The Chapters

*Letter, Mina Murray to Lucy Westenra.*

“*26 May.*

“My dearest Lucy,--

“I have your letter, and I have read it many times. I cannot think of anything to say which will make you happier than you are already, so I will only tell you how glad I am that Arthur has spoken and that you have found in him all that your heart desired. I shall write to him, of course, though I cannot yet answer for Jonathan. I have had no letter from him since the hurried lines of which I told you, and his own reckoning must have been mistaken, as he has not returned.

“I do not like to trouble you with this, for I know you have your own happiness to think of; but there is something in the silence which makes me uneasy. I tell myself that letters are delayed, and that a man may be kept by business after he believes it finished. Yet Jonathan is usually so exact. I have written to Mr. Hawkins to ask if he has heard anything.

“Your loving

“MINA.”

*Dr. Seward’s Diary.*

“(Kept in phonograph.)

“*26 May.*--My work is better for me than I expected. The day has been full, and I have had little time to think of myself. Renfield was in a singularly quiet humour this morning. He had been arranging his flies in a tin box, and I had only just entered when he looked up and said, quite without any lead from me:

“‘Is Miss Westenra to be married to Mr. Holmwood?’

“I asked him how he came to think of Miss Westenra.

“‘I did not think of her,’ he said. ‘I asked you.’

“‘You have never met her.’

“‘No. But you have.’

“I was about to question him further when he returned to his flies. He appeared to have forgotten that he had spoken. I asked whether he had heard the name from one of the attendants, but he gave no answer. There was no excitement in his manner, nor any sign that he had fixed his mind upon the subject. I cannot see what prompted him to ask. I had not mentioned Miss Westenra to him, and I have spoken of the matter to no one at the asylum.

“I shall watch whether the name occurs again. It may be no more than a chance association. The mind makes such connections without our being able to follow them, and a question alone proves nothing.

“At four o’clock I was called away, and the thought slipped from me until I came to set down these notes. The dinner with Quincey is for to-night. I have no great appetite, but I have promised to go.”

*Letter from Herr Josef Kramm to Miss Mina Murray.*

“*Bistritz, 29 May.*

“*Miss,*

“*I beg you to excuse my writing without having the honour of your acquaintance. I am a clerk in the office of the firm which conducted certain arrangements for Mr Jonathan Harker during his stay in this district. I have been asked to forward a message to him, and, when I learned that he had not yet returned to England, I thought it right to write to you also.*

“*Mr Harker was delayed after leaving Bistritz. The coach upon which he had depended was withdrawn for repairs, and the next conveyance could not be arranged for several days. He was therefore obliged to wait here longer than he had intended. I was not in Bistritz during the whole of that time, and cannot say why a letter from him did not reach you. I returned yesterday and learned that he had continued his journey westward.*

“*His business papers were left in good order with the agent, and I am told that he carried his own travelling things with him. There is no reason, so far as I know, that he should be kept from proceeding to England now that the delay is past. The post from this place is uncertain, and I would not have you suppose that the silence of a few weeks signifies any accident.*

“*I have written to the agent at Klausenburg to ask whether he can tell me the day on which Mr Harker left. If I receive an answer, I shall send it to you without delay. I hope this letter will reach you before your anxiety has become serious.*

“*I remain, Miss,*

“*Your obedient servant,*

“*JOSEF KRAMM.*”

*Dr. Seward’s Diary.*

“(Kept in phonograph.)

“*27 May.*--Quincey’s dinner last night was a success, though there were only three of us. I had thought the evening might be hard on Arthur, but the fellow bore himself admirably. He came in with the air of a man who had already made up his mind to be happy, and before the soup was finished he had told us that Lucy had accepted him.

“Quincey stood up and shook his hand, and I followed. We drank her health, and then Arthur’s, and then theirs together. Quincey made a speech, which began in a very grave way and ended by assuring Arthur that no man in London had a better right to look pleased with himself.

“‘I have had my turn,’ he said, ‘and I am glad that the prize has gone to a man I can still call friend.’

“Arthur tried to answer him, but the words would not come. I thought he was near tears, and Quincey, with his usual tact, began to talk of a hunting trip in Texas. He told the story so well that Arthur forgot to be embarrassed and soon had him on to another, about a wagon which lost a wheel at the worst possible place and was saved by a man who had no business being there at all.

“After dinner we sat late over our wine. Quincey kept us from talking too much of Lucy, but Arthur spoke of her often enough without noticing it. He is a fortunate man. I said as much to him, and he looked at me with such honest surprise that I had to laugh. He does not yet understand how much a man may have and still not know his good fortune.

“There was no sadness in the room when I left. Quincey walked with me to the door and asked whether I had got over my own disappointment. I told him I had not, but that I should do so. He said that was the right answer, and clapped me on the shoulder. I could not resent his kindness, though I wished he had left me to make the answer without hearing it.”

*Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray.*

“*31 May.*

“My dearest Mina,--

“Arthur has told you, I know, and I am sure that he will have written to Jonathan, too. I wish you were here with me. There are so many little things that I want to tell you, and I can only write them in a way that makes them sound small. Arthur is everything I could wish, and I feel almost ashamed of being so happy when I know how unhappy Dr Seward and Mr Morris must have been. They have both been so kind that I can hardly bear to think of them.

“Arthur has told me that they dined together at Mr Morris’s rooms, and that they drank my health. I shall write to them both and thank them. Arthur says Mr Morris made a speech, and that he would give anything to have it written down. I think the best thing I can do is to be as good a wife as I can, so that all the good things said of me will not be wasted.

“Now, Mina dear, how is Jonathan? You said in your letter that he had not come home when you expected him. I hope you have heard from him since. He may have been detained by some tiresome legal business, but he ought to have sent you a line. Do not fret before you have cause. I know that is easy for me to say when I am not waiting.

“Your loving

“LUCY.

“P.S.--Arthur says I am not to tire myself writing, as though a letter to you were work! He is already beginning to think he knows what is best for me. I shall have to train him.”

*Letter, Mina Murray to Mr Peter Hawkins.*

“*2 June.*

“*Dear Sir,*

“*I write to ask whether you have received any communication from Jonathan. He told me in his last letter that he expected to return within about a week, but he has not yet come home, nor have I heard from him since. I have received a letter from a clerk in Bistritz, who says that Jonathan was delayed there for several days after he left, and that he had continued westward when the delay ended.*

“*The letter does not say when he left, or where he is now. I have written to the gentleman who sent it, asking him for any further particulars he can obtain. I hope you may have heard something from Jonathan himself, or from the people with whom he had business.*

“*I remain, dear Sir,*

“*Yours faithfully,*

“*MINA MURRAY.*”

*Telegram from Peter Hawkins to Miss Mina Murray.*

“*3 June.*

“Have received no letter from Mr Harker. Will make enquiries at once. Please keep me informed of any news.”

