The Chapters

When she opened her eyes again the rain was no longer running down the window, but the glass was quite black, and Mrs. Medlock was shaking her shoulder.

"Wake up," she said. "We've got to get out here. Mind your hat."

Mary sat upright and stared about her. The lamps in the carriage had been lighted, and outside there were other lamps which seemed to be moving past very slowly. Then they stopped moving, and she heard a man calling out something in a loud voice. Her neck ached, and she felt colder and crosser than she had felt when she fell asleep.

Mrs. Medlock collected her parcels and opened the door. But instead of getting out she stood still so suddenly that Mary, who had risen to follow her, was obliged to stand still also.

"Mr. Craven!" she exclaimed. "Well, sir! I never expected!"

A man was standing on the platform just outside the carriage. He wore a long dark traveling coat, and the light of a lamp fell upon his face. It was a thin face, and he was not an old man, though there were lines about his mouth which made him look tired. One of his shoulders was higher than the other.

Mary knew who he was before Mrs. Medlock said anything more. She looked at him very hard indeed.

"The train was late, sir," Mrs. Medlock went on. "We should have been here a good half-hour ago. This is Miss Mary."

He glanced at Mary, but his eyes did not rest on her long.

"Come," he said.

That was all he said to her. He turned and walked along the platform, and Mrs. Medlock hurried after him with her parcels. Mary followed because there was nothing else to do. She had wondered a great deal what her uncle would say when he first saw her, though she would not have admitted it to any one. She had not thought he would only say "Come."

A porter took their luggage, and outside the station a carriage was waiting. Its lamps shone upon two horses whose wet backs steamed in the cold air. Mr. Craven stood aside while Mrs. Medlock put Mary in, and then got in himself and sat opposite them.

Mrs. Medlock tucked a rug about Mary's knees. She did it with rather more care than she had taken over anything in the railway carriage.

"Are you warm enough, miss?" she asked.

"Yes," said Mary, though she was not.

Her uncle looked out of the window. When the carriage began to move he still looked out, and after they had passed the station lamps there was scarcely anything to see except his dark shape in the corner.

At first they drove between houses. There were lighted windows, and once Mary saw a woman shutting a shop door. Then the houses grew farther apart, and presently there were none at all. The horses' feet sounded differently, and a strong gust of wind struck the carriage and shook it.

"Is this the moor?" Mary asked.

"We're coming to it," answered Mrs. Medlock in a voice much quieter than the one she had used in the train.

Mary pressed her face near the glass. She could see a little piece of road in the lamplight, but beyond it there seemed to be nothing. It was not like looking into a dark street. There were no houses to be hidden by the darkness. There was only a great black emptiness, and the wind came over it without anything to stop it.

She did not like it, but she wanted to see it.

"Does any one live here?" she asked.

"Here and there," said Mrs. Medlock. "There's miles where they don't."

Mr. Craven neither spoke nor moved. Mary began to wonder if he had gone to sleep with his eyes open. She could sometimes see them when a carriage lamp threw a little light through the glass, and they seemed to be looking at something a long way off.

They drove on for so long that she began to feel sleepy again. Then the horses stopped with a jerk. A voice called out in front of them, and the coachman answered it.

Mrs. Medlock leaned forward.

"What's amiss now?"

Mr. Craven opened the door and got out. Cold air rushed in after him. Mary heard the horses moving their feet and the rattle of harness, but she could not see what had stopped them.

The coachman came to the open door with a lamp.

"There's a cart across the road, ma'am," he said. "One wheel's gone into the soft ground, and the pony can't pull it clear. We shall have it out in a minute."

He went away again, leaving the door open. Mrs. Medlock reached for the handle, but Mary had already slipped from under the rug.

"Sit still," said Mrs. Medlock.

"I want to look."

"You can't see anything. Come back here."

But Mary had put her foot upon the step, and the next moment she was standing outside. She had been shut up in the railway carriage and then in this carriage until she was tired of both of them, and she was accustomed to doing what she chose.

The wind caught at her skirts at once. She stepped aside to get out of it and put one shoe into something soft and wet. When she drew it back she felt little stiff bushes brushing against her ankle. She had stepped off the road and was standing on the moor itself.

There was a lantern a few yards away. By its light she could see a low cart standing crookedly, with one of its shafts sticking across the road. A man held a pony's head while the coachman bent beside the sunken wheel. Her uncle stood near them.

Beyond the lantern there was nothing to look at, however hard she stared. Yet the little bushes at her feet moved and rustled, and she knew there must be more of them stretching away into all that blackness. The wind was so strong that she had to hold her hat on with both hands.

For the first time she wondered how far she could walk before any one would be able to find her if she lost sight of the carriage lamps.

"Miss Mary!" Mrs. Medlock called sharply.

Mary turned at once. She had only been outside for a minute, but she was quite willing to get in again. Her shoe was wet, and the cold seemed to have gone through her cloak.

"A nice beginning," said Mrs. Medlock, pulling the rug over her. "You'll have to learn to do as you're told."

"I was looking at the moor," said Mary.

"You'll see enough of it by daylight."

There was a shout outside, and then the sound of wheels grinding over stones. The pony went past the carriage window with its head down, pulling the cart behind it. Presently Mr. Craven returned to his seat.

"Go on," he said to the coachman.

He did not ask why Mary had got out. She was rather glad of this, but it made her feel as if he had not seen her at all.

After a time the road grew smoother, and she could hear branches moving overhead. When she looked out she saw the dark trunks of trees passing the lamps. Then the carriage turned, rolled over gravel, and stopped before a great house.

Mary could not see how great it was. Most of it was lost in the night. There were a few lighted windows, very far apart, and a door opened upon a hall which looked so high that the light did not reach its ceiling.

A man with a lamp came down the steps. Mr. Craven got out and went into the house before Mrs. Medlock had gathered up her parcels. When Mary entered the hall he was crossing it, and she watched him pass through a door at the farther end. The man who had met them followed him.

"He hasn't said anything to me," she said.

Mrs. Medlock was taking off her wet gloves.

"He's had other things to think of," she answered. "Come along. Your rooms are ready."

Mary followed her up a broad staircase. She had never been in such a house. Their footsteps made scarcely any sound upon the thick carpet, but when Mrs. Medlock spoke her voice seemed to go farther than it ought to have gone. There were pictures of people upon the walls, and the people looked down at Mary as she passed. She was glad when they turned into a passage where there were no pictures.

But there were a great many doors.

Mrs. Medlock opened one of them at last, and Mary saw a fire and a table with a white cloth on it. Beyond this room was another in which stood a large bed with curtains.

"These are yours," said Mrs. Medlock. "There's a bell if you want anything. You mustn't go out into the passages. You'd lose yourself before you'd gone a dozen yards."

Mary stood before the fire while her hat and cloak were taken off. Without them she looked such a small, thin creature that even Mrs. Medlock glanced at her twice.

"Your supper will be brought directly," she said. "Take off that wet shoe and put your foot to the fire. I'll find you something dry."

She went into the bedroom, and presently there was a knock at the outer door.

It was a man who brought the tray. Mary had expected a woman, and she stared at him. He was elderly and spare, with a wrinkled face and thick gray eyebrows. He put a basin and a covered plate upon the table, and then stood looking at her wet stocking.

"Eh, tha's gotten thy foot soaked," he said. "Tha mun get that off. It's a cauld neet for wettin' thy feet."

Mary stared more than ever.

"What?" she said.

He pointed at her foot.

"Stockin' an' all. Nay, tha munnot sit i' that."

"I don't understand what you say," said Mary. "I don't understand half of it."

The man looked at her for a moment, and then his wrinkled face creased into a smile.

"Tha's not used to Yorkshire," he said.

"I am used to people speaking properly."

He did not look offended, as she had intended that he should. He only lifted the cover from the plate.

"Well, here's summat tha'll understand. A bit o' chicken, an' broth to warm thee."

She understood chicken, at any rate, and when Mrs. Medlock returned with dry stockings she understood the rest.

"He's telling you to eat your supper," Mrs. Medlock said. "And it's good advice."

The man drew a chair up to the table and went away. Mary sat down reluctantly. She had meant to say she wanted something different, but the broth smelled good, and after she had tasted a spoonful she took another. The room was warm, and it was pleasant to have her wet stocking off.

She had eaten more than she had expected to eat when she heard the sound.

It came from somewhere beyond the room, though she could not tell from which direction. There was a slow scraping noise, then two hollow knocks, with a little pause between them.

Mary put down her spoon.

"What is that?" she asked.

Mrs. Medlock was folding the cloak she had spread before the fire. For a moment she held it without folding it any farther.

"The wind," she said.

Mary listened. The wind outside rushed against the windows, but this sound had been different.

"It sounded as if something was being pulled along," she said.

"It's the wind," Mrs. Medlock repeated. "An old house like this has noises enough when it blows across the moor. Finish your supper."

Mary took up her spoon, but she looked toward the door. Mrs. Medlock finished folding the cloak and carried it into the bedroom.

When supper was over she told Mary to come and be undressed. She helped her with her buttons, but she expected her to do a great many things for herself, and Mary thought her very disagreeable. Even the bed displeased her when she had got into it. It was so large, and the curtains at its head were so heavy.

Mrs. Medlock set a screen before the fire and picked up the candle.

"You'll be asleep in five minutes," she said.

"I am not sleepy," answered Mary.

But Mrs. Medlock went away and shut the door.

The curtains and the screen made the bed quite dark. Mary lay staring into the darkness. She could hear the wind plainly now, and she listened to it for some time. It blew hard and then softly, and once it shook the window.

Then the other sound came again. A scrape, a pause, and two dull knocks.

Mary raised her head from the pillow. She was not going to ask Mrs. Medlock any more questions. She lay down again and remained quite awake in the dark. She had made up her mind that she would find out for herself what the sound was.

"You look very well," I said.

"Oh, yes. I look splendid."

The driver changed gears and the taxi shook as we went up the hill. Brett opened her eyes and looked out of the window. There was a light over a butcher's shop and a man was washing the pavement. The water ran down beside the curb.

"Could we go to the Gare Montparnasse?" she asked.

"Do you want to catch a train?"

"No. I'd like to go to the station."

I tapped on the glass and told the driver. He turned his head to hear and then nodded. At the next corner he swung the cab around.

"That's better," Brett said.

"What's at the station?"

"Trains, darling."

"I know. I've seen them."

"Don't be difficult. I want to see people going somewhere."

We passed a café with all the tables out and the waiters standing under the awning. Inside it was very bright. Brett moved away from the window and sat with her hands in her lap.

"You ought to take a holiday," I said.

"You'd have Paris all to yourself."

"It could do with thinning out."

"I'll see what I can arrange."

I was afraid she would go away.

She took off one glove and worked at the fingers of the other. Then she put both gloves beside her on the seat.

"Do you know Julian Mowbray?"

"No. Who is he?"

"A man I met last week. At the Ritz. He's frightfully rich."

"I've never heard of him."

"He has copper mines. Or he had them and sold them. I wasn't very good about listening."

"That wouldn't matter."

"It didn't. He told me again."

"What's he like?"

"He wears very good clothes and keeps asking if one's comfortable."

"Are you?"

"Apparently not. He asks again."

She looked out of the window. We had stopped behind a bus and the taxi motor rattled. The driver leaned out to see what was ahead.

"He wants me to go south in his car," Brett said.

"When?"

"Any time. That's the sort of chap he is. He doesn't have to be anywhere."

"Convenient."

"Yes. Isn't it?"

The bus moved and we went on. Brett picked up her gloves.

At the station I paid the driver and we went up the steps. A porter came toward us, looking for luggage, and then went past to a woman who stood beside two large trunks. She was holding a small dog under her arm. The dog watched the porter bend over the trunks.

"Let's go in," Brett said.

I bought two platform tickets and we went through the barrier. There was a train standing under the roof. The carriage windows were lighted and people leaned out and talked to the people below. Farther down a porter pushed a truck piled with bags. You could hear the iron wheels over the voices and the noise of steam escaping from the engine.

We walked along beside the train. Through an open door I could see a man taking off his collar. His coat hung on a hook and he had spread a newspaper over his knees. In the next compartment a woman was putting parcels into the rack. She kept taking them down and putting them up differently.

"There's a good one," Brett said.

"What?"

"That empty compartment."

There were two seats facing each other and a photograph above each seat. A folded blanket lay on one of them.

"You could sleep there," she said.

"You'd have to get a ticket."

"You're wonderfully practical."

"They're particular about it."

We stopped near the end of the platform. A young fellow in a cap stood below a window holding the hand of a girl inside. They did not talk. The girl looked down at him and he looked at their hands. When a railway man came along calling for people to stand back, the fellow let go and stepped away. Then he came back and said something. The girl shook her head.

"Let's walk down," Brett said.

We walked toward the engine. The platform was damp there and smelled of coal smoke. The driver stood looking back along the train. A whistle blew and the engine began to move. We stood while the carriages went past. The girl was still at her window. The fellow in the cap walked beside her until he had to run, and then stopped.

Brett watched the red lights go out beyond the roof.

"Well," she said. "They've gone."

