we, Troy?’

      ‘Oh, do let’s,’ cried Phillida Lee. She caught up her enthusiasm with an apologetic glance at Malmsley. ‘I adore bloodshed,’ she added with a painstaking nonchalance.

      ‘The underneath of the throne’s absolutely filthy,’ complained Malmsley.

      ‘Pity if you spoiled your nice green pinny,’ jeered Sonia.

      Valmai Seacliff laughed.

      ‘I don’t propose to do so,’ said Malmsley. ‘Garcia can if he likes.’

      ‘Go on,’ said Hatchett. ‘Give it a pop. I betcher five bob it’ll work. Fair dinkum.’

      ‘What does that mean?’ asked Seacliff. ‘You must teach me the language, Hatchett.’

      ‘Too right I will,’ said Hatchett with enthusiasm. ‘I’ll make a dinkum Aussie out of you.’

      ‘God forbid,’ said Malmsley. Sonia giggled.

      ‘Don’t you like Australians?’ Hatchett asked her aggressively.

      ‘Not particularly.’

      ‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing. Models at the school I went to in Sydney knew how to hold a pose for longer than ten minutes.’

      ‘You don’t seem to have taken advantage of it, judging by your drawing.’

      ‘And they didn’t get saucy with the students.’

      ‘Perhaps they weren’t all like you.’

      ‘Sonia,’ said Troy, ‘that will do. If you boys are going to make your experiment, you’d better hurry up. We start again in five minutes.’

      In the boards of the throne they found a crack that passed through the right spot. Hatchett slid the thin tip of the knife into it from underneath and shoved. By tapping the hilt of the dagger with an easel ledge, he forced the widening blade upwards through the crack. Then he let the throne back on to the floor. The blade projected wickedly through the blue chalk cross that marked the plot of Sonia’s heart on the throne. Basil Pilgrim took the drape, laid it across the cushion, pulled it in taut folds down to the throne, and pinned it there.

      ‘You see, the point of the knife is lower than the top of the cushion,’ he said. It doesn’t show under the drape.’

      ‘What did I tell you?’ said Hatchett.

      Garcia strolled over and joined the group.

      ‘Go into your pose, Sonia,’ he said with a grin.

      Sonia shuddered.

      ‘Don’t,’ she said.

      ‘I wonder if the tip should show under the left breast,’ murmuring Malmsley. ‘Rather amusing to have it in the drawing. With a cast shadow and a thin trickle of blood. Keep the whole thing black and white except for the little scarlet thread. After all, it is melodrama.’

      ‘Evidently,’ grunted Garcia.

      ‘The point of suspension for the drape would have to be higher,’ said Troy. ‘It must be higher than the tip of the blade. You could do it. If your story was a modern detective novel, Malmsley, you could do a drawing of the knife as it is now.’

      Malmsley smiled and began to sketch on the edge of his paper. Valmai Seacliff leant over him, her hands on his shoulders. Hatchett, Ormerin and Pilgrim stood round her, Pilgrim with his arm across her shoulder. Phillida Lee hovered on the outskirts of the little group. Troy, looking vaguely round the studio, said to herself that her worst forebodings were likely to be realized. Watt Hatchett was already at loggerheads with Malmsley and the model. Valmai was at her Cleopatra game, and there was Sonia in a corner with Garcia. Something in their faces caught Troy’s attention. What the devil were they up to? Garcia’s eyes were on the group round Malmsley. A curious smile lifted one corner of his mouth, and on Sonia’s face, turned to him, the smile was reflected.

      ‘You’ll have to get that thing out now, Hatchett,’ said Troy.

      It took a lot of working and tugging to do this, but at last the knife was pulled out, the throne put back, and Sonia, with many complaints, took the pose again.

      ‘Over more on the right shoulder,’ said Katti Bostock.

      Troy thrust the shoulder down. The drape fell into folds round the figure.

      ‘Ow!’ said Sonia.

      ‘That is when the dagger goes in,’ said Malmsley.

      ‘Don’t—you’ll make me sick,’ said Sonia.

      Garcia gave a little chuckle.

      ‘Right through the ribs and coming out under the left breast,’ murmured Malmsley.

      ‘Shut up!’

      ‘Spitted like a little chicken.’

      Sonia raised her head.

      ‘I wouldn’t be too damn funny, Mr Malmsley,’ she said. ‘Where do you get your ideas from, I wonder? Books? Or pictures?’

      Malmsley’s brush slipped from his fingers to the paper, leaving a trace of paint. He looked fixedly at Sonia, and then began to dab his drawing with a sponge. Sonia laughed.

      ‘For God’s sake,’

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