*Dr. Seward’s Diary.*

“(Kept in phonograph.)

“*4 June.*--Renfield asked me again to-day whether Mr Holmwood had married Miss Westenra. This time he had been reading a newspaper, and the announcement was printed in it. I asked him whether he had read it. He said no, and turned his face away.

“I do not attach any importance to the answer. He may have seen the notice without looking at it. When I asked what he meant by asking, he said, ‘A man must know where he stands.’ I could not discover what man he had in mind, or why he should concern himself with the marriage.

“I have had a letter from Arthur, full of good sense and good spirits. He says Lucy is well and happy. I was glad to hear it. I have no wish to make a mystery where no mystery need be. Renfield has fixed ideas, and his remarks often sound more deliberate than they are.”

*Letter, Mina Murray to Lucy Westenra.*

“*6 June.*

“My dearest Lucy,--

“I have not yet heard from Jonathan, and Mr Hawkins has had no news either. Still, I am trying not to let myself be alarmed. The letter from Bistritz says he went on his way, and there must be some cause for his silence which will be plain enough when he comes home. I have written again to Mr Kramm, the clerk who sent me the first letter. He promised to ask the agent at Klausenburg for the date.

“I am glad to hear that you are well and happy. Arthur could not have a more devoted wife, and I shall be proud to call him my brother. I cannot help wishing that Jonathan were here to hear the news from you himself. I know he would be glad for us both.

“You ask me to come to you. I should like nothing better, but I cannot leave until I know whether Jonathan may return at any moment. If he does, I should not like him to find me away. You will understand, dear.

“Your loving

“MINA.”

*Telegram from Herr Josef Kramm to Miss Mina Murray.*

“*7 June.*

“Mr Harker reached Exeter yesterday. He asks you to expect him at home this evening.”

For five minutes I searched the library shelves, though my mind was not upon the book. At last I found a small manual of medicine, and turned to the article on strychnine. The description of its effects was horribly exact. I shut the book with a snap.

I had just reached the hall when I heard a step behind me. Dorcas came from the passage leading to the servants’ quarters, her eyes red with crying.

“Mr. Hastings, sir,” she said, “I’ve been thinking of something. I don’t know whether it’s of any use.”

“What is it, Dorcas?”

“I was in the mistress’s room last night, sir, before she went upstairs. I put the coffee on the little table by her chair. She was at her desk, writing. There was a candle burning, and a paper on the desk with a great blot on it. I thought nothing of it then. But now, after what’s happened—”

She broke off, and pressed her apron to her eyes.

“It may have no bearing,” I said gently. “But you are right to tell us everything you remember.”

“I can’t think what the paper was, sir. I didn’t read it. I only remember the blot. And the mistress was very agitated.”

I thanked her and went out. The morning air felt close and heavy. The sky had turned a dull grey, and the leaves hung still upon the trees. I walked quickly down the drive and through the lodge gates, my thoughts running ahead of me. Poison! The word had taken hold of my imagination, and I could not put it aside.

Poirot’s cottage stood in the village among the other little houses which Emily Inglethorp had helped to find for the Belgian refugees. I had barely knocked when the door opened. Poirot stood there, immaculate as ever, though I thought his face looked graver than usual.

“Ah, Hastings. I expected you.”

“You know?”

“Of the tragedy, yes. The good Dorcas came to me early this morning. She was much distressed. She told me of the death, and of the doctors’ decision.”

“I have come to ask you to take the matter in hand.”

“My friend, I had already decided to do so.”

I stared at him. “You had?”

“Is it not the natural course? The old lady is dead in circumstances which call for inquiry. Her family is in great agitation. The doctors are not satisfied. And there is a mystery about the husband’s absence. I would be a poor friend indeed if I did not offer my services.”

“You will come, then?”

“Certainly. But first, tell me all that has happened since I left you yesterday.”

I gave him as full an account as I could. He listened without interrupting, his eyes fixed on my face. When I had finished, he remained silent for a moment.

“And the body?” he asked.

“The doctors have made their examination. They intended to hold a post-mortem tonight.”

“Good. And the room?”

“Dr. Bauerstein locked it before leaving. John has the keys.”

“Very good. We shall see the room. But first, Hastings, you will understand that we must observe without disturbing. You will tell me what you saw, and not what you think you saw.”

“I am not sure I understand the difference.”

Poirot smiled faintly. “That is why I am here.”

We set out together. The stillness of the day oppressed me. The sky threatened rain, but none came. Poirot walked briskly, his hands clasped behind his back, and asked me no further questions until we had almost reached the house.

As we approached the lodge gates, a motor-car came up the drive and drew to a halt before us. Alfred Inglethorp stepped out. He looked tired and dusty, and his black beard seemed more unkempt than usual. His eyes moved from me to Poirot.

“Mr. Hastings,” he said, “I have just heard. I cannot tell you how shocked I am.”

I introduced him to Poirot.

“Mr. Inglethorp,” said Poirot, bowing, “I am grieved to meet you at such a time.”

Alfred shook his hand, then turned towards the house. “I have been away all night. I only learned the news when I reached the village this morning.”

There was something in his manner that made me look at him closely. He seemed sincere, but his face was pale, and his eyes were restless.

“You were away all night?” I asked.

“Yes. I walked with Dr. Bauerstein as far as the village, as I told you all last night. I had business there, and stayed at the Three Boars. I did not know that my wife was ill until I came back this morning.”

Poirot gave a little nod. “You stayed at the inn?”

“Yes. I had intended to return earlier, but the storm came on, and I thought it best not to walk back in the dark.”

At that moment Baily, the coachman, came round the side of the house. He stopped when he saw Mr. Inglethorp.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but I thought you’d come in on foot.”

Alfred turned to him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I saw you in the hall, sir, sometime after midnight. I was coming down to see to the stable lamp, and you were there by the door. You asked me if the telephone was working.”

A silence fell. Alfred’s face darkened.

“You are mistaken, Baily. I was at the Three Boars all night.”

“I’m sure it was you, sir,” said the coachman, flushing. “You had your travelling coat on.”

“You must have seen someone else,” Alfred replied. He turned away. “I cannot stand here discussing this. My wife is dead.”

He went on towards the house. Poirot and I followed at a little distance.

“An odd mistake,” murmured Poirot.

“You think Baily was right?”

“I think only that he believes he was right. We shall see.”