"Do you want some coffee?"

"Rather."

There was a café outside the station. We sat at a table near the door and ordered coffee. A waiter was counting saucers at the counter. He made piles of them, counted the piles, and wrote the figures on a piece of paper. Our waiter brought the coffee and two glasses of water.

Brett drank some water.

"Mowbray would have bought the tickets," she said.

"He sounds useful."

"He is. He'd have bought tickets to anywhere."

"Where did you want to go?"

"I didn't want to go anywhere."

We sat over the coffee. People came in carrying bags and sat where they could watch the station. A man with a bicycle left it against the window and came in for a drink. He looked at the bicycle while he drank. When he went out he wiped the saddle with his sleeve before getting on.

"Are you tired?" I asked.

"No. Are you?"

"No."

We stayed there until the waiter began putting the chairs on the tables at the other end of the room. When I took out my money to pay I thought of the envelope.

"I ought to go back to the Bal," I said.

"What for?"

"My fifty francs."

"Oh, Jake."

"If she's gone I might as well get it."

"Do you think she has?"

"She had plenty of people to go with."

Brett pulled on her gloves.

"All right. Let's go and see."

We took a taxi back. There was very little traffic now and we went fast through the broad streets. In the narrow street below the Bal the driver had to stop for a cart. A man walked beside the horse with his hand on the shaft. The driver sounded his horn and the man looked back without moving out of the way.

"You can stop here," I told him.

We walked up the rest of the hill. The door of the Bal was open and we could hear the accordion. The policeman had gone. Inside, three couples were dancing and the daughter of the house was collecting glasses. The tables where our party had sat were empty.

Georgette sat on a bench near the wall. She had her hat on and one foot out of her shoe. There was a glass of beer on the table in front of her. She saw me and pushed her foot into the shoe.

"So you've come back."

"Yes."

"Your friends have gone."

"I see they have."

"They were very amusing."

"Did you have a good time?"

"I danced enough."

Brett stood beside the table. Georgette looked at her and then looked at me.

"Is this your fiancée now?"

"No," Brett said in French. "He hasn't asked me."

"Wait until he introduces you."

I went over to the bar. The patronne reached underneath it and brought out the envelope.

"Here, Monsieur. Just as you left it."

"Has she been here all the time?"

"All the time. She said she was resting."

"Did she ask for me?"

"Once. I told her you had gone."

I took the envelope and went back to the table. Georgette had bent down to fasten her shoe. She tried twice and then sat up.

"It's swollen," she said. "All that dancing."

"Here's something I left for you."

"What is it?"

"Some money."

She took the envelope and felt it.

"Why didn't she give it to me?"

"You didn't ask for it."

"How could I ask for it if I didn't know?"

"That's right."

She tore off the end of the envelope and took out the note. She looked at it and folded it into her bag. Then she put the empty envelope on the table.

"You could have told me you were going."

"You were dancing."

"I could have stopped."

"Yes," I said. "I ought to have told you."

Brett sat down beside her.

"Have another beer," she said.

"No, thank you. I've had enough beer. I want to get home."

The music stopped. The proprietor got down from his stool and unfastened the bells from his ankle. One of the dancers called for another tune, but he shook his head and carried the accordion behind the bar.

Georgette tried her shoe again. She could not fasten it. She stood up and put her weight on the foot.

"It will do," she said.

Outside, Brett and I waited while the daughter went down the street to find a taxi. Georgette leaned against the wall. Without the music we could hear glasses being put into a basin inside and the water running.

"You don't have to wait," she said.

"We're in no hurry."

"I can get a taxi myself."

"There's one coming."

It came up the hill slowly. The daughter stood on the running-board beside the driver. When it stopped she jumped down and held the door for Georgette.

"Good night, Jacob," Georgette said.

"Good night."

She nodded to Brett and got in. We watched the taxi go down the hill. The daughter went inside and began shutting the door.

"She'll have a headache," Brett said.

"Probably."

"She was quite decent about it."

"Yes."

We walked down toward the river. At the corner Brett stopped and took off a glove to feel in her pocket.

"Have you a cigarette?"

I gave her one and lit it. She held my wrist to steady the match. Then she let go and we walked on.

The street was quiet. Behind one of the shutters a woman was talking loudly, and when we had passed the house we could still hear her. A cat came out of a doorway and crossed in front of us. Brett stopped to call it, but it went under a parked motor-car.

"Animals don't care for me," she said.

"That one's busy."

"Everybody's busy."

We crossed the river and walked toward the markets. There were carts going that way and we followed them. Near the markets the cafés were open. We went into one where men were eating at tables along the wall. Their carts stood outside with the shafts tipped up. Through the open door came the smell of vegetables and wet sacks.

We sat at a little table in the back. Brett ordered white wine and I ordered coffee. Then we both had soup. The waiter brought bread cut in thick pieces and a pot of mustard. Brett took off her gloves and laid them inside her bag.

"I'm hungry," she said.

"You didn't eat anything."

"I'd forgotten."

She ate the soup and some bread. The wine was cold and she poured me a glass. At the next table two men argued over a slip of paper. One kept smoothing it with the palm of his hand while the other added figures on the back of an envelope. They finished and called the waiter and had him add them too.

We stayed there a long time. The men went out and others came in. A boy brought a basket of rolls and emptied it behind the counter. Every time the door opened we felt the cold air from outside.

"Will you be at the office to-morrow?" Brett asked.

"To-day."

"Yes. To-day."

"I'll be there."

"Working hard?"

"There's usually something."

"That's good."

"Is it?"

"I should think so."

She turned her glass on the table. There was only a little wine left in it.

"Shall I telephone?" she asked.

"Do."

"I might."

"All right."

She finished the wine and pulled on her gloves. I paid and we went out. The sky above the market roofs had begun to lighten. Men were unloading vegetables under lamps, and there were heaps of pale cabbages along the pavement. A horse stood with a nose-bag on. We had to step into the street to pass a stack of empty baskets.

We walked back toward the river. Brett kept close beside me. Once she took my arm where the pavement narrowed, and she kept it until we reached the quay.

"I must go home," she said.

"I'll get you a taxi."

"There's no hurry."

We stood at the corner. Across the river the windows were grey and the trees on the island were coming clear of the buildings behind them. There was a light wind along the water.

A taxi came over the bridge and I raised my hand. The driver pulled up beside us. Brett gave him her address and I opened the door. She stepped in and I helped her skirt clear of the catch.

"Good night, darling."

"Good night, Brett."

I shut the door and stood back. She was pulling off her gloves as the taxi started. At the bridge the driver turned and I could see her through the back window until the cab went out of sight.

It was dawn. A man was opening the shutters of a café across the street, and farther along the quay a woman carried two empty milk-cans toward a doorway. Below the wall the river moved past the moored barges. Their decks were wet and there was smoke coming from a stovepipe on one of them. I put my hands in my coat pockets and walked home alone along the river.

The First National Bank was around the corner. I went in and asked for somebody who could tell me about Donald Willsson's account.

They turned me over to an assistant cashier named Collins. He was a thin elderly man with gold-rimmed glasses and a red nose. He took me into a small office behind the tellers' cages, where he examined my agency card without asking me to sit down.

"What information did you want?"

"Willsson drew a check for five thousand dollars yesterday afternoon. I want to know who got it."

"Are you representing his father?"

"His son hired us. I've been out to see his father."

"Then you have Mr. Elihu Willsson's authority?"

"I've got his son's authority. The old man and I didn't get along well enough to exchange anything."

Collins put my card on the desk and pushed it toward me with one finger.

"I'm afraid that under the circumstances we couldn't give out information concerning the account."

"The check may have something to do with the murder."

"That would be a matter for the police."

"Give it to them, then. I'll wait while you telephone."

He took off his glasses, looked through them at the window, and put them on again.

"I don't understand your position."

"I'm trying to find out why a man who had an appointment with me went somewhere else and got killed. He drew this check after making the other appointment. The check book doesn't say who was to get the money. Your records might."

He considered that, finally pulled a chair out from the wall for me, and went away.

When he came back he had a sheet of paper in his hand. He sat down behind the desk.

"No check for that amount has been charged against Mr. Donald Willsson's account."

"Certified?"

"No."

"Could it have come in without getting on your books yet?"

"I have made inquiries in the proper departments. The five-thousand-dollar check has never been presented, either for payment or certification."

"Would you pay it if it came in?"

"That would depend on circumstances which I should have to discuss with the proper parties."

"Enough money there to cover it?"

He hesitated before saying yes.

"Did Willsson come in yesterday afternoon?"

"Yes. I spoke to him myself."

"What time?"

"About ten minutes of three, I should say."

"Did he have the check?"

"I saw no check. He asked whether a check could be certified after banking hours."

"What did you tell him?"

"That ordinarily it could not. Naturally, in his case, we would have made arrangements if he had wished."

"Did he?"

"No. He said it wouldn't be necessary."

"Was he alone?"

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

"He asked whether the person receiving the check could bring it in for certification. I told him that was quite customary."

"And that's all?"

"That is all."

I stood up.

"If that check comes in, I'd like to hear about it. I'm at the Great Western."

"I couldn't undertake to promise that."

"Think it over. It might save you another visit."

His mouth tightened. I took my card off his desk and went out.

At the Great Western the clerk stopped me with a raised hand.

"There's a lady waiting for you."

Donald Willsson's wife got up from a chair beside a potted palm. She wore a gray suit and a small black hat. There was color on her mouth. The rest of her face needed some.

"I have been waiting nearly half an hour," she said.

"I didn't know you were coming."

"No. I thought it better to come."

We went up to my room. I gave her the chair that didn't have my suitcase on it and opened the window. She sat with her gloves folded in one hand, looking at the bed instead of at me.

"How did you find me?" I asked.

"Mr. Thaler told me where you were staying."

"What else did he tell you?"

She raised her eyes.

"Why should he tell me anything else?"

"He came to see you this morning."

"Yes."

"What about?"

"My husband."

"That's getting to be a popular subject."

She pressed the gloves flat on her knee.

"I came here because I wanted to know what you were doing."

"Looking into your husband's death."

"Who has asked you to do that?"

"Nobody. He hired us to do something. I haven't found out what it was yet."

"Then perhaps there is nothing for you to do."

"Perhaps."

She looked around the room. There wasn't much in it to help her.

"You have been to see his father?"

"Yes."

"What did you tell him?"

"About last night."

Her fingers stopped smoothing the gloves.

"About me?"

"You were part of last night."

"What did he say?"

"He thinks you killed Donald."

She breathed in through her nose and let the breath out slowly.

"That does not surprise me."

"He doesn't seem to like you."

"He never liked anybody who could tell Donald what to do."

"Could you?"

"Sometimes."

"Where did you go last night?"

She looked at the bed again.

"I suppose you think I must answer everything you ask."

"You came here."

"That is true."

She laid the gloves on the table beside her and placed her hands together in her lap.

"I went to Hurricane Street."

"What for?"

"A woman telephoned me. She said that if I wanted to know where my husband spent his evenings I should go there."

"She give you a number?"

"No. She said the eleven-hundred block."

"Know her voice?"

"No."

"What did you say?"

"I asked who she was. She had hung up."

"And you went?"

"Yes."

"Leaving a stranger in your house?"

"There were servants."

"Did you find your husband?"

"Yes."

"Alive?"

"No."

She said it without changing her voice. Her hands had tightened together.

"Was anybody with him?"

"There was a man there."

"What man?"

"I don't know."

"What did he look like?"

"I couldn't tell you. I was looking at Donald."

"What was he doing?"

"He was kneeling beside him. He said I must not stay there."

"Those his words?"

"He said, 'You'd better get away from here.'"

"Did he know you?"

"I don't know."

"Did you know him?"

"I have told you I did not."

"Then you went home?"

"Yes."

"Leaving your husband in the street?"

She got up. I stayed on the edge of the bed.

"I cannot explain it to you," she said. "I cannot explain it to myself. I was frightened. The man said I should go, and I went. Afterward, in the car, I knew I should not have done it. But I kept going home."

"Where was your car?"

"Around the corner."

"What corner?"

"I don't know the names of the streets."

"How close to the corner was Donald?"

"Perhaps halfway down the block."

"Did you touch him?"

"Yes."

"That explains the blood on your slipper."

She looked down at her black shoes.

"You saw that?"

"I thought I did."

She sat down again.

"Did you tell his father?"

"Yes."

For a little while neither of us said anything. A truck rattled past below the window.

"You left the house at ten-twenty," I said. "The shooting was at ten-forty. What were you doing for those twenty minutes?"

"I went to the Herald first."

"Why?"

"I wanted to find him before he went there."

"Anybody see you?"

"I didn't go in. His windows were dark. Then I had to find Hurricane Street."

"You didn't hear any shots?"

"No."

"See anybody coming out of the alley across from him?"

"No."

"What did this man do when you left?"

"I don't know."

"Did he leave with you?"

"No. I left him there."

"How'd you happen to pick out Donald halfway down a dark block?"

"I saw someone on the pavement. I went to look."

"Because you thought it might be your husband?"

"Because I was looking for him."

She was answering more readily now. That didn't necessarily make the answers better.

"Did you tell Thaler all this?"

"Yes."

"What did he advise?"

"That I should tell the police."

"Have you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I wanted to speak to you first."

"What for?"

She rubbed one thumb across the other.

"His father will try to make something horrible of it."

"It's a pretty fair start."

"I mean something about me."

"I know what you mean. Did Donald have any money with him?"

"I didn't look."

"Did this man?"

"I don't know."

"Did you see any papers on the sidewalk?"

"No."

"Your husband drew a check yesterday. Know anything about it?"

"No. Why?"

"I'm trying to find out what he meant to buy."

"How much was it?"

"Had he told you he needed money for anything?"

"No. How much?"

"Did you take anything out of his pockets?"

She stared at me, her mouth open a little. Then she picked up her gloves and stood.

"I think I was foolish to come here."

"That depends on what you came for."

"I wanted help."

"You haven't said what kind."

She walked to the door. I got there ahead of her and opened it.

"Give the police your story," I advised her. "You'll have to sooner or later. The longer you wait, the more questions they'll have."

"Have you believed anything I told you?"

"I haven't tried yet. I'm collecting it."

She went out without giving me anything else.

I washed my face and hands, went downstairs, and ate a late lunch in the dining room. When I came back to the desk the clerk handed me a folded sheet of hotel stationery.

"A telephone message for you."

It said:

"If you want to know whether I got Donald Willsson's five thousand dollars, the answer is no. There is no need of bothering Mrs. Willsson about it. Max Thaler."

"When did this come?" I asked.

"About fifteen minutes ago."

"Who took it?"

"I did."

"Thaler himself talking?"

"I believe so."

"Did he ask whether Mrs. Willsson was here?"

"No."

"Did you tell him she'd been here?"

"No, sir."

"Anything that isn't written down?"

"Only that you were to get it as soon as possible."

I went back upstairs and called the bank. It took some time to get Collins.

"Have you told anybody about that check since I was there?" I asked.

"The chief of police made an inquiry. I gave him the same information I gave you."

"When?"

"Shortly after you left."

"How shortly?"

"Ten minutes, perhaps."

"What did he ask?"

"Whether you had been here, and what you had wanted."

"How'd he know I'd been there?"

"I haven't the least idea."

"Did he know the amount of the check?"

"I don't recall whether he mentioned the amount before I did."

"Thanks."

"May I ask what your object is in these questions?"

"I'm finding out how much trouble I can save myself by telling the chief things in the first place."

I hung up and read Thaler's message again. It didn't say he hadn't had the check. It said he hadn't got the five thousand dollars. That might be a distinction worth something. It might be only the way the clerk had taken the message.

I called the desk again and asked whether the wording was Thaler's.

"As nearly as I could get it," the clerk said. "I didn't take it down in shorthand."

That left me where I had been.

I spent the rest of the afternoon making notes and checking the times against the morning paper. Mrs. Willsson had supplied places for most of her forty-five minutes away from home. She hadn't supplied anybody who could put her in them. The man beside the body was still a man without a face. Her account fitted the newspaper account well enough. She could read newspapers.

At seven I went down to dinner. After dinner I wrote a report to the Old Man at the agency's San Francisco office:

DONALD WILLSSON SHOT DEAD TEN FORTY LAST NIGHT BEFORE I COULD INTERVIEW HIM. PURPOSE OF EMPLOYMENT STILL UNKNOWN. DREW FIVE THOUSAND DOLLAR CHECK YESTERDAY AFTERNOON FOLLOWING TELEPHONE APPOINTMENT APPARENTLY WITH WOMAN FOR TEN THAT NIGHT. PAYEE NOT ENTERED ON STUB. FIRST NATIONAL BANK REPORTS CHECK NEVER PRESENTED OR CERTIFIED. WIDOW ADMITS VISITING SCENE AND FINDING BODY AFTER ANONYMOUS WOMAN TELEPHONED DIRECTIONS BEFORE MURDER. SAYS UNIDENTIFIED MAN AT BODY ADVISED HER TO LEAVE. ELIHU WILLSSON ACCUSES WIDOW WITHOUT SUPPORTING EVIDENCE AND REFUSES DISCUSSION OF POLITICAL POSSIBILITIES. MAX THALER SENT UNSOLICITED MESSAGE DENYING RECEIPT OF FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS AND ASKING THAT WIDOW BE LEFT ALONE. NOONAN INFORMED OF MY BANK INQUIRIES WITHIN FEW MINUTES. NOTHING YET WARRANTING CONCLUSION. CONTINUING INVESTIGATION PENDING INSTRUCTIONS.

I read it over, put the address on it, and took it downstairs to be sent. The clerk called the telegraph office while I waited. I paid the charges when he had finished reading it to them.

Outside the hotel the street lamps were on. I stood in the doorway long enough to smoke half a cigarette, then went up to my room.

I locked the door, took off my coat, and sat beside the open window. The room was quiet except when a car passed below. I had Collins's assurance that the check hadn't reached the bank and Thaler's assurance that he hadn't got the money. Neither of them had told me who had the paper.

The symptoms corresponded so closely with what I had witnessed that I shut the book with a feeling almost of triumph. Here, at least, was something definite. One circumstance puzzled me. The interval between supper and the first alarm seemed much longer than the author contemplated. I put this difficulty aside, however. Medical books could hardly provide for every constitution.

I slipped the volume back into its place, dressed, and hurried out.

The air was already warm. No rain had fallen, and the dust lay thick upon the road. A man was opening the village shop as I passed; farther on, a woman stood watering some plants upon a window-sill. The sight of these ordinary occupations struck me strangely. At Styles, everything had stopped.

Poirot lodged with his fellow-countrymen in a small house near the village green. I knocked, and heard his voice immediately.

"Enter!"

He was standing before a looking-glass, with a brush in either hand. His coat lay ready upon a chair, and his boots, placed side by side beneath it, shone with extraordinary brilliance.

"Poirot! I have come to fetch you. Something terrible has happened."

"I know, my friend. Mrs. Inglethorp is dead."

"You have heard already?"

"From Baily. He brought Dr. Wilkins back to the village, and saw me at my window. He stopped to tell me."

He laid down the brushes.

"It is very sad. She was a good woman to us, Hastings. One does not forget that."

For a moment his face was grave and still. Then he drew forward a chair.

"Sit down. You have been running. Tell me why you have come."

I gave him a hurried account of the night's events, concluding with John's permission that he should investigate the circumstances. Poirot listened without interruption, except once, when he asked me to distinguish between what I had seen myself and what Lawrence had told me.

"And the doctors have locked the rooms?"

"Yes. John has the keys."

"Good."

"I looked up strychnine before coming here. There can be very little doubt."

"There can be a great deal of doubt. That is why we must be exact."

I confess that this damped my enthusiasm.

"If you had seen her, you would understand."

"I am endeavouring to understand without having seen her. It is more difficult. Now, when you entered, the gas was not alight?"

"No. Lawrence had a candle."

"And there was a fire?"

"Only some ashes. I noticed them particularly."

"Why?"

I described Lawrence's expression, and the direction of his gaze.

Poirot regarded me attentively.

"You followed his eyes?"

"Naturally."

"And saw the fireplace?"

"Yes."

"That is what you saw. We do not yet know what he saw."

It seemed an unnecessarily fine distinction.

He glanced at the little clock upon his chest of drawers.

"Return to the house, my friend. Ask Mr. Cavendish to have the keys ready, and to permit nothing to be moved. I will follow you in a few minutes."

"You will be quick?"

He looked reproachfully at his coat.

"I cannot present myself at a house of mourning with dust upon my collar."

I left him brushing a spot which was quite invisible to me.

As I came up the drive at Styles, I saw a man approaching the front door by the path from the lodge. It was Alfred Inglethorp.

He carried his hat, and was wiping his forehead with a large silk handkerchief. His appearance gave me an unpleasant shock. During my walk I had thought of him continually, yet I was wholly unprepared to meet him thus, in broad daylight, looking much as he had looked the evening before.

"Good morning, Mr. Hastings. You are abroad early."

Before I could reply, John appeared in the doorway. He stopped at the sight of his stepfather.

"Where have you been?"

"Why, with Denby. I am afraid I have made a night of it. Has Emily been asking for me?"

John's face changed.

"Come inside."

Something in his voice must have warned the other. The hand holding the handkerchief fell to his side.

"What has happened?"

John took him into the dining-room. I followed, feeling that my presence might be of service.

The news was told in a few words.

Alfred Inglethorp sank into a chair. His lips moved beneath his black beard, but for some moments he made no sound. Then he covered his face with his hands.

"My poor Emily! My dear wife! And I was not here!"

John stood at the window, his back towards us.

Presently Inglethorp looked up.

"But how? She was perfectly well yesterday."

"She was taken ill shortly before five. There were convulsions. Bauerstein arrived first, but he could do nothing."

"Convulsions?"

"Wilkins came afterwards."

"And neither of them could save her?"

"No."

There was a silence. I could hear Dorcas moving in the hall.

"I cannot believe it," murmured Inglethorp. "If only I had returned! But it seemed better not to disturb the house."

"You stayed with Denby all night?" asked John.

"Yes. At his place beyond the mill. After leaving Dr. Bauerstein, I remembered that I had promised to go over some accounts with him. We talked much later than I intended. It must have been nearly one when I thought of leaving."

He paused, rubbing his forehead.

"Then I discovered that I had forgotten the latch-key. I had left it on the hall table before going out. Denby very kindly offered me a bed, and I accepted. I was sure Emily would understand."

He spoke slowly, with the air of a man recalling details through some overwhelming confusion of mind.

"I came away as soon as I woke. I had no idea, no warning."

"You had better have something to eat," said John, without turning.

"Eat? My dear fellow!"

He rose abruptly.

"I must go to her."

"The doctors have locked the rooms. They asked that they should be kept so for the present."

For an instant Inglethorp stood motionless.

"Locked them? Why?"

"There is to be an examination."

John's tone discouraged further questions. His stepfather looked from him to me, then passed a hand across his eyes.

"I shall be in the boudoir," he said. "Send for me when I may see her."

He went out, walking heavily.

I found Dorcas waiting near the foot of the stairs. Her eyes were swollen with crying, but there was something besides grief in her expression.

"Did I hear the master say he'd left the latch-key behind him, sir?"

"Yes."

"Well, he didn't. I saw him take it off the table. He held it up when he said we weren't to sit up, and then he put it in his waistcoat pocket. I was waiting to fasten the door."

"You are quite sure?"

"As sure as I am of standing here, sir."

She pressed her lips together. I thought it prudent to say no more.

Poirot arrived almost immediately afterwards, faultlessly dressed, and carrying a small case. I told him of Inglethorp's return and repeated the account he had given. Then I added Dorcas's statement.

"That settles one thing, at any rate."

"What thing?"

"His story about the key."

"It gives us two statements which do not agree," said Poirot. "We shall remember both."

John came out with the keys. He greeted Poirot with a restraint which I knew concealed considerable agitation.

"Hastings has explained?"

"Yes, monsieur. I am deeply sorry."

"Thank you. You will understand that we want as little disturbance as possible."

"I understand perfectly."

John conducted us upstairs. At Mrs. Inglethorp's door he hesitated, then handed the keys to Poirot.

"I would rather leave you to it."

Poirot bowed, and we went in.

The curtains had been drawn back. In the strong morning light the room looked painfully familiar. The overturned table, the broken china upon the floor, and the splintered connecting door had an untidy, almost commonplace appearance. A sheet covered the figure upon the bed.

Poirot stood beside it for a moment with his head bent. Then he turned to me.

"Now, Hastings. Where were you when the door gave way?"

I showed him.

"And Lawrence?"

I placed a chair to indicate the spot, but he made me remove it.

"No additions, if you please. Stand there yourself."

From Lawrence's position he examined the opposite side of the room. He bent his knees a little, straightened himself, and finally shook his head.

"The height is not the same. It will do for the moment."

He next inspected the broken door. The bolt had held, bringing away a considerable piece of the woodwork with it. Poirot knelt, examined the splinters, and crossed to the door opening upon the corridor.

"This is the one you unbolted?"

"Yes."

"With your right hand or your left?"

"My right, I think. Does it matter?"

"I do not know yet."

He tried the bolt without shooting it home, and examined the edge of the door. At the third door, which communicated with Cynthia's room, he spent rather longer. He did not attempt to open it.

Then he began a circuit of the room. His movements were quick, but there was no appearance of haste. He looked beneath the dressing-table, scrutinised the washstand, and examined the despatch-case which stood upon a chair. It was closed. He touched the fastening lightly and passed on.

I watched him with considerable impatience. The overturned table and the articles which had fallen from it seemed to me the obvious objects of interest. Yet he had scarcely glanced at them.

Near the fireplace he stopped.

"Ah!"

He had seen something in the narrow space between the hearth and the carpet. Taking a pair of tweezers from his case, he drew it out and laid it upon his palm.

It was a small brass drawing-pin. The point had been bent almost flat beneath the head.

"Well?" I asked.

"Regard it."