We found John and Lawrence in the dining-room. The strain of the night showed on both their faces. Mary was not there. John rose as we entered.

“Mr. Poirot,” he said, “I am glad you have come.”

Poirot bowed. “I am very sorry, Mr. Cavendish. I will do all that I can.”

Alfred stood near the window, looking out upon the lawn. He had taken off his coat and held it over one arm. John turned to him.

“Where have you been, Alfred?”

“I have just told Mr. Hastings. At the Three Boars.”

“Baily says he saw you in the hall after midnight,” I said.

Alfred swung round. “Baily is wrong. I have not been in this house since I left with Bauerstein.”

John’s face tightened. Lawrence looked from one to the other, but said nothing.

Poirot raised his hand slightly. “Messieurs, there is no need to discuss this now. We must have patience. Each of us will tell what he knows, and we shall compare the accounts later.”

A faint flush rose in Alfred’s face. “I have nothing to conceal.”

“I did not say that you had,” returned Poirot quietly. “Let us leave the matter there for the present.”

John asked whether Poirot wished to see the room. Poirot replied that he did, but first he wished to speak with each member of the household. He began with Lawrence, who recounted the events of the night in a low, strained voice. He described the calls from within the locked room, the effort to break down the door, and his own horror when they entered.

“You were much affected,” said Poirot.

“I was,” Lawrence answered shortly.

Poirot looked at him a moment, but did not press the point. John gave his account next. He spoke of the coffee, the doors, and the servants. His manner was composed, though his hands were clenched on the arms of his chair.

“I should like to see Miss Murdoch,” said Poirot.

Cynthia was in the morning-room with Mary. She looked worn and bewildered, and her fair hair was loose about her shoulders. Mary sat beside her, holding one of her hands. She glanced up as we entered, and I saw that her face was pale.

Poirot greeted them both with a grave courtesy. Then he turned to Cynthia.

“Miss Murdoch, did you sleep well last night?”

“No,” she said. “I was tired, but I kept waking. I heard the storm, and then I heard someone calling.”

Poirot nodded. He asked no more. I wondered at the question, which seemed to me of little importance, but I knew better than to interrupt him.

Mary’s eyes rested on me for a moment, then moved away. I could not forget her cry when I had spoken of poison. But I did not know what meaning to give it, and I kept my thoughts to myself.

Poirot asked if he might see Mrs. Inglethorp’s room. John gave him the keys. We went upstairs, and Poirot unlocked the door. He entered first, and I followed.

The room had been left exactly as it was when the doctors departed. The bedclothes were disordered, and the overturned table still lay near the wall. A glass stood upon the mantelpiece. The coffee cup was on the small table beside the chair, untouched, and the despatch-case lay open on the writing-desk.

Poirot did not move at once. He stood in the centre of the room, looking slowly from the bed to the windows, then to the desk and the fireplace. He seemed to take in each object, yet his eyes rested on none for long.

“Do not touch anything, Hastings,” he said.

“I was not going to.”

“You thought of it,” he replied. “That is enough.”

He went first to the windows. They were shut, and he examined the fastenings. Then he looked at the door to the corridor, and at the connecting door into Mr. Inglethorp’s room. He said nothing, but his fingers travelled over the edges of the bolts and the lock.

Next he crossed to the desk. A number of papers lay upon it, though they had been moved about in the confusion of the night. Poirot looked at them without lifting them. He turned to the fireplace and studied the ashes.

“Is there anything there?” I asked.

“There is always something,” he said. “The question is whether we know how to look.”

He bent down and examined the hearth with care. I watched him, puzzled. A moment later he straightened, holding a tiny object between finger and thumb. It was a small, dark fragment, no larger than a grain of rice.

“What is it?” I asked.

Poirot placed it in the palm of his hand and showed it to me.

“You know what this is, Hastings?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He closed his fingers around it.

“But what does it mean?”

“That is another question.”

He slipped the fragment into his waistcoat pocket. I was astonished.

“You are taking it away?”

“I am preserving it. There is a difference.”

“But surely you can tell me what it is?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Poirot gave me one of his odd looks. “Because you would then begin to see it everywhere.”

I could make nothing of this answer. He turned back to the room and continued his inspection. He looked beneath the bed, then behind the curtains, and carefully examined the chair by the writing-desk. At last he stood still before the mantelpiece.

“The clock,” he murmured. “Five minutes to five.”

“It was nearly five when we entered.”

“Ah!” He turned his head. “You remember that?”

“Of course.”

He took out his watch and compared it with the clock. “It has stopped.”

I had not noticed. Poirot examined its face, then the winding key beside it. He touched neither.

“Do you think this is important?” I asked.

“I think we must discover why it stopped.”

He walked to the door and turned the key in the lock. It clicked, and he opened the door a few inches, then shut it again.

“Now, Hastings,” he said, “we are alone. Tell me: what do you understand by the words of the dead woman?”

“Alfred’s name?”

“Perhaps.”

“I thought she was calling for her husband.”

Poirot did not answer. He had taken the little fragment from his pocket and set it on the writing-desk between us. I looked at it again, but it told me nothing.

Poirot bent over it, his face intent.

“Mon ami,” he said softly, “we must look first at what is absent.”

Madame Ratignolle moved slowly beside Robert, leaning upon his arm, while Edna remained with the children at the tent. She had seated herself upon the sand and was helping Raoul to build a wall about a little fort, though he seemed to prefer pulling it down as fast as she put it up. The children’s voices rose and fell about her, and she watched them with a grave, almost wondering attention.

Robert turned his head more than once as they went up the path. Madame Ratignolle observed it, but made no comment until they had reached the green shade of the lemon trees, where the wind scarcely stirred the leaves.

“Mrs. Pontellier seems very far away to-day,” she said.

“She is always a little far away,” replied Robert. “But lately I think she has begun to listen to something. I wonder what she will hear.”

Madame Ratignolle smiled at him, without answering. They walked on, slowly, for her limbs were stiff, and Robert adapted his pace to hers. They spoke of the weather and of the children, and, when they reached the house, he went off in search of Madame Lebrun.

Edna stayed with the children until the nurses called them away. She watched the little procession go, Raoul looking back once to make sure she still remained upon the sand. Then she rose and returned to the cottage. It was very warm. The sea had lost some of its morning glitter and lay under the afternoon sun, a wide, luminous stillness.

On the gallery she found a letter from Léonce. It had come by the post that morning, and had lain beneath the newspaper. She opened it without haste. He wrote of business in the city, and of a matter which detained him. He would not be able to come out at the weekend. He hoped she was well, and trusted that the children were behaving themselves. The letter was signed in his customary manner.