I obeyed. There was a tiny shred of pale material caught about the bent point.

"From the carpet?"

"Perhaps."

"What do you make of it?"

"For the present, a drawing-pin."

"But you attach importance to it?"

"I have not thrown it away."

He folded it carefully in a square of paper.

"You might tell me what you think."

"Later, my friend."

This was distinctly irritating. He had shown me the thing himself; there could be no conceivable reason for withholding his opinion.

He now devoted his attention to the fallen table and its surroundings. His manner became so absorbed that I did not venture to interrupt again. He made several notes, examined the grate, and measured with his eyes the distance between the bed and the fireplace.

At last he shut his little case.

"We will speak with Dorcas."

Downstairs, breakfast had been laid, though scarcely anyone appeared inclined to touch it. Mary Cavendish sat before the tea-pot. Her face was composed, but she looked as though she had not slept for several nights.

Cynthia was beside her, very pale now, with dark shadows under her eyes. She had dressed for the hospital, but her hat lay untouched upon a chair.

"I don't know whether I ought to go," she was saying. "They will be short-handed."

"John has sent a message," said Mary.

Poirot bowed to them both. He accepted a cup of tea, and for a little while spoke only of the heat.

Then he turned to Cynthia.

"Mademoiselle, did you wake at any time during the night before Mrs. Cavendish came to rouse you?"

"No. I slept straight through. I didn't even know at first that Mary was shaking me. I thought it was something in a dream."

"Thank you, mademoiselle."

He asked her nothing more. Mary set down the tea-pot, which she had been holding suspended over his cup.

I was glad when we left the room.

Dorcas received us in the little morning-room. Poirot placed a chair for her with a courtesy which visibly surprised her, and asked her to describe the previous afternoon.

She was reluctant at first. The dead woman's dignity was very dear to her. But Poirot's manner reassured her, and presently she spoke of the quarrel she had overheard, and of her mistress's distress afterwards.

He required her to repeat the actual words she remembered, and stopped her whenever she began to explain what she supposed they meant.

It was a lengthy business. More than once I thought he had finished, only to discover that he wished to return to some trifling point. He asked about the fire, the ordinary care of the bedroom, and whether any repairs had lately been made there.

"Nothing since the spring, sir. The blind was attended to then."

"By whom?"

"One of the men from the village. The cord had broken."

"And drawing-pins? Are they used in the room?"

Dorcas considered.

"The mistress sometimes pinned up a paper where she could see it when she was writing. Dates of meetings and suchlike. But she was particular that nothing should be put into the good woodwork."

Poirot thanked her as gravely as though she had supplied information of the greatest value.

By the time he had spoken to Annie also, it was nearly eleven. John had sent a telegram to Miss Howard, and the household had settled into that uneasy quiet which follows a great shock. Every footstep in the hall seemed unduly loud.

I found Lawrence alone at the drawing-room window. He asked what Poirot had discovered.

"Nothing definite yet."

"I thought as much."

His tone annoyed me.

"He has only just begun."

Lawrence turned away.

"I hope you will all be satisfied when you have made the thing sufficiently unpleasant."

Before I could answer, Poirot appeared and beckoned to me.

We returned upstairs. He first made sure that the outer door of Alfred Inglethorp's room was locked. Then, entering the bedroom by the corridor, he turned that key also and put it in his pocket.

"There. We shall not be disturbed."

He drew two chairs to the small writing-table by the window. Upon its clear surface he unfolded the square of paper. The bent drawing-pin lay between us.

I looked at it, and then at him.

"The servants use these things. Dorcas has explained that."

"She has explained why there might be a drawing-pin in the room."

"What more do you want?"

"To know why this one was on the floor."

"It fell there."

"Possibly."

"And somebody trod on it."

"Possibly."

"You cannot build a case upon a bent pin."

Poirot did not reply. He turned the paper a little, so that the light fell upon the underside of the pin's head.

I could see now that the tiny shred caught there was quite smooth and fine. It did not resemble the thick fibres of the carpet. Beyond that, the object conveyed nothing to me.

Outside, a gardener began to wheel a barrow over the gravel. Poirot waited until the sound had passed.

His next words left me completely bewildered.

"Before we go farther, Hastings, we must discover who wished to be locked out."

I was drawing down the blind in my study, some nights later, when I saw the first falling star. It appeared above the black tops of the trees, a point of extraordinary brightness, and lengthened almost at once into a greenish streak that slanted towards Chertsey. For a moment the window reflected my hand and the brass knob of the blind with the distinctness of daylight. Then the streak broadened, broke into a shower of white sparks, and vanished behind the trees.

I remained with my hand upon the cord. My wife, who had been putting away some sewing, came to the window beside me.

"What was that?" she said.

Before I could answer there came a dull concussion, followed by a noise like the emptying of a cartload of stones. The window rattled. Somewhere down the road a dog began to bark, and another answered it.

"A meteor," I said. "And a very near one."

We went out into the garden. There was no light among the trees, no glow upon the sky to indicate a fire. The stars shone with their usual steadiness. We could hear a man calling to somebody in the road, and presently the sound of running feet. I went as far as our gate, but the runner had already passed. My wife stood upon the gravel behind me, with the light from our open door falling across her dress.

I remember that she asked whether such things often reached the ground. I told her what little I knew of meteorites, and found myself speaking with considerable assurance. The noise had startled me; the explanation restored my comfort. After a little we went indoors, and I finished correcting a page before I went to bed.

The next morning our milkman brought the news that something had fallen into an old gravel working beside the road between Ottershaw and Chertsey. He had not seen it, but a man coming from that direction had told him of trees thrown down and a hole full of smoke. His account included a shattered cottage, which proved to have no existence.

My wife heard him from the breakfast-room window.

"Let us go and see it," she said, when he had gone.

I was eager enough to go. We made a hurried breakfast, and set out a little before eight. The morning was already warm, though the grass beneath the hedges was wet. A cart overtook us, with two men sitting upon some sacks in the bottom, and the driver asked whether we had heard where the thunderbolt had fallen. That was the name by which most of the people we met were speaking of it.

We came upon the first sign of the fall at a bend in the road. A quantity of yellow sand had been scattered over the hedge, and farther on a small birch lay with its roots towards us. Beyond it the ground sloped into the gravel working. I knew the place as a neglected hollow, with a shallow pool at the bottom and reeds along its farther side. The winter rains had filled it unusually high, and much of the water still remained.

There were perhaps a dozen people upon the bank. Below them, standing alone upon a tongue of fresh earth, was Ogilvy. His bicycle leaned against a fence behind the spectators. He had taken off his coat, and the knees of his trousers were stained with mud.

At first I saw only steam. It rose in thin white wisps from the pool, gathered for a moment against the darker bank beyond, and dissolved in the sunshine. Then, as we went down a few paces, I distinguished the object itself.

It lay half submerged in the brown water, an immense dark body, thirty feet long perhaps, with a rounded back that rose several feet above the pool. The nearer extremity had buried itself in gravel. About the other the water stirred and steamed. Its exposed surface was covered with a blackish crust, broken here and there by smooth patches of a dull grey colour.

The fall had torn away one side of the hollow. Clods hung in the bushes, and a fringe of roots projected from the raw bank. There was a smell of wet earth and scorched wood, with something sharper that irritated my throat. My wife stopped beside a stump while I went down to Ogilvy.

He greeted me with an excitement that made his voice unusually loud.

"You saw it? Capital! I wanted somebody who had actually seen it. Which way did it travel?"

I pointed, and described the appearance as well as I could. He questioned me about its altitude, its colour, and the interval before the concussion. To this last I could give no satisfactory answer.

"It seemed a long time."

"Yes, but how long?"

I confessed that I had not counted.

He looked disappointed, and turned again towards the water.

"What do you make of it?" I asked.

"An ordinary meteorite. Chiefly iron, I should judge. Though ordinary is hardly the word for the dimensions."

He laughed and rubbed his chin. The steam drifted aside, and for the first time I saw clearly the long curve of the upper part. There was a regularity about it that I had missed from the bank.

"It is a singular shape for a stone," I said.

"Iron," he corrected.

"For anything that has not been made."

He glanced at me sharply.

"You must not expect a meteorite to look like a flint picked out of the road. There are rounded specimens, flattened specimens, specimens furrowed all over. Think of the conditions through which this has passed."

"But that curve," I said. "It is almost the curve of a boiler."

He stooped and picked up a pebble.

"And this is almost an egg. Nature does not avoid a shape because we have found a use for it."

I could not answer that, but the appearance continued to trouble me. Along one of the grey patches was a straight ridge, visible for several feet before it disappeared beneath the crust. I called his attention to it.

"Unequal fusion," he said. "You will find a hundred apparent peculiarities before the day is out. We must get measurements."

He spoke impatiently, and I was a little nettled. I had not proposed any explanation of the thing, yet he was treating me as though I had brought him some absurd theory.

My wife came down to us then, holding her skirt clear of the wet ground. Ogilvy straightened himself and greeted her. He warned her against going nearer the broken bank.

"Is it still very hot?" she asked.

"Hot enough to boil the water against it. It may remain so for a considerable time."

"Then how can you measure it?"

"With some inconvenience," he admitted.

While we were talking, three more men had descended from the road. One carried a long ash stick, with which he prodded the ground before each step. They approached the shallow water at the nearer end, discussing the metal in the confident fashion of men accustomed to handling heavy things.

The youngest wore corduroy trousers and a shirt open at the neck. He declared that it looked like lead, and that the steam came principally from the earth beneath it. His companion told him that iron could burn a man without looking hot.

"I know hot iron when I see it," he answered.

Ogilvy called across to them to keep back. The young man stood upon a flat piece of gravel close to the water and looked round with a grin. Then, either to prove his judgement or because the warning had irritated him, he leaned forward and laid his palm upon a smooth grey patch.

His hand was against it for scarcely an instant.

He gave a sharp cry, snatched it away, and stumbled backwards into the water. His companion caught him by the shirt. For a moment he stood bent double, gripping his wrist and making a curious whimpering sound through his teeth.

My wife reached him before I did.

"Bring him away from there," she said.

We helped him up the slope to a little runnel that fed the pool. He knelt and thrust his hand into it. When he lifted it again I saw a white mark across the palm and the beginnings of blisters upon two fingers. His face had become very pale.

There had been a laugh from somebody above us when he stumbled. Now the people upon the bank were silent. They leaned forward to see his hand, and several asked questions at once.

"I scarcely touched it," he kept saying. "I scarcely touched it."

My wife stayed beside him until the older man undertook to walk him to a doctor. She gave them her handkerchief. I saw the two go along the road, the injured man carrying his arm stiffly before him, and heard him repeating his complaint even after they were out of sight.

Ogilvy had watched this business with an expression of vexation and concern.

"I told him," he said. "I told him plainly enough."

The accident altered the behaviour of the spectators for perhaps ten minutes. Nobody descended into the hollow, and those nearest the edge moved back. But as fresh people arrived the story became an entertainment. The man with the ash stick described the touch again and again, slapping his own palm against his thigh. Before long I heard somebody say that the fellow had tried to break off a piece.

My wife was indignant at this.

"He did nothing of the sort."

The man who had repeated it looked at her doubtfully, as though the correction deprived him of something he had acquired.

By ten o'clock there were forty or fifty people about the pit. A grocer's boy had left his barrow beside the road, and a woman with two children was eating from a paper bag beneath the hedge. One heard the same questions continually. How far had it fallen? What was it worth? Who owned it? A stout man maintained that anything which fell upon land belonged to the landlord, and another said that such things were always sent to the British Museum.

Ogilvy tried to borrow a measuring tape. Nobody had one. He then wanted a plank, and spent some time explaining that a plank of sufficient length would enable him to approach without trusting the loose gravel. Each request produced advice, but no useful object.

I joined him again when he had climbed to the road. He was looking down at the dark curve with his hands upon his hips.

"Have you thought of the appearances upon Mars?" I asked quietly.

He turned his head.

"What about them?"

"The explosions. Their occurrence just before this."

"My dear fellow, stones fall out of the sky every year. We have been watching Mars, and now we have seen a meteor. That is no reason for joining the two."

"Yet you cannot say where this came from."

"Certainly I cannot. Nor can you."

He spoke less impatiently this time. He explained that a coincidence became impressive chiefly because one neglected all the occasions upon which nothing followed it. His argument seemed sound, and I had no facts to oppose to it. Nevertheless, when I looked down into the hollow, I found that I was still thinking of those distant flashes.

I ought to make it plain that I had then no definite suspicion of the truth. My uneasiness concerned the thing before me, its form and its inexplicable arrival. The people eating, arguing, and moving about upon the bank prevented any larger apprehension. Even Ogilvy's muddy trousers made the event seem manageable.

Towards eleven a constable arrived and asked who had charge of the place. Nobody answered him. He went down a little way, felt the warmth rising from the hollow, and returned to tell the children to stand farther back. Afterwards he began taking down Ogilvy's account in a notebook. The crowd listened with respect to information it had disregarded when the astronomer offered it without this formality.

My wife and I found a place in the shade of the hedge. She was tired of standing, and there was a small stain of mud upon her sleeve. I suggested that she should go home.