Edna read it twice, then put it aside on the table. It did not surprise her. She had not expected him, though she had not yet admitted the fact even to herself. The thought of his absence sat lightly upon her. She sat down in the rocking-chair and let it rock her gently, watching the patches of sun shift across the floor.

The sounds of the house came through the open windows: a door closing, the clatter of dishes, a child calling for its nurse. From somewhere behind the cottage came Robert’s laugh. Edna listened to it, then turned her eyes toward the water, which she could see between the houses. She felt an impatience with the stillness of the room, and presently rose.

She went down to the beach alone.

There was no one near the bath-houses. The lady in black sat beneath the shade of her porch, her book open upon her lap. She looked up as Edna passed.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pontellier,” she said.

Edna stopped. The lady’s voice was low and composed, as if she had spoken to her many times before. Edna returned the greeting, conscious of a small surprise. She had seen the woman often enough, in her black dress and veil, but they had never exchanged a word.

“I hope the heat does not trouble you,” the lady added.

“It is very warm,” said Edna.

The lady inclined her head, and lowered her eyes to her book. Edna walked on.

The sand grew hot beneath her feet, and she left her slippers near the edge of the shade. The water was smooth close to shore, marked only by small ripples that ran toward the beach. She stood watching them, then stepped into the shallows. The coolness reached her ankles and crept higher as she walked forward.

She had bathed often enough in the company of others, but the water had always seemed to hold her apart from it. She had feared its depth and its breadth, and the uncertain pull that came with every wave. Now the shore lay quiet behind her. No voice called out. No one watched.

She moved farther in, until the water touched her waist. Her hands were cold beneath its surface. She turned toward the land, then away again, and lifted her arms as she had done long ago in the tall Kentucky grass. Her feet left the bottom.

For a moment she floundered, startled by the sudden weightlessness. The water closed over her shoulders. She struck out clumsily, one arm and then the other, and found that the sea bore her. A short distance away the sand rose beneath her feet. She stood, breathing quickly, and stared at the place where she had been.

She tried again. This time she moved her arms with less confusion, and carried herself forward a few strokes before her feet touched the bottom. She laughed, but the sound was so slight that it seemed to belong to no one. She turned back to shore and walked out of the water.

A sense of strength came over her, and a small, bright pride. She looked toward the bath-houses. The lady in black had returned to her book. There was no one else in sight. Edna gathered her slippers and went back to the cottage, careful not to speak of what she had done.

The afternoon went on with little incident. Edna remained on the gallery for a time, then went inside and changed her dress. A maid brought in the telegram after the evening meal had begun. Edna read it beneath the lamp.

Léonce’s message was brief. He could not come to Grand Isle on Saturday. Business required him to remain in the city. He sent his regards to the children.

Edna folded the paper and left it beside her plate. She looked at the two boys, who were quarreling over a piece of bread, and asked them to be quiet. They obeyed for a moment, then began again. She felt no anger. The meal passed with a little talk among the guests, and afterward she sat outside while the children played in the sand.

Adèle came by before the hour for bed. She had regained her ease of movement and carried her needlework tucked into her pocket.

“Robert tells me he is going to leave his books unopened all summer,” she said, sitting down beside Edna. “He has discovered that there is nothing so useful as idleness.”

Edna smiled. “He has made that discovery before.”

“He said something of you as we walked home this morning.” Adèle drew out her sewing, found the place, and threaded her needle. “He said you were always a little far away, but lately he thought you had begun to listen to something. He wondered what you would hear.”

Edna’s fingers rested on the arm of her chair. She looked toward the sea, now darkening into a broad sheet of blue gray. The remark seemed to have been spoken in that quiet space between the houses, and had traveled all day to reach her. She could hear Robert’s voice in it, though he had not been near her when he said it.

“What did you tell him?” she asked.

“Nothing. It was not a question addressed to me.” Adèle bent over her sewing. “Besides, I did not know the answer.”

Edna said nothing. They sat for some minutes, listening to the small sounds of the evening: a child’s feet on the gallery, a distant burst of laughter, the soft stirring of leaves. Then Adèle rose and went back to her cottage.

The children were tired and fretful. Edna put them to bed herself, smoothing their sheets and turning down the lamp. Raoul fell asleep quickly. The other boy asked whether his father would come on Saturday. Edna told him no, and he settled without further question.

When the cottage had grown quiet, she went out to the gallery. The night air was still warm. Across the grounds, small lamps shone in the windows of the main house. Beyond them, the sea made a low, steady sound against the shore.

Edna sat alone, with her hands folded in her lap. She could feel the day’s warmth lingering upon her skin, and beneath it the cool water that had held her. She thought of the few strokes she had taken, and of how the sea had borne her without effort. The thought made her smile faintly.

Then Robert’s remark returned to her. She heard it again as Adèle had repeated it: she had begun to listen to something, and he wondered what she would hear. Edna sat still in the darkness, listening.

Lady Russell and Mr Shepherd came to Kellynch Hall on the following morning, each prepared with a plan which he or she believed likely to meet the case, and neither prepared to find it rejected.

Sir Walter received them in the drawing-room, where Elizabeth had taken her usual place near the window, and Anne was seated at a little distance with her work. The business was introduced by Mr Shepherd, who had already, on his way from the door, spoken of the weather, the state of the roads, and the satisfaction of seeing Sir Walter looking so well.

“I am afraid, Sir Walter,” he said, when the preliminary subjects were exhausted, “that we must now consider the matter which has given us the honour of calling. I have looked over the accounts, and I cannot disguise from you that the present expenditure cannot be continued.”

Sir Walter’s face assumed a look of patient endurance. “I am always ready to hear what can be done, Mr Shepherd, provided it be consistent with the situation of the family.”

“I hope, Sir Walter, to propose nothing inconsistent with it. My idea is that we should make a careful division of the expenses, and reduce every article where the reduction can be made without attracting notice. The number of horses, for example, might be diminished. One carriage could be laid aside for the present, and the household expenses put upon a more exact footing. A few servants might be discharged, and the establishment kept to what is strictly necessary.”

Elizabeth looked down at her hands. Anne’s needle paused, then went on.

“Discharged!” Sir Walter repeated. “And what is to become of the people? It is all very well to speak of a household as if it were a set of objects to be packed away. Those who have lived under my roof are accustomed to it. The horses too are accustomed to their work. You would have me dismiss half the household and leave the other half to be stared at by the neighbourhood, while my carriage stands idle in the yard?”

Mr Shepherd had expected resistance, though not quite so much feeling. “I would only suggest, Sir Walter, that a temporary reduction of these expenses might preserve the greater part of the establishment.”