"And leave you here all day?"

"I shall come presently."

"You said that an hour ago."

This was true. I had been repeatedly on the point of going, and repeatedly some change in the steam or some fresh arrival had detained me. I wanted to see the whole outline measured. I wanted, too, to persuade Ogilvy to examine the ridge more closely, though I could not have said what I expected him to discover.

"There is nothing you can do," she said.

"No. But I should like to hear what he makes of it when he gets nearer."

She looked across at Ogilvy, who was now talking to a carpenter about boards. Then she looked at the hollow. The steam rose less thickly than it had in the early morning, and the exposed metal had dried in broad patches.

I told her that I would return in time for our meal, and that she would be more comfortable at home. At last she agreed. Before she went she made me promise to keep off the loose bank and leave the metal alone. The burned man's cry had disturbed her more than she had admitted.

I walked with her as far as the gap beside the fallen birch. People were coming along the road in little parties, and a trap had stopped opposite, its occupants standing up to see over the hedge. She passed them, turned once to wave to me, and went out of sight round the bend towards home.

The distant clock at Ottershaw began to strike twelve. I waited until it had finished, then returned to Ogilvy. Behind us the newcomers pressed forward along the bank, asking those in front to make room.

Robert shortened his steps to suit hers, and shifted the sunshade which she had given him so that its shadow should fall more completely over her face. Madame Ratignolle declared that she had sat too long upon the floor. It was well enough for Edna, who could dispose of herself like a girl; for her part, she would not be persuaded into it again.

"And Mrs. Pontellier has remained to be buried in the sand," said Robert. "Raoul has undertaken to bury her. He had already begun upon her shoes when we came away."

"She is very good with the children when she chooses. You ought to have brought a chair for me, Robert."

"I should have brought two, if I had known where you were. I looked for Mrs. Pontellier everywhere. I sometimes think Mrs. Pontellier is glad when I go away."

He spoke with a little laugh, and broke off a piece of camomile which hung across the path.

"You interrupted a very agreeable conversation," returned Madame Ratignolle. "I had forgotten how late it was. No, do not give me those flowers. They have a dreadful smell."

She stopped to remove a grain of sand from her shoe, steadying herself upon his arm. When they reached the house she was anxious only to find a cool place and a glass of water.

Edna remained with the children until the heat began to make them fretful. Raoul objected to the destruction of his work when she rose, and had to be diverted by the discovery of a small shell which she found caught in a fold of her skirt. He carried it home in his closed fist, refusing to intrust it to the nurse.

A servant brought a telegram to Mrs. Pontellier soon after her return. It had just been sent over from the main house. She tore the envelope awkwardly, with a sudden apprehension which the appearance of a telegram always excited in her.

It was from her husband.

"Cannot come out Saturday or Sunday. Detained by business. All well. Léonce."

She read it a second time, though there was nothing in it which she had failed to comprehend at the first reading. Then she laid it upon the table beside her hat.

She was sorry that Léonce could not come. He looked forward to these brief holidays, and was apt to return to the city in better spirits than he had brought away from it. She had meant to ask him about a number of small matters. For the moment she could not remember what they were.

Raoul came to exhibit his shell, which had acquired a new importance through being washed. She examined it with him, tracing its narrow brown markings with her finger. When he had gone she folded the telegram and put it into her drawer. There seemed nothing to be done about it.

Madame Ratignolle came over after dinner, bringing the little roll of sewing which she had scarcely opened at the beach. She established herself near the door, where there was a current of air, and Edna sat upon the step below her. The children had gone indoors with their nurse.

Adèle was distressed to hear that Mr. Pontellier would be detained in town.

"And you had that pretty dress sent down expressly! You must wear it all the same. It would be a shame to keep it shut up in your wardrobe."

"I shall wear it when I feel like dressing," said Edna. "It is too warm to think of it now."

She leaned her head against the door-post and watched Adèle draw a length of thread through the fine white stuff upon her knee.

"Robert says he sometimes thinks you are glad when he goes away," Madame Ratignolle remarked, smiling over her work.

Edna turned her face toward her.

"Did he say that?"

"This morning, on the way back. He had been looking everywhere for you."

"Was he vexed?"

"Vexed! He was laughing. He was very attentive to me, and offered to fetch a chair from the house and carry me home in it. Imagine what a spectacle!"

Edna smiled, but made no further inquiry. She would have liked to know exactly how he had spoken, and what had led him to say it. Adèle had already begun to tell her of a mistake in the cutting of the little garment. There was a piece too much upon one side and too little upon the other. She spread it out for Edna to see.

When Madame Ratignolle left, Edna went into her room and lay down. The shutters were drawn together. A narrow strip of sunshine crossed the floor, and she watched a fly walk in and out of it until the small, persistent movement wearied her. She closed her eyes, but did not sleep.

Presently she rose, took her bath-house key from the drawer, and went out by herself.

The path seemed longer without a companion. She walked slowly, letting her skirt brush against the plants which encroached upon it. Here and there the sand was so hot that she felt it through the soles of her shoes. She had no wish to turn back.

The lady in black was upon the gallery of her bath-house, with her prayer-book closed upon one finger. As Edna passed, she looked up.

"Can you tell me the time, Mrs. Pontellier?"

It was the first time she had spoken to her. Edna stopped, a little surprised at hearing her own name.

"It wanted a quarter of four when I left the house."

"Thank you. My watch has stopped. I was afraid it was much later."

She held the watch against her ear and shook it gently, as if this might restore its activity. Edna waited a moment, with an impulse to say something more; but the lady had lowered her eyes to her book again.

When Edna came out in her bathing dress, the neighboring gallery was empty. She saw the black figure moving slowly along the path toward the house.

There was no one near her upon the beach. Farther away a man was busy with a boat drawn up on the sand. He stooped over his work and did not look in her direction.

The wind had fallen a little since morning, though the water was still broken into short, uneven waves. Edna entered it without the hesitation which commonly attended her first steps. It was warm about her ankles; farther out a cooler current passed against her knees.

She had often tried to swim, supported by a hand beneath her, or with some one close enough to be caught at the instant when confidence deserted her. The thought of that necessary hand had usually remained with her longer than any instruction she received.

She stood now where the water reached a little above her waist, and bent forward, extending her arms. A wave struck her breast and made her draw back. She waited for it to pass.

There was no particular resolution in her next attempt. She yielded her weight to the water, moved her arms as she had been shown, and drew her feet up from the bottom. She made one stroke, then another. Her face was close to the water, and she could see the pale sand wavering beneath it. She made two more strokes before fright seized her.

She put her feet down at once. The bottom was there, firm and easily reached. She stood breathing fast, with the salt water running from her chin.

She had swum. The distance was scarcely greater than the length of her own body; nevertheless, she had passed over it without touching the sand, and without any one beside her.

She looked toward the boat. The man had disappeared behind it.

For a while she remained standing in the water. She did not repeat the attempt. A curious unwillingness to try again possessed her, as if failure might deprive her of what had already happened. She bathed her face, pushed back her wet hair, and returned to the bath-house.

As she dressed, she thought of telling Robert. She could almost hear his exclamations and the questions which would follow them. He would wish to take her down again and see her do it. She fastened her dress slowly, considering this, and presently ceased to consider it.

At supper Robert sat near enough to talk to her, but he was much occupied with an account of some absurdity of his brother's. Every one appeared to understand the affair except Edna, who had missed its beginning. She laughed when the others laughed. Once Robert turned to her as though he expected a remark, and she asked him to pass the bread.

The children were sleepy and troublesome that evening. Edna went with them to the cottage and remained while the nurse undressed them. Raoul had lost his shell. He accused his brother of taking it, and would not be comforted until it was discovered inside one of his shoes.

After they were asleep she came out upon the gallery. Robert passed on his way to the house and stopped at the steps.

"Are you coming over?"

"I think I shall stay here."

He lingered, with his hand upon the railing, and told her that there would probably be music. She answered that she might hear it from where she sat. Some one called to him, and he wished her good-night.

Edna drew her chair a little farther from the light which came through the door. She had told no one about the swimming. Her arms felt tired when she lifted them to remove the pins from her hair.

Within, the children slept. She could distinguish their breathing when the voices at the house were still. Beyond the cottages the sea made a low, continuous sound.

Robert had said that she was glad when he went away. No, Adèle had said that he sometimes thought so. She wished she had heard him say it. Alone in the darkness of the gallery, she tried again to give his voice to the words, but it was Adèle's voice that repeated them.

Mr. Franklin got up first, and gave me his hand. Having pulled me on to my legs, he looked at the place where he had been sitting, and then at the back of his beautiful coat.

"There goes the work of a Paris tailor!" he said.

"You should have thought of the tailor before you sat down, sir."

"I thought of you, Betteredge."

There was no answering that. I brushed him with my handkerchief, and asked after his health.

He was well; he was delighted to be in England; he had a hundred questions to put to me about everybody in the house. Had my lady altered? Had Penelope grown out of all knowledge? Did I still keep the same opinion of foreign cookery? Before I could satisfy him on any one of these points, he had passed to another. I remembered this way of his when he was a boy. If his education had done nothing else for him, it had preserved his natural disposition.

"You have taken us by surprise, sir," I said. "We didn't look for you till four hours later."

At that, his manner changed. He put his hand into his breast-pocket, and brought out a letter.

"That is accountable for the surprise," he answered. "It reached me in London this morning, just as I was sitting down to breakfast. I left my breakfast, changed my arrangements, and caught the earlier train. Read it."

He gave me the letter open. I put on my spectacles.

Here I must beg you to distinguish between reading a gentleman's correspondence because he asks you, and reading it because he happens to leave it about. I have had opportunities enough of doing the second thing to know the value of having always done the first. Mr. Franklin held the corner of the paper against the wind, while I read as follows:

Lincoln's Inn, Wednesday, May 24th, 1848.

My dear Blake,

On consideration, I advise you to reach your aunt's house earlier than you proposed. You will want a quiet opportunity of speaking to Betteredge before the family occupations claim you. Take the first train you can conveniently catch.

Betteredge has the charge of the plate, and can give the small packet the security which it requires for the night. Keep the seal unbroken. There is no occasion to acquaint him with the contents, and there may be an advantage in leaving him free to say that he knows nothing of them.

As to the separate question on which you asked my advice, let your aunt choose her own time for speaking. Her feeling about her brother has survived his death. You will gain nothing by attempting to reason her out of it on the day of your arrival.

Yours faithfully,

Matthew Bruff.

I handed back the letter.

"Mr. Bruff has a good opinion of our plate-room, sir."

"He has a good opinion of the man who keeps the key."

That was the second time he had stopped my mouth by a civil answer. A young gentleman who remembers the proper way of speaking to old servants has made one good use of his education, wherever he may have got it.

Mr. Franklin folded the letter, and restored it to his pocket. He then produced a small packet, secured with string, and sealed in two places. On one side my name had been written. On the other there was nothing to be seen but the folds of the covering and the seals.

"Will you take care of this till to-morrow morning?" he asked.

"With pleasure, sir."

"Lock it up yourself, Betteredge. And keep the key."

I took the packet. He kept his fingers upon it for a moment after it was in my hand.

"You don't mind being trusted without an explanation?"

"That depends on who trusts me, Mr. Franklin."

He let go directly. I put it in the inside pocket of my coat.

I suppose there are men who would have felt the packet, and shaken the packet, and held the packet to the light, as soon as they had an opportunity. There are also men who put their noses into a saucepan to discover what they are going to have for dinner. My rule has always been to wait till the cover is taken off. It saves trouble, and leaves the cook responsible.

We turned towards the plantation.

Mr. Franklin offered me his arm. I declined it, having my stick, and being still able, thank God, to walk a quarter of a mile without making a public business of it. He accommodated his pace to mine, and asked me, among other things, whether the servants knew that he was expected.

"They all know it, sir."

"That accounts for my finding somebody to direct me to you. I came round by the offices, and a girl told me you were gone to the sands. I thought I would catch you before you got home."

I remembered my promise to Penelope.

"There have been other inquiries after you to-day, Mr. Franklin."

"Indeed? Who has been asking for me?"

I told him what my daughter had reported to me that morning. I needn't trouble you with the particulars twice over. My own view of the matter, which I gave him along with the particulars, was that we had heard a piece of jugglery, and that Penelope had supplied the fright out of her own head.

Mr. Franklin stopped in the path.

"Are you sure of the boy's words?"

"As sure as a man can be who had them at second hand."

"'He has got It about him.' Was that what he said?"

"Those were the words, sir."

He stood considering a little, with his eyes on the ground.

"What do you make of it?" I asked.

"I am afraid I make more of it than you do. I think I know what 'It' means."

He looked up at me.

"The Moonstone," he said.

Here was a name which told me nothing, coupled with a manner which told me that our young gentleman was uneasy. I asked him what the Moonstone might be.

"Something I shall have to explain to you," he answered. "But I want to speak to Penelope first. There may be a word she has forgotten, or a circumstance which didn't strike her as worth mentioning. You have no objection to my questioning her?"

I had no objection whatever. But I confess I had expected better things of Mr. Franklin. When a girl comes to her father with a foolish story, and her father disposes of it in a sensible manner, it is discouraging to have a gentleman educated at considerable expense take the girl's side.

We found Penelope at the door which opened from the back court into the house. She had been looking for me.

"Rosanna hasn't come in, father."

"Not come in? I sent her home before we left the sands."

"She has gone to Cobb's Hole. Mrs. Bolland met her on the path, and spoke to her. She said she was going to see her friend there."

I asked whether she had sent any message.

"Only that she didn't want her dinner."

This was a liberty. I had taken the trouble to fetch the girl, and the girl had gone somewhere else. If you have ever been at the pains to do a kindness, and found the person intended to benefit by it upsetting your arrangements, you will understand that I was a little put out.

"Keep something for her," I said. "And tell her I expect to hear why she didn't come back."

Penelope looked at me, and said nothing. She has a provoking way of receiving an order in silence when she considers that my feelings and my words are not quite of the same mind.

I presented her to Mr. Franklin, who remembered her as a child, and astonished her by remembering, besides, a doll which she had once made him kiss. The doll had been dead and buried for years. Penelope blushed as if it had been alive and listening.

Leaving them together, I went straight to the plate-room.

The plate-room was on the ground floor, with an iron grating over its window, and a lock on its door which had cost Sir John more money than he liked to acknowledge. Inside it stood the great oak press in which we kept the smaller articles not in daily use. I unlocked the press, put Mr. Franklin's packet in an empty drawer, locked the press again, and tried it with my hand. I then secured the door, and put both keys on the ring which I carried in my trousers-pocket.

There was the packet safe for the night. What was inside it I knew no more than the oak press did.

On my return, I found Mr. Franklin still questioning Penelope. She had lost her blushes, and recovered her importance. Every answer she gave appeared to furnish him with a reason for asking another question. When he had done, he thanked her, and desired her to tell him at once if anything else came back to her memory.

She waited till he had walked away towards the terrace. Then she turned upon me.

"Mr. Franklin doesn't think I imagined it, father."

"Mr. Franklin has lived abroad," I answered.

It was not much of an answer; but it was the only one that occurred to me at the time.

Towards five o'clock, my lady's bell rang. I found her alone in her sitting-room, with her bonnet just taken off, and Mr. Franklin's arrival already reported to her.

"Bring him here, Betteredge. I must have him to myself for a few minutes."

She spoke cheerfully. But when I returned with our young gentleman, and she rose to meet him, I saw her look at his face with a sudden earnestness which checked the first words on her lips.

He kissed her, and she held him by both hands.

"Your mother's eyes, Franklin!"

She drew him to the window, and looked again. There are meetings at which an old servant finds something to attend to on the other side of the room. I occupied myself with the curtains.

Presently my lady called me back.

"Stay a moment, Betteredge."

Mr. Franklin had taken a chair beside her. She still had one of his hands between hers.

"I want your visit to be a happy one, my dear," she said. "And I must begin it by asking something of you."

"Anything you please, aunt."

"Wait till you hear. You have had business lately which has brought you into communication with Mr. Bruff."

Mr. Franklin bowed.

"I have had a letter from him," my lady went on. "He means well. I know that you mean well too. But there is one subject which I forbid to be discussed under my roof. That subject is John Herncastle."

Mr. Franklin made a movement, as if he were going to speak. She pressed his hand, and stopped him.

"You were a child when the things happened which I remember. You have heard of them from others. I ask you to leave them where they are. Whatever business there may be can be managed through Mr. Bruff."

"I had no intention of distressing you."

"I know it. Give me your promise."

"You have it, aunt. The subject shall not be mentioned under your roof."

My lady let his hand go, and leaned back in her chair.

"Now tell me about yourself."

She dismissed me with a nod. As I closed the door, I heard Mr. Franklin begin some account of his travels, in the same pleasant voice with which he had greeted me on the sands. Whatever else foreign parts had done for him, they had taught him to understand when a lady had said her last word.

For my own part, I was glad of the prohibition. There were recollections connected with that name which I had no wish to revive. My lady had suffered enough from her brother during his life. If the lawyers could finish what remained of him without assistance from the family, so much the better for all parties.

The occupations of the evening next took possession of me. A gentleman who arrives four hours before his luggage produces a disturbance in a house, though the gentleman himself may be the most agreeable creature in existence. There were messages to send, and explanations to make, and a bedroom to be looked at again after it had been looked at twice already. By the time the luggage came, we had spent more labour in expecting it than we afterwards spent in putting it away.

I saw Mr. Franklin for a moment before dinner. He asked whether his packet was safe.

"Under two locks, sir."

"Thank you, Betteredge."

He seemed disposed to say something more, but checked himself. Remembering my lady's words, I took the liberty of saving him the trouble.

"To-morrow will do for anything else, Mr. Franklin."

He looked relieved, and went upstairs.

You will observe that I was now in possession of several people's confidence, without being much the wiser for any of them. This is a situation in which servants are oftener placed than their masters suppose. We know when to shut a door, and when to leave a room, and when to forget that we have ears. What we are intended to understand is generally the last thing anybody thinks of telling us.

At eight o'clock I asked Penelope whether Rosanna had returned.

She had not.

The answer disturbed me. I remembered how I had found the poor creature on the beach, and I wished that I had brought her home with me. Penelope offered to go to Cobb's Hole herself. I preferred sending one of the boys from the stable, with instructions to find Rosanna at her friend's, and accompany her back.

"Tell her she needn't be afraid of a scolding," I added.

Penelope's face cleared at that. She went to find the boy.

The house grew quiet by degrees. I tried the plate-room door once more in passing it, and felt the keys in my pocket afterwards. Then I fetched Robinson Crusoe out of my room, and drew my beehive chair near enough to the open doorway to get the benefit of the lamp within.

The night was mild, and there was no wind in the court. I could hear the sea, and, at intervals, the turning of a leaf in the book under my hand. I had chosen a passage which had composed my mind on many former occasions. On this occasion, I found myself obliged to begin it again.

Penelope came softly to the door.

"Not back yet, father."

I kept my finger in the book, and listened. The stable-boy had not returned either. There was nothing to do but give them a little more time.

The clock struck half-past nine. I settled myself again in the beehive chair, with Robinson Crusoe open on my knees. Mr. Franklin's sealed packet was locked away, and the keys were safe in my pocket. As for Rosanna, I had left the door open for her; but she was still out of the house.

Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.

"27 May.

"My dear Art,

"You left your gloves here last night. I send them with this, for I know that a man in your condition cannot be expected to remember anything which has ten fingers when all his thoughts are fixed upon one which has five.

"Jack stayed for half an hour after you went. We finished our cigars, and he gave me some advice about my tobacco which I shall follow when he follows his own. He has asked me to go down and see his establishment next week. I think I shall go oftener than that. A man may have plenty of people about him and yet find his dinner a lonely business.

"I am glad you came. When I had set out the three glasses before dinner, I began to wonder whether I had been a fool to bring us together so soon. But when you came through the door and took a hand of each of us, I knew that it was all right. You need not have been so careful over Miss Lucy's messages. She meant every kind word, and we knew how to receive them.

"Do you remember how Jack would have the little cracked tumbler for the toast, because it was the one you drank out of when your arm was bound up? I had nearly thrown it away last winter. He remembered it before I did. There was something in the way he got up, with that shabby glass in his hand, which made me very proud of knowing him.

"I had meant to make a speech myself, but Jack said all that was wanted, and you made such poor work of answering that I thought we had better get to our dinner. Afterwards, when you were telling us about the ring, you looked so solemn that I could not resist asking whether the jeweller had guaranteed it against changing its mind. It did me good to hear Jack laugh.

"Tell Miss Lucy that we expect her to keep you in order. You have escaped a good deal through having friends who knew too much about your own adventures to speak freely of their own.

"Yours always,

"QUINCEY."

Dr. Seward's Diary.

Kept in phonograph.

28 May.

Visited Renfield this morning before making my ordinary round. Found him dressed, with his bed neatly arranged and his breakfast things set together upon the tray. This unusual order suggested a request. I was looking at the fastening of his window when, before I had spoken to him, he asked:

"Will Miss Westenra have many people at her wedding?"

He had yesterday's newspaper upon his knee, open at the announcement of the engagement. There was therefore no difficulty about his possession of the name. I asked what interest the matter had for him.

"A wedding is a public occasion, sir. People are received who would not be received upon an ordinary day."

"That depends upon whose wedding it is."

"Precisely. Smith tells me that you are acquainted with the lady's family."

I must speak to Smith about his conversation. There is no harm in the fact itself, but an attendant ought not to make his physician's private affairs a subject of discussion with the patients.

Renfield drew a folded paper from beneath the newspaper and held it towards me.

"I thought that, if you were going, you might take me. There would be gentlemen of the law present. I should require only five minutes with one of them."

The paper was a petition for his release. He had written it with considerable care, leaving spaces for the names of persons who would undertake to receive him. Beneath these he had added a list of his possessions, down to two waistcoat buttons which Smith had put away for him.

I told him that I could make no arrangement on Miss Westenra's behalf, but that he need not wait for a wedding to state his wishes to me.

"To you!" he said, and withdrew the paper. "But you have already made up your mind."

There was justice enough in this to make an answer difficult. I asked him to let me read his statement. He refused at first; then smoothed the sheet upon his knee and gave it back.

"You will observe that I have not complained of the food."

He watched me throughout the reading. I had expected extravagance, and found instead a very reasonable account of certain small grievances. His conclusion did not follow from his premises, but neither would mine have done so if I had dismissed the whole merely because he wrote it.

Promised to inquire into the matters specified. He immediately asked whether a favourable report would enable him to attend the wedding. I said that it would not.

"Then you should have said so before reading," he answered.

I left him offended, though perfectly quiet. Have directed that he shall have writing materials at stated hours, and that any letter he wishes to send shall be brought to me.

I find that I have recorded his question about Miss Westenra at greater length than the petition which followed it. I must be careful. My own disappointment will make a poor instrument for examining another man's mind.

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray.

"29 May.

"My dearest Mina,

"Arthur has told me about the dinner, though you would think, to hear him, that he had been the host and that the other two had come there to be made happy by him. Men are very odd about such things. He remembered what Mr. Morris said about me, and what Dr. Seward said about me, but when I asked what he had said himself he could remember nothing at all. I daresay that was the best part, and I shall never hear it!

"They are all to come here on Sunday. I was afraid at first that it might be painful; but Arthur says that we must behave as we always have done, and I am sure he is right. Only I wish that knowing what is right made it easier to know where to look, and what to do with one's hands.

"Mamma has begun to speak about linen. It is extraordinary how much linen there seems to be in being married. Yesterday I was sitting quite happily, thinking of Arthur, when she asked how many pairs of sheets I supposed would be necessary. I had not supposed anything about sheets, and she looked so distressed that I pretended to consider very deeply before answering.

"But, Mina dear, I want you. Your last letter was full of questions about my affairs, and there was hardly a word about your own. Have you heard from Jonathan? You must not spare me any anxiety merely because I am happy. I should feel ashamed of my happiness if it made you keep anything from me.

"Could you come for a few days? Mamma says that your room can be ready whenever you wish. If your school will let you away, telegraph, and I shall meet you myself. Bring your shorthand book. I want you to teach me enough to write something which Arthur cannot read. He says that husbands have a right to know everything, but I told him that he must wait until he is one before laying down rules.

"Your loving

"LUCY."

Mina Murray's Journal.

31 May.

A letter about Jonathan at last! It came by the afternoon post, just as I was putting away the exercise books. I recognised neither the writing nor the seal, and for a moment could scarcely bring myself to open it.

The writer is a stranger, a clerk at an hotel in Vienna to which I sent an inquiry on Mr. Hawkins's advice. Mr. Hawkins knows the proprietor through some business done for him in Exeter. He thought that inquiries made at the hotels might bring news sooner than another letter sent on to Jonathan's destination.

I read it twice before I understood that there was nothing in it about illness. Then I had to sit down, which was very foolish, for I had stood quite steadily whilst I thought there might be.

I copy the letter here, so that I may keep the dates together. I have sent the original to Mr. Hawkins, who has been so kind that he ought to have his share of the relief.

Letter, Emil Kessler to Miss Mina Murray.

"Vienna,

"27 May.

"Madam,

"At the request of the proprietor, who is absent until Monday, I have the honour to reply to your inquiry of the 21st concerning Mr. Jonathan Harker.

"I am pleased to inform you that Mr. Harker is at present staying in this hotel. His journey has been delayed through the loss of a valise containing papers and money. The valise was sent forward separately, and the receipt has occasioned some difficulty, as the number entered upon it does not agree with that furnished by the railway office. Application has now been made at the proper station, and we have reason to expect that the property will be restored within a few days.

"Mr. Harker has desired that his room be retained until the morning of the 3rd June. If his present arrangements are carried out, he proposes to reach London on the following afternoon. I mention these particulars because you express anxiety concerning the length of his absence, and because correspondence addressed to a traveller may easily fail to reach him during such a delay.