“The greater part!” Sir Walter said. “The phrase itself is offensive. A gentleman’s house is not to be maintained by halves. If I keep horses, I must keep the proper number; if I have servants, I must have enough to perform their duties with credit. And the carriage is a necessity, not an ornament. I cannot be seen driving about the country in a manner which would raise questions.”

“Then perhaps,” Lady Russell said, “we may look to a different part of the accounts. I have thought that the London visits might be less frequent, and that the annual expense of the season could be reduced. There is no reason, surely, for Sir Walter and Elizabeth to remain in town as long as they have done. A shorter stay would be less burdensome, while still allowing them the society they value.”

Sir Walter turned towards her with a degree of attention that seemed to promise more than it did. “I have always understood that it is desirable to be seen in London. One cannot expect to preserve one’s place in the world by staying in Somersetshire.”

“Yet a shorter visit would not prevent your being seen there,” Lady Russell replied. “It would merely lessen the cost of it. And I have been thinking that the furnishing of the London house might be restrained, with no disadvantage to the family. We need not provide every room with new articles each year. A little care in that quarter would make a real difference.”

Elizabeth looked up. “It would be very difficult to make the house presentable without the usual preparations.”

“I do not mean to make it less presentable,” Lady Russell said. “Only to do no more than is necessary.”

Sir Walter leaned back. “My dear Lady Russell, I cannot conceive that you would wish me to appear in London with my rooms in a state of neglect. The very idea of entering a drawing-room which is not properly furnished is enough to make one wish to stay at home. And as for cutting short the season, it is the only part of the year in which one may enjoy the society of people of distinction. We are not so rich in Somersetshire as to make it an adequate substitute.”

Lady Russell accepted the rebuke without resentment. “I did not mean to suggest that you should give up anything essential to your comfort.”

“But that is exactly what these proposals amount to,” said Sir Walter. “Every one of them would interfere with the comforts to which I am accustomed, and to which my family is entitled. I do not see how such an arrangement could be of any use if it made Kellynch a place of privation.”

Mr Shepherd attempted to return to the horses, and Lady Russell to the proposed shorter visit, but Sir Walter had already decided that both plans were unworthy of further discussion. He let the two advisers speak, and then answered each fresh suggestion with some account of the injury it would do to the dignity of the family, or of the inconvenience it would cause in daily life. At last Mr Shepherd folded his papers together, and Lady Russell turned to Elizabeth, whose expression showed more impatience than alarm.

Anne had listened throughout, silently and with a growing sense that none of the proposals touched the heart of the matter. When the room fell quiet, she laid down her work.

“If the object is to make the expenses less than the income,” she said, “might we not begin by finding what the income is, and what the household really costs? If we knew the sum that must be saved, we might choose the reductions which are necessary, instead of trying measures that are only convenient.”

Every face turned to her. Sir Walter looked surprised that she should have spoken at all, and Elizabeth’s first expression was of displeasure. But Anne continued, in a steady voice.

“We could keep a strict account for the next year. The London visit might be given up for that time. New clothes and furniture could be postponed, except where they are needed. The number of servants and horses could be reduced to what the work requires, and the household kept within the amount we can afford. It would be a great change, but less painful than letting the debts grow.”

Lady Russell’s eyes rested on her with affectionate approval. Mr Shepherd seemed relieved to hear the practical point stated so plainly. Sir Walter’s attention, however, was fixed on the phrase “great change.”

“Give up London?” he said. “And reduce my establishment? Anne, you have no experience of what is proper for a family in our situation.”

“I know very little of what is proper for appearances,” she replied. “But I know we cannot spend what we do not have.”

Elizabeth’s gaze had been on her sister. “Anne is right,” she said.

The others looked at her in still greater surprise. “If we are to do anything,” Elizabeth went on, “it must be done thoroughly. A small reduction in one place and another would be of no use. We should have the accounts set out, and then decide what can be spared. There is no advantage in pretending we can preserve every expense as it is.”

Sir Walter shifted in his chair. “Elizabeth, you cannot mean that we should give up the London house.”

“I mean that we should be guided by the figures, Papa. We have been talking of economy for months, and nothing has altered. Anne’s plan is the only one that could tell us what we must do.”

For a moment Sir Walter appeared to consider whether his eldest daughter had been changed by some influence beyond his knowledge. She had never before lent her support to an idea so severe. But her words did not alter his mind. They only made the meeting more uncomfortable.

“I do not require a lesson in how to conduct my own affairs,” he said. “Mr Shepherd, we must find some means of making matters easier without bringing the family into a state of embarrassment. Lady Russell, I am grateful for your concern, but I cannot consent to such restrictions. Elizabeth, I trust you will reflect before encouraging an idea which would place us in a most undignified position.”

Elizabeth made no answer. Lady Russell looked towards Anne, who had taken up her work again, though without sewing. Mr Shepherd, after a short pause, cleared his throat.

“If I may suggest another possibility, Sir Walter, there is a way in which the property itself might meet the difficulty.”

Sir Walter’s expression sharpened. “What do you mean?”

“Only that Kellynch Hall is a considerable house, and the estate might be made to yield more if its use were arranged in another way. A tenant could occupy the Hall, while you and your family—”

“Stop, Mr Shepherd.”

The agent fell silent.

“I will not have that word spoken again in my presence,” Sir Walter said. “You may discuss accounts, reductions, and whatever other matters you please. But that word is not to be used in this house. Kellynch Hall is my seat. It is the principal residence of the family of Elliot. No person is to occupy it under my authority.”

Mr Shepherd bowed his head. “I beg your pardon, Sir Walter. I spoke only in the course of trying to discover a remedy.”

“I have heard enough of remedies,” said Sir Walter. “If the remedy is to make me appear less than I am, it is no remedy at all.”

The matter was ended, though not settled. Mr Shepherd put away his papers. Lady Russell, who knew the temper she had to manage, returned the conversation to quieter subjects. Elizabeth asked after a neighbour’s health, and Sir Walter took the opportunity to speak of the decline in the appearance of the village and the general want of taste in the present day. Anne remained silent. She understood that the only plan which had offered a clear path had been dismissed, and that Elizabeth’s unexpected support could not make it more acceptable to their father.

They had scarcely begun their luncheon when a servant brought in a letter addressed to Miss Elliot. Elizabeth recognised Mary’s hand and opened it with a little exclamation.

“Mary is unwell again,” she said, as she read. “She says she has been in very low spirits since Charles went out yesterday, and fears she has taken cold. She wants Anne to go to her at once.”