"You may address any further communication to our care, marking upon the envelope that it is to be delivered personally. Should he have left before its arrival, we shall forward it according to his directions.

"I trust that this information will relieve your anxiety, and beg to remain,

"Madam,

"Your obedient servant,

"EMIL KESSLER,

"For the Proprietor."

Letter, Mina Murray to Lucy Westenra.

"1 June.

"My dearest Lucy,

"I can come! Miss Tomlinson has arranged for my classes, and I am to have four days, with the journey back on the fifth morning. I shall reach you on the afternoon of the 3rd.

"There is good news of Jonathan. A clerk at an hotel in Vienna has answered my inquiry. Jonathan has been delayed by the loss of some luggage, but expects to be in London on the 4th. I have written to him at the hotel, and given him your address. Perhaps I may be at the station when he arrives. I have pictured meeting him so often that I am afraid I shall do something quite different from anything I have imagined, and merely ask whether he has had his dinner.

"I wish he had written himself. I cannot understand why the loss of his papers should have prevented a letter to me, even if he had to borrow the stamp. But Mr. Hawkins says that difficulties abroad often take longer to settle than one would suppose, and that Jonathan may have expected each day to be the last of his delay.

"I shall bring the typewriting exercises you asked to see. They are very dull, but you may laugh at my mistakes. One page has a whole line printed twice, which would be a dreadful thing in a legal document. Jonathan says that accuracy must come before speed; I have written that at the top of my practice book.

"Do not make any plans for entertaining me. I want to sit with you and hear you talk, and perhaps help with the linen. I know more about sheets than you do, for I have had to mend them. Tell your mamma that I am very grateful.

"How strange it will be if we are all together before the week is over! I had begun to think that every plan must wait until the summer holidays.

"Your loving

"MINA."

Mina Murray's Journal.

3 June. London.

Lucy met me herself. I saw her before the train stopped, and she walked beside the carriage, laughing because I could not get the fastening undone. A porter opened it at last, and she kissed me before I had fairly stepped down.

She looks prettier than ever. I had meant to study her face, to see what difference her happiness had made; but she was so busy asking questions and taking possession of my parcels that I forgot all about studying her. She had brought a little bunch of flowers for me, and was much distressed because she had crushed them against the carriage door.

Mrs. Westenra received me as kindly as Lucy could have done. My room was ready, with writing things upon the table and a place cleared for my books. Lucy had even put out a sheet of paper with curious little marks upon it, which she said was her first attempt at shorthand. She could not read it herself, so I am afraid she must begin again.

After luncheon we sent a telegram to the hotel in Vienna, asking whether Jonathan had left, and by what train he expected to arrive. I gave his full name and profession, and repeated the address here, lest my letter should have missed him. Lucy insisted upon paying half the charge, because she said she had an equal interest in getting an answer.

Arthur came in whilst we were at tea. He offered to accompany us to the station to-morrow, and said that he would bring Jonathan here himself if any business should detain me. It was kindly meant, but Lucy laughed and told him that no business in London would detain me then.

I have unpacked everything except the dress I shall wear to meet Jonathan. Lucy wishes me to wear my grey one. She remembers that he liked it, though I had forgotten telling her so.

There is a knock at the door. I hear Lucy asking whether the boy has brought an answer.

Telegram, Emil Kessler to Miss Mina Murray.

3 June.

"GUEST IS JOSEPH HARKER OF LEEDS. NO INFORMATION CONCERNING JONATHAN. REGRET ERROR. KESSLER."

Lady Russell came to Kellynch the next morning with her calculations already made, and with a hope of their being accepted which depended chiefly on her not having heard them discussed. Mr Shepherd, who arrived a few minutes after her, brought more papers and less confidence. They were received in the breakfast-room, where Elizabeth had placed herself beside her father; and Anne, who had not been particularly desired to attend, was permitted to remain.

Sir Walter was very civil to them both. He regretted the trouble they had taken, especially the trouble of bringing so many papers; for he was persuaded that the business, properly understood, must prove a very simple one.

"We have only to ascertain what is unnecessary," said he. "I am sure Elizabeth and I are as ready to give up any thing unnecessary as other people. Nobody can accuse us of wishing to spend money merely for the sake of spending it."

Lady Russell readily acknowledged their good intentions. It was upon those intentions that she must rely; and she began her explanation with a composure which she had taken some pains to acquire. She had a sincere regard for Sir Walter, and a still more sincere regard for the credit of his family; but she could not conceal from herself that the preservation of the one would require some interruption to the comfort of the other.

Her plan allowed them to remain at Kellynch, and to retain every thing which she considered essential to their situation. Two of the carriage-horses must be parted with; the number of servants must be reduced; the visit to London omitted for the ensuing spring; and their entertainments confined to a few old friends, received without expense or ceremony. With these changes, and a fixed allowance for the ordinary charges of the house, a respectable sum might be set apart every year. She laid the paper before Sir Walter, and pointed out the amount.

"It is a sacrifice," she said, "but a sacrifice which will have its reward. You will know, at the end of every year, that something has been accomplished."

Sir Walter looked at the paper sufficiently to discover where she had written horses, and pushed it towards Elizabeth.

"No, Lady Russell; I cannot agree to this. It is entirely out of the question. Two horses! There is not a family of any consideration within our acquaintance that would attempt to keep up such a house as Kellynch with two horses. And to dismiss servants who have been seen here for years! It would be understood immediately."

"It would be understood that you were acting with prudence."

"It would be understood that I could not afford to live as I ought. I must beg you to dismiss the plan altogether."

Lady Russell coloured, and was silent for a moment. She had expected objections to particular articles, and had prepared herself to yield on one or two; but a rejection which comprehended every article left her concessions unemployed.

Mr Shepherd now ventured to produce his own statement. He had anticipated the difficulty of any considerable alteration in the establishment, and had endeavoured to discover what might be saved without attracting observation. The horses and servants might remain. A stricter regulation of the table, less frequent use of the carriage, smaller purchases for the cellar, and the suspension of several intended improvements would do much. He had examined the bills, and believed that a limit might be fixed upon the weekly expenditure which, if steadily observed, would leave an annual surplus. The debts would certainly require a longer period for their discharge than Lady Russell had proposed; but the creditors, upon receiving a proper assurance, might be induced to wait.

He spoke with particular modesty of the creditors, as if their existence were an opinion for which he was unwilling to be answerable.

Sir Walter heard him to the end.

"I like this even less," he replied. "To keep a carriage, and be considering whether one may use it! To sit down to dinner, and be told that something cannot be had because the week's money is spent! No, Mr Shepherd, I reject it entirely. I will not have such a system in my house."

"Some regulation, Sir Walter, must necessarily precede any material reduction."

"Then you must discover a better regulation. There can be no occasion for making every meal uncomfortable."

Elizabeth, who had taken up Lady Russell's paper, was still examining it. Anne had listened with increasing anxiety. She had wished that the advice of their friends might spare her the necessity of speaking; but every objection made her more sensible that the evil was insufficiently felt, and that plans could be of little use where the purpose of them was not admitted.

"If we could determine first what ought to be paid," she said, "we might find it easier to settle what we could spend. Could not half our clear income, after the necessary charges of the estate, be reserved for the debts?"

Her father turned towards her with a look which expressed no encouragement; but she proceeded.

"We must give up the carriage altogether, and keep no more servants than the work of the house requires. There could be no visit to London, and no dinners beyond our own family; and we must all consent to buy only what is necessary. It would be a great change; but while so much remains unpaid, I do not think we have a right to refuse it. I would rather begin with too little for ourselves than promise what we should afterwards fail to perform."

Lady Russell was preparing to soften a proposal whose justice she could better approve than its severity, when Elizabeth said,

"I think Anne is perfectly right."

Every body looked at her. Anne's surprise was the most grateful; Sir Walter's the most openly expressed; but neither Lady Russell nor Mr Shepherd could have been more unprepared.

"If we are to retrench," Elizabeth continued, "let us do it so as to have an end of it. I could give up the carriage. I could give up London for a year, or even longer, if it were settled that our affairs would then be easy. But to be always contriving, and always obliged to refuse some little thing, and to know that nothing is really paid after all, would be insupportable."

"My dear Elizabeth!"

"Yes, sir, I mean it. We need receive nobody. There is no necessity for asking people here to observe how differently we live. Lady Russell would come to us just as usual; and as for the rest of the neighbourhood, I am sure we have seen enough of them lately."

There was more resentment against her acquaintance, and less consideration for the creditors, in this conclusion than Anne could have wished; but the consent was too valuable to be examined with severity. Elizabeth had given up what she herself enjoyed. The loss of London could be no light sacrifice to her; and Anne felt, for a few moments, nearer to her sister than she had done for many a day.

Lady Russell resumed the subject with fresh hope.

"With such a disposition in your daughters, Sir Walter, much may certainly be done. The exact proportion must be considered; but this willingness to bear their share ought to make the whole less difficult."

"Their share!" repeated he. "Anne may be very willing. I do not suppose that she cares whether there is a carriage or not. But Elizabeth has not considered what she is saying. It is impossible that she should have considered it."

"I have considered it quite enough to know which I should prefer."

He could not bear to contradict her harshly; but he could still suppose her incapable of understanding herself. She had been frightened by the papers. Mr Shepherd had brought too many accounts at once. It was a mistake to place such things before women, who naturally imagined every demand must be answered directly.

Mr Shepherd looked down upon the accounts. He had not found this the prevailing error at Kellynch.

Elizabeth returned Lady Russell's paper, with a manner which proved that she could relinquish the discussion more readily than her opinion. Sir Walter, seeing her displeased, complained of the necessity of discussing the matter at all. There ought to be some arrangement by which a man of property might be relieved from these perpetual applications.

"There is one other possibility," said Mr Shepherd, after a short hesitation, "which I have not yet ventured to mention. The house itself might be made productive. A family of fortune might gladly take Kellynch Hall for a term of years; and a tenant of proper consequence, with suitable references, could perhaps be found without much difficulty."

Sir Walter sat upright.

"A tenant at Kellynch Hall!"

"It was merely a suggestion, sir. The rent of such a place, joined to the saving of the establishment—"

"Let me never hear the word tenant again in my presence, Mr Shepherd. I am astonished that you should have used it. Kellynch Hall is my house. I have no intention of putting another person into it."

Mr Shepherd bowed, and began to collect the paper which had lain nearest to him. Lady Russell would have said something of the obligation they were under to him for considering every possible resource; but Sir Walter was not disposed to acknowledge an obligation of this nature. He desired that the subject might be dropped. He had called his friends together for advice, and had heard nothing but proposals which they must themselves perceive to be inadmissible.

At this fortunate moment for Mr Shepherd, a servant entered with a letter for Anne, brought from Uppercross. Sir Walter, who disliked interruption upon most occasions, was now perfectly ready to be interrupted, and desired to know what Mary could have to write about.

Anne opened the letter.

"My dear Anne,

"I have been so very unwell all the morning that I can hardly hold my pen, and you must come to me as soon as you can. Charles says I was quite well yesterday, but that is no reason why I should be well to-day; and I am sure I felt very far from well yesterday, though I said nothing about it. I have had scarcely any sleep, and nobody here knows what to do for me. They would have me walk out, which shews how little they understand my complaints. I cannot bear being left alone, and Charles has business which will take him out to-morrow. Pray come early. I suppose there can be nothing to keep you at home, and I shall think it very unkind if you do not come.

"Yours affectionately, "Mary Musgrove."

Mary's illness was enquired after, and Anne gave the substance of her letter.

"I dare say she has been sitting in a draught," said Sir Walter. "Mary never attends to those things. Her complexion must suffer from it."

"She always wants Anne when Charles is going out," said Elizabeth. "It is very unreasonable to expect every body to be at her command."

"She may be more uncomfortable than we suppose," Anne replied.

"Then she should send for advice," said her father. "I do not see what Anne can do."

Anne could have explained what she generally did, but the explanation would not have increased its importance in his eyes. She folded her letter, and the conversation returned, by an observation of Lady Russell's, to the business before them. Her ladyship wished to obtain at least a promise that no fresh expense should be incurred before another consultation.

Sir Walter could promise nothing so comprehensive. Necessary expenses must arise; and he would not submit to being reminded of a promise whenever he ordered any thing. Mr Shepherd was desired to examine the accounts again. There must be mistakes, or charges which could be deferred. With this commission, which required him to discover in the figures something more agreeable than their amount, he took his leave.

Lady Russell remained a little longer. She could not abandon the hope raised by Elizabeth's unexpected assistance; but Elizabeth would say no more. She had made an offer which had cost her something, and was offended that her father should treat it as a mistake. Lady Russell at length departed, with permission to reconsider her plan, but without authority to reckon upon a single saving.

Anne followed her into the hall. A few words of kindness there repaid her for much of the morning's mortification. Lady Russell pressed her hand, lamented the result of their endeavours, and hoped that reflection would do what argument had failed to accomplish. Anne wished to hope so too.

The remainder of the day afforded little support to either. Sir Walter recovered his spirits by deciding that Mr Shepherd had taken a very gloomy view of their circumstances. At dinner he was almost cheerful. Elizabeth was silent, but had lost nothing of her resolution.