Sir Walter glanced towards Anne. “Mary’s complaints are frequent, and no doubt she will recover as soon as she has made everyone run to her.”

Elizabeth continued reading. “She says Charles is away from home this morning, and that she cannot manage the children by herself. She asks Anne to come without delay. She must be very anxious, for she has written twice about her health.”

Anne waited while Elizabeth reached the end of the letter. “Does she say whether she has a fever?”

“She says she feels hot and then cold, and that she has a pain in her head. She wants you to stay with her until she is better.”

“Then I must go,” Anne said.

Sir Walter looked displeased. “There is no reason for you to hurry. Mary has a husband and servants of her own.”

“Mary has often asked for me when she is ill,” Anne answered. “I can be of use to her.”

“I do not see why your time should always be given up to her convenience.”

“It is not a great sacrifice to go to Uppercross, Papa.”

Elizabeth folded the letter. “Mary will think herself neglected if Anne does not come. It will be better to let her go.”

Sir Walter looked at Elizabeth, then at Anne. He could find no argument that did not sound more unkind than he wished to appear before Lady Russell and Mr Shepherd. “If she must go, she must go. But I will not have any expense made over it.”

Anne thanked him, though the permission was hardly needed, and asked if a carriage could be made ready for her in the afternoon. Mr Shepherd offered to send word to the stables, and Lady Russell promised to see that Anne had whatever she might need for the visit. Elizabeth, still holding Mary’s letter, appeared to have forgotten the severity of her own earlier speech.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a succession of small arrangements. Anne sent a note to Uppercross to say she would come the next morning, and made ready a few things for her stay. Sir Walter spoke no more of the proposed reductions. Mr Shepherd left with his accounts still unaltered, and Lady Russell remained long enough to give Anne a quiet word of encouragement.

“You spoke wisely,” she said as they stood together by the door. “Your father may not hear it today, but the truth does not alter because it is unwelcome.”

Anne smiled faintly. “I wish it could be made useful.”

“It may yet be.”

When Lady Russell had gone, Anne returned to the drawing-room. Elizabeth was there, looking over a list of household expenses with an air of concentration that Anne had seldom seen her give to anything so practical. Sir Walter had retired to his library. The paper before Elizabeth was not one of Mr Shepherd’s accounts, but a list she had begun herself.

“You were right this morning,” Elizabeth said, without looking up. “We must know what the figures are.”

Anne was moved by the concession, though she knew it could not yet become action. “I hope Papa will allow it.”

“He may not. But it cannot hurt to be prepared.”

They said no more. Elizabeth’s pencil moved down the page, stopping now and then as she considered an item. Anne watched her for a minute, then left her to it. In the evening, after the household had grown quiet and the lamps were lit, Anne sat alone in her room. Mary’s letter lay beside her, and her small travelling things were ready by the door. She had resolved to go to Uppercross and be with her sister, who had asked for her. The question of the family’s debts remained exactly where it had been that morning, unanswered and untouched.

I had scarcely finished my explanation of the signs when my wife turned her eyes again upon Mars.

“Look,” she said.

A little point of light had detached itself from the red planet’s quarter of the sky. It fell swiftly, with a greenish gleam at first, and then a flare of white that seemed to live for an instant in the air. It left behind it a narrow streak, which faded before I had time to call it a meteor. The thing went down beyond the dark line of the trees in the direction of Chertsey.

We stopped in the road and listened. There was no sound.

“That was a shooting star,” I said.

“An unusually bright one,” said my wife.

We continued our way home. As we walked I spoke of the meteor showers, of the dust of comets, and of the many small bodies that must fall upon the earth unseen. I remember that I was pleased to have some familiar explanation ready. The heavens had offered us a spectacle, and I put it away with the others, among the sights that have no consequence.

At home I sat a while by the window, looking at the patch of sky between the roofs. My wife went upstairs before me. I do not know how long I remained there. The night was warm, and the air held the faint smell of rain, though no rain fell. Once I thought I heard a distant rumble, but it may have been a train upon the railway. At last I went to bed.

I was roused before dawn by a knocking at the door. A servant told me that Ogilvy had sent a message, and that he wished to see me at once. I dressed hastily and went down. Ogilvy was waiting outside, with his coat buttoned awry and his hat in his hand.

“There has been a fall,” he said. “A meteorite, I have no doubt. It is in the old sand-pit beyond the common.”

He was too excited to speak evenly. I thought of the bright trail we had seen, and asked how he knew the thing was there.

“A labourer saw it come down. He heard the impact, and went to the pit at daybreak. There is steam rising from it. A great mass, by his account.”

He looked at me as though the matter were already settled. I had no reason to doubt him, and yet the quickness of his certainty made me uneasy.

My wife came down while we were speaking. She had heard us from the bedroom.

“I am coming with you,” she said.

Ogilvy glanced at her, and then at me. “It is no place for a lady. There will be a crowd.”

“I should like to see it,” she replied.

There was no time for further discussion. I fetched my coat, and we set out together.

The first light was spreading over the fields. A thin mist lay low in the hollows, and the road was still empty. As we came nearer the common, we heard voices ahead of us, and presently met two boys running towards Chertsey. They told us that the pit was full of people, and that the stone was still smoking. One of them had a stick in his hand, with which, he said, he meant to poke it.

The old sand-pit lay among the heath and firs, the remnant of an excavation abandoned when the sand there had proved too shallow. Rain-water had gathered at its bottom and made a pool, dark and muddy, with reeds along the edge. The slope had partly fallen in on one side, leaving a broad bank of yellow sand above the water. The path down was steep and broken.

As we reached the brow, I saw the people gathered below. They were standing in a loose circle at the edge of the pool. A thin column of vapour rose from the water, and drifted across the pit in ragged wisps. There was a smell of hot metal and wet earth.

In the middle of the pool lay a great cylindrical object, slanting down beneath the surface. One end was hidden in the mud. The other stood above the water, round and blackened, its surface rough and shining in places. It was wider than a cart, and perhaps fifteen feet long, though the water and the slope of the bank made it difficult to judge. Around it the water steamed and bubbled.

“Good heavens,” said my wife.

Ogilvy came up beside us. “There you are. A meteorite. A very large one, but a meteorite.”

I looked at the object. Its shape was too regular for what I had imagined, and the dark surface seemed to have a smoothness beneath its scorched crust. I said so.

“Heat will account for that,” Ogilvy answered. “The outer layers fuse as it passes through the air. The form is a result of its flight and its fracture. These things are not always shapeless.”

“But this is a cylinder.”

“An appearance caused by the angle at which it lies. You cannot judge its form while it is half under water.”

He spoke with the assured tone of a man correcting a schoolboy. I had read enough of astronomy to know that stones from the heavens might be heated by their passage through the air; but the thing before us seemed to invite another explanation. Its size, its shape, and the strange precision of the rim at the exposed end troubled me.

“Did the man who heard it see it fall?” I asked.

“No. He was asleep until the impact woke him. The light came from the sky, and the object was here in the morning. What else can it be?”

I could offer no answer. Still, I looked at the dark cylinder and felt, without knowing why, that Ogilvy’s explanation was too ready.

The crowd had grown while we talked. It was made up chiefly of men from Chertsey, with a few boys and several labourers from the farms nearby. They had come armed with poles and spades. One stout man had brought a length of chain, which he said might be useful in hauling the thing out. A constable was trying to keep them from the water, though he had little authority over them.

My wife remained near the top of the slope. She watched the vapour rising, and then turned to me.

“Is it hot?”

“It must be,” I said. “It has only just fallen.”

“Then why do they go so near?”

The question was answered almost at once. A young fellow in a rough jacket had edged down the bank and was testing the depth with a long stick. He was laughing at the constable’s warnings. The end of the stick touched the exposed surface of the object. The young man drew it back with a cry and dropped it. He had burned his hand.

For a moment the men around him stood still. Then two of them seized him by the arms and pulled him up the bank. He was not badly injured, but his palm had reddened and begun to blister. He cursed the stone and the constable by turns, and a woman wrapped his hand in a shawl. One of the boys picked up the stick and flung it into the pool.

“Now they will keep their distance,” Ogilvy said.

The constable called out that no one was to touch the object. This warning had the effect of drawing the crowd closer together, though they remained a few yards back from the water.

My wife came down the slope to join us. She had a pale look about her, but she was smiling.

“I thought you were going to stay up there,” I said.

“I did not want to be left alone.”

The warmth from the pit reached us even at the bank. I could feel it upon my face, and smell the scorched mud. The vapour rose more thickly from the water near the cylinder, and small bubbles broke against its side. It did not look like a stone that had merely fallen and come to rest. It looked like something still cooling from a heat beyond anything I had known.

Ogilvy was speaking now to a group of men. He explained how a body moving through the atmosphere might become incandescent, and how the heat would remain in a great mass for some hours. He spoke of iron, nickel, and the familiar composition of meteorites. His certainty did much to quiet the crowd.

I listened, but his words did not fit the impression made by the object. I asked whether meteorites had ever been found with such a regular outline.

“They have been found in every imaginable shape,” he said. “And this may not be its true outline. The submerged portion may be broken, or the part above water may be a fragment. We cannot know until it is cool.”

“Then we ought to leave it alone until it is cool.”

“That is what I have advised.”

“You advised that it is an ordinary meteorite.”

“I said it is a meteorite. Its size makes it unusual, not impossible.”

He spoke sharply. I had angered him, though I had not meant to. The men nearest us turned to hear our disagreement, and I lowered my voice.

“You saw the fall?” I asked.

“No.”

“Nor did the labourer.”

“No. But we have a bright meteor, an impact, and a body at the point where it fell. There is no need to go beyond that.”

I looked back at the cylinder. Its upper edge was almost perfectly circular. Near it, just above the waterline, the black surface showed a narrow groove running around the circumference. The groove was too even to be a crack. The sight of it filled me with a vague apprehension I could not explain.

Ogilvy followed my eyes. “A line of fracture,” he said. “The metal has cooled unevenly.”

I did not answer. It seemed to me that he was trying to persuade himself as much as the people around him.

As the morning advanced, more visitors came along the path. Some had walked from Ottershaw; others had come from Chertsey in carts. The rumour had spread that the object was gold, or that it contained diamonds, or that it had fallen from a great height with a man inside it. A railway porter declared that he had seen a second light in the sky during the night, but no one could make him say where or when. A boy insisted there had been a loud report, though he had been in bed at the time.

My wife sat down upon the bank and watched the crowd. I stood beside her, uncertain whether I was more concerned by the object or by the men who had come to see it. Their excitement gathered as the sun climbed. They were eager to touch it, to pull it out, to claim some part of it for themselves. The constable could do little beyond keeping them from the steepest part of the slope.

About eleven, a man arrived with a small camera and began arranging his tripod. He asked Ogilvy to stand near the pit. Ogilvy refused, but agreed to be photographed with the object in the background. That small ceremony drew a fresh cluster of onlookers. They edged down the bank, and the constable had to push them back.

My wife took my arm. “We should go home.”

I thought of the people there and of the curious warmth that still came from the pool. “In a little while.”

“You have been saying that for an hour.”

She was right. I had remained there because I could not make myself leave the object. I was still waiting for something, though I could not have said what.

At noon the sunlight lay bright upon the rim of the pit, and the crowd below had grown so thick that the people at the back could no longer see the cylinder. They called to those in front to move aside. The constable shouted at them to keep back. Over their voices came the faint hiss of the water against the hot metal.

I turned to my wife. “You ought to go home now. I will come after you.”

She studied my face, and I saw that she knew I was not coming at once.

“You will not be long?”

“No,” I said.

She hesitated, then began the climb towards the path. I watched her go until the people on the ridge hid her from me. Then I turned again to the pit, where the crowd pressed forward, and stayed.

Psmith, having resumed his seat in the Drones smoking-room, was studying the morning paper when a gentleman came in and stood before him with an air of quiet indignation.

“Psmith,” said the gentleman, “I believe that umbrella is mine.”

Psmith looked up. He recognized Mr. Walderwick, who was a member of the club and a man accustomed to the punctual return of his property.

“Your memory does you credit,” he said. “I have been wondering whose it might be.”

“Then perhaps you will kindly tell me why you took it from the rack.”

“An impulse,” said Psmith. “I saw it standing there, and felt that it had been born for a greater destiny.”

Mr. Walderwick glanced at the umbrella. “It was standing in the rack because I put it there.”

“An admirable arrangement. And I have no wish to deprive you of it. On the contrary, I propose to purchase it.”

“You propose to what?”

“To purchase it. Would fifteen pounds meet the case?”

Mr. Walderwick stared at him. “Fifteen pounds?”

“Or twenty, if you feel the matter calls for generosity.”

“It is an old umbrella.”

“Then it has earned its rest. I shall be pleased to pay you thirty guineas.”

Mr. Walderwick looked at Psmith for a moment, and Psmith looked back with grave benevolence. The umbrella had been a good one, but it had not cost thirty guineas when new. This was a fact which seemed to present itself to Mr. Walderwick with some force.

“I don’t understand you,” he said.