Anne found an opportunity afterwards of thanking her.

"I only said what I thought," was Elizabeth's reply. "If we must be uncomfortable, I wish to know for how long. I cannot understand your being so much surprised."

Anne attempted no further expression of gratitude. She had been understood enough for the morning's purpose, and must be satisfied.

When evening came, she withdrew to her own room with Mary's letter. She read it again, and resolved to go to Uppercross the next morning. There was nothing to detain her which her presence could remedy. Mary might exaggerate her sufferings; she seldom exaggerated her desire for company; and Anne knew that she could make the hours pass less heavily, even where she could not believe them dangerous.

She laid out what she would require for the visit, and then sat down alone by the window. She had been listened to that morning, and supported where she had least expected support; yet the satisfaction of having spoken rightly was all that remained. No expense had been relinquished, no payment appointed. Before another day had added to the demands upon her father, she would be with Mary; but she could form no reasonable expectation that, on her return, she should find him nearer to determining how those demands were to be met.

In the waiting-room Eve found that the rain had stopped. A shaft of sunlight lay across a magazine devoted to the interests of poultry, giving to the portrait of a prize Orpington an expression of almost unbearable smugness. She paused beside the table. The umbrella had reminded her that there was one piece of business which ought to be attended to before she did anything else.

"Could you let me have a sheet of paper?" she asked Enquiries.

Enquiries could. She could also supply an envelope and a pen which, after certain preliminary exercises on a piece of blotting-paper, consented to perform its office.

Eve wrote:

"Thank you very much for the umbrella. It has saved a hat which could never have been replaced. I am sorry I was too surprised to thank you at the time.

"The person under the awning."

She read this through, considered adding something about the weather, and decided that the weather had had quite enough attention already. She put the note in the envelope and started back towards Dover Street.

The porter of the Drones received her with the air of a man to whom umbrellas were no novelty, but who was prepared to concede that this one had arrived under agreeable circumstances.

"Will you give this to the gentleman who lent it to me?"

"Yes, miss. What name?"

"I don't know his name. He is very tall, and he wears an eyeglass."

The porter, who had spent a considerable portion of his life admitting tall men with eyeglasses, looked doubtful.

"He came out without his hat."

This helped.

"Mr. P..."

"There's a note with it," said Eve. "Thank you so much."

She was gone before the porter could complete a piece of information which he had had every intention of bestowing.

Upstairs, meanwhile, Psmith's peaceful enjoyment of the morning paper had suffered an interruption.

The Hon. Hugo Walderwick was a young man whose ordinarily amiable expression depended a good deal on things going as he wished them to go. They had not done so that morning. He had arrived at the club in a new suit and had been obliged to leave it, on an errand of some urgency, beneath a small brown umbrella belonging to the hall-boy. It was the sort of umbrella which a man might carry without criticism through a village where he was known, but which exposed him to speculation in the West End.

"Look here, Smith," he said.

Psmith lowered the paper.

"Look here," repeated Mr. Walderwick.

"I am looking, Comrade Walderwick. I have suspended an article on the growing menace of the cinema in order to look. What is the trouble?"

"You took my umbrella."

Psmith regarded him thoughtfully.

"A handsome piece of property. You have taste."

"What the devil did you take it for?"

"Have you ever considered selling it?"

"Selling it?"

"It is a question which must inevitably arise sooner or later in the life of anyone who owns anything. Shall I retain this object, one asks oneself, or shall I dispose of it and invest the proceeds?"

"I don't want to sell it."

"Twenty pounds," said Psmith.

Mr. Walderwick ceased to breathe through his nose.

"What?"

"Twenty pounds. I could probably get one cheaper by going to a shop, but there is something cold and impersonal about shopping. I prefer these little transactions between friends."

"Do you mean you'll give me twenty pounds for that umbrella?"

"That was the figure which escaped me."

"But it only cost..."

Mr. Walderwick checked himself. He had the makings of a financier.

Psmith took out a pocket-book. His recent severance from the fish business had involved a financial settlement, and for the moment he was in the unusual position of being able to support his conversation with bank-notes. He counted some on to the table.

Mr. Walderwick looked at them. They appeared to him to be sound bank-notes, capable of being exchanged for things.

"Well, if you really want the dashed thing..."

"I do."

"It's a jolly good umbrella."

"I have never heard it spoken of otherwise."

Mr. Walderwick collected the money. There was a brief silence, during which he seemed to be considering whether it would be sporting to ask another five pounds for the cover. He decided against it.

"All right," he said. "It's yours."

He withdrew, and Psmith resumed his paper. He had reached the conclusion that the cinema was growing more menacing every day when a waiter approached with the umbrella and a letter.

"The hall porter asked me to bring these up, sir."

Psmith read the note twice. He then put it in his pocket and stood the umbrella against his chair.

The transaction, viewed as an investment, was already beginning to justify itself.

At three o'clock that afternoon Eve presented herself at the hotel in Northumberland Avenue where Lord Emsworth had appointed to receive her.

She had lunched economically, walked a considerable distance, and spent the last ten minutes endeavouring to persuade herself that there was nothing alarming about an earl. In theory she had never found any difficulty in accepting this view. It was only when an actual earl was waiting upstairs to decide whether she was competent to catalogue his library that doubts began to creep in.

The sitting-room into which she was shown contained a writing-table, several chairs, and an elderly gentleman who was searching beneath a sofa.

"Miss Halliday, your lordship," said the attendant.

"Eh?" said the elderly gentleman, striking his head against the woodwork.

"Miss Halliday."

"Oh, yes. Quite so."

The attendant left them.

"How do you do?" said Eve.

Lord Emsworth emerged, rubbing the back of his head.

"There was a most extraordinary bluebottle in here a moment ago," he said. "Quite enormous. I don't know when I've seen a bigger one. It went under there."

He gazed at the sofa with a certain wistfulness, then appeared to remember that the room contained another human being.

"Won't you sit down?"

Eve sat down. She was relieved to find that her employer had none of the appearance of a man who intended to ask difficult questions about the dates of the early printers.

"I have brought a specimen," she said, opening her bag. "I thought you might like to see the sort of thing I should do."

"A specimen?"

"Just a few books belonging to my landlady. Of course, there wasn't much scope."

She handed him two sheets of paper. They represented a good deal of care and most of the previous evening. She had ruled columns, arranged the entries neatly, and contrived to give a rather miscellaneous collection of books an appearance of having been assembled for some definite purpose.

Lord Emsworth adjusted his pince-nez.

"Books?" he said.

"Yes."

He peered at the first sheet. Then his expression changed. It was not exactly a fierce expression, but it had ceased to be hospitable.

"My dear young lady," he said, "I have all the books I want."

Eve looked at him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"All the books I want. More than I want. Hundreds of them. I haven't the slightest intention of buying any more."

"But..."

"No, no. Quite out of the question."

He spoke with the firmness of a man who had once allowed himself to be persuaded into buying an encyclopaedia and had never ceased to regret it.

"I don't know why they sent you up. I particularly told the people downstairs yesterday that I would see nobody about books."

"I'm not..."

"There was a man here yesterday afternoon. A most persistent fellow. He said I needed a work of reference. I told him I had a secretary."

Lord Emsworth, who had been folding the specimen catalogue during these remarks, now tore it across and dropped the pieces into the waste-paper basket.

Eve rose.

For a moment she could think of nothing to say. The destruction had been so brisk, so businesslike. One second her evening's work had been there, and the next it had become something for a chambermaid to take away.

Then she found her voice.

"Those were not books for sale. That was the specimen catalogue you asked me to bring."

"Eh?"

"I'm Miss Halliday. You wrote to me about cataloguing the library at Blandings Castle."

Lord Emsworth's mouth opened.

"Oh, dear!" he said.

He looked into the basket.

"Oh, dear me!"

He bent down and began to retrieve the fragments.

"Please don't bother," said Eve.

"But I must have thought..."

"You thought I was trying to sell you books."

"Yes," said Lord Emsworth, brightening a little at this lucid explanation. "That was it. I thought you were trying to sell me books."

He laid the pieces on the table and fitted two together incorrectly.

"I am extremely sorry. My sister wrote to you, of course. I remember now. Constance. She said something about it this morning."

"Do you still wish me to come?"

"Come? To Blandings? Certainly, certainly. We shall be delighted. Baxter will arrange everything."

"And the catalogue?"

"By all means. An excellent idea."

He glanced at the fragments with renewed discomfort.

"You won't have to do all that again, will you?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Dear me! Would some paper help?"

He offered her a large sheet of hotel stationery. Eve accepted it. It seemed the only thing to do.

By the time she found herself in the street again her indignation had subsided. The job remained hers, and it was difficult to nourish resentment against an employer who, after destroying one's credentials, had spent five minutes looking for a better pen.

She walked towards Piccadilly. There was still sunshine, and London had begun to behave as if the morning's shower had been an unfortunate rumour circulated by its enemies.

Outside a bookseller's window she stopped to inspect a volume entitled Practical Hints for the Private Librarian.

It had occurred to her that there might be a chapter on the handling of proprietors.

"A dangerous title," said a voice beside her. "One feels that the hints may at any moment become personal."

Eve turned.

The tall young man of the morning was standing a few feet away. He wore a hat now, but there was the same eyeglass, the same solemn friendliness, and, tucked beneath his arm, the umbrella.

"It's you!" she said.

Psmith raised his hat.

"A statement which I am fortunately in a position to confirm."

"You gave me that umbrella this morning."

Psmith glanced at the umbrella with mild interest.

"This?"

"Yes. Outside the coal shop."

"A curious place for the distribution of umbrellas."

"You know perfectly well."

"I know the shop. A sound concern, I believe. Their coal burns."

Eve laughed.

"Did you get my note?"

"A note reached me this morning. It referred in moving terms to a hat."

"This hat."

Psmith inspected it gravely.

"The writer's anxiety was comprehensible."

"Then why pretend it wasn't you?"

"I should be sorry to pretend anything. I merely feel that an incident which has terminated without damage to the hat should not be subjected to an inquisition. There is too much of this probing into the past."

"You are very silly."

"It has been said. Usually by relatives."

"I wanted to thank you."

"An admirable impulse. I suggest that you allow me to transmit your thanks to the proper quarter."

Eve looked at him, defeated but amused.

"Very well. And please tell the proper quarter that I shall buy an umbrella of my own as soon as I can afford one."

"There is no hurry."

"There may be another shower."

"In that event something can doubtless be arranged."

She turned again towards the window.

"Do you know anything about cataloguing books?"

Psmith considered.

"I know that it is done. Beyond that my information becomes sketchy."

"I've just been interviewed for a job doing it."

"And the fortunate employer?"

"He tore up my specimen catalogue and put it in the waste-paper basket."

Psmith's eyeglass dropped from his eye.

"This is serious. Did he bite you?"

"He thought I was selling an encyclopaedia."

"Ah! Then much may be forgiven him. There are men going about to-day, apparently normal men, who become dangerous at the mere mention of an encyclopaedia. Did he recover?"

"Enough to give me the job."

"A man of sound judgment, when the seizure has passed."

"He was very sweet about it afterwards. He gave me some paper."

"Generous to the last."

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this."

"Probably because I have the appearance of one who understands suffering. I, too, have had employers."

"And did they tear things up?"

"Only my self-esteem. The process was slower, but they were thorough."

Eve laughed again. The interview, which had threatened to become one of those memories that return unpleasantly when one is trying to get to sleep, was already assuming the proportions of an entertainment.

"I must go," she said. "There's my omnibus."

A vehicle had stopped a little way along the street. She moved towards it, and Psmith accompanied her to the kerb.

"You will convey my thanks?" she said.

"Without fail."

"And say that I think he might have owned up."

"I will put it to him."

She mounted the step, and the omnibus moved away. Psmith stood looking after it until an elderly gentleman, who wanted the portion of pavement he occupied, requested him to make up his mind which way he was going.

Psmith apologised and made up his mind.

Evening found him in the smoking-room of the Drones. He had dined, and the room was empty except for himself. Beside his chair stood the umbrella. He had been examining its handle with the attention which a man naturally gives to an article for which he has paid twenty pounds.

Mr. Walderwick entered in search of a cigarette-case.

"Hullo," he said. "Still got it?"

"The umbrella? Yes. I have decided to keep it for the present."

Mr. Walderwick found the cigarette-case beneath a newspaper.

"Queer business," he said.

"Life is full of them."

"I saw you this afternoon."

"An experience open to all."

"In Piccadilly. Outside that bookshop. I'd have stopped, only I was in a taxi and late for an appointment."

Psmith said nothing.

"Didn't know you knew Eve Halliday."

Psmith looked up.

"Whom?"

"Eve Halliday. The girl you were talking to. She was at school with my sister. I met her once at our place."

He pocketed the cigarette-case and glanced at his watch.

"Well, I must be off."

The door closed behind him.

Psmith remained quite still for a moment. Then he put up his eyeglass and regarded the umbrella once more.

Twenty pounds was a substantial price for an umbrella. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain that he had been overcharged.