“Few of us understand ourselves, Mr. Walderwick. I have been trying for years. Shall we say thirty guineas?”

Mr. Walderwick hesitated. He had come to recover an umbrella, and the day had taken a turn that seemed to call for some reflection. He was not a man to refuse thirty guineas for an old umbrella merely because it was an old umbrella. He named the price again, as if to test whether it continued to exist.

“Thirty guineas,” he said.

“Precisely.”

Psmith took out his cheque-book and wrote. Mr. Walderwick accepted the cheque, still wearing the expression of a man who had entered a room to settle one matter and found himself in the middle of another.

“You must excuse my asking,” he said, “but what do you want it for?”

“I cannot answer that. The umbrella has selected me.”

Mr. Walderwick went away. Psmith, left alone with his purchase, inspected it with the air of a connoisseur who had acquired a particularly fine picture. The umbrella had a curved horn handle, a dark green cover and a small silver plate on which Mr. Walderwick’s name had been engraved. Psmith considered the plate.

“A graceful acknowledgment of the past,” he murmured, and put the umbrella aside.

It was not long before the shower passed. The city, which had been receiving it with that peculiar mixture of resentment and resignation natural to the Englishman, emerged damp and shining. Psmith left the club shortly before noon and made his way to the Ada Clarkson International Employment Bureau.

He had decided, in the interval since the previous evening, that it would be a mistake to enter the fish business again. There were limits to a man’s powers of self-discipline, and Psmith was not disposed to put them to the test. The employment bureau had been recommended by Mike Jackson, who knew Miss Clarkson and seemed to regard the institution as a place where the future could be approached without undue ceremony.

Miss Clarkson was in her private office when Psmith was shown in.

“Mr. Psmith,” he said, “I have come to inquire whether you are in a position to find me employment.”

Miss Clarkson looked at him over the rim of her spectacles. “What sort of employment are you seeking?”

“Anything that does not involve fish.”

“Do you have experience in an office?”

“I have recently had a great deal of experience in a fish business. I cannot recommend it as a training for life.”

She consulted a notebook. “I’m afraid I have nothing suitable at present. There may be something later. If you would leave your name and address—”

“I am not in a hurry to be found. I shall be at the Drones Club.”

Miss Clarkson put down her pencil. “You are the young gentleman who called on the Jacksons yesterday?”

“I had that pleasure.”

“And you were a friend of Mr. Jackson’s in the fish business?”

“An acquaintance, in a manner of speaking. We have both been victims of the same general arrangement.”

Miss Clarkson had long practice in dealing with men whose accounts of their circumstances were as hard to classify as the positions they wanted. She decided that Psmith could wait for a vacancy.

“I’ll keep your name,” she said.

“Thank you. I shall be most grateful if you will keep it somewhere where it cannot be mistaken for a job.”

He left her office with no employment and the conviction that he had made a sound beginning. In the street he caught sight of a familiar hat at the corner and a young woman beneath it, walking with the purposeful stride of one who has an appointment to keep. She carried no umbrella. Psmith stopped.

Eve had not seen him. She was reading a card in her hand and had paused to make sure she was at the right address. When she looked up, she found Psmith standing beside her.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

“Good afternoon.” She studied him, and a light of recognition came into her face. “You were at the club this morning.”

“I have been at several places this morning. It is one of the disadvantages of having no settled employment.”

“I mean the gentleman who gave me the umbrella.”

Psmith gave the card in her hand a glance. “That sounds like a very fortunate gentleman.”

“It was very kind of him. I wondered if I might see him again and thank him.”

“A laudable ambition. I should pursue it, if I were you.”

She smiled. “You don’t happen to know who he was?”

“I am afraid I have not been introduced to the gentleman.”

Eve watched him. “I thought you might have been.”

“Life is full of disappointments.” He looked at the address on the card. “You have an appointment?”

“Yes. With Lord Emsworth. He has come to London, and I’m to be interviewed about the Blandings library.”

“Lord Emsworth,” said Psmith. “I have heard the name.”

She was already turning to go. “I mustn’t be late. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye. May the interview be a triumph.”

“I shall be content if it is intelligible.”

She went on, and Psmith, watching her disappear among the passers-by, resumed his walk. He had said nothing that would help her discover whether he had given her the umbrella. He was satisfied that he had not. There was no need to burden an agreeable acquaintance with facts that might be inconvenient.

Eve arrived at the hotel at a quarter past four. She gave her name at the desk, and was shown to a private sitting-room where a small man with a large forehead and a worried expression was standing by the window.

“Miss Halliday?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Baxter. I am Lord Emsworth’s secretary. His lordship is here, but I’m afraid there has been some delay.”

“Of course.”

Mr. Baxter glanced at the clock. “His lordship has had a long journey. He is not quite himself.”

Eve said that she was sorry to hear it. Mr. Baxter, who had discovered that no young woman was so well dressed as to be beyond question, looked at her hat and then at the card she had handed him.

“Your references are in order?”

“I brought them, if you would like to see them.”

“I shall. His lordship will wish to know about your experience with cataloguing.”

“I have catalogued books for a friend. I’m afraid I haven’t done it professionally.”

“That is not encouraging.”

“I know. But I’m careful, and I enjoy the work.”

Mr. Baxter made a note. “We shall see.”

At this point the door opened, and the Earl of Emsworth came in. He looked tired, but there was a certain alertness in his face that seemed to have been brought on by the sight of a young woman in a striking hat.

“Miss Halliday?” he said.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good afternoon. So you are the young lady who is going to make order of the library.”

“I shall be glad to do what I can.”

“Excellent. You understand books?”

“I have always read them.”

“Quite so, quite so.” Lord Emsworth sat down and looked at her with a bewildered air. “Now, Mr. Baxter, where are the papers?”

Baxter took them from his folder.

“Your lordship had them in your pocket,” he said.

“Did I? That seems improbable.”

“It is not improbable, my lord. I saw you put them there.”

Emsworth took the papers and began to turn them over. “These are not the papers I want.”

“They are the papers concerning Miss Halliday’s appointment.”

“I see.” He looked at Eve. “You have come about the necklace?”

“No, my lord,” she said, smiling. “About the library.”

“The library, yes. I knew there was something.”

Baxter’s expression tightened. “His lordship is referring to the appointment. Miss Halliday is to catalogue the library at Blandings.”

“Quite right, quite right.” Lord Emsworth laid the papers on the table, found a pair of pince-nez among them, put them on, and examined Eve. “Have you ever catalogued an earl?”

“No, my lord.”

“Nor I. It would be an interesting experiment.”

Baxter made a small sound of distress.

Eve took the papers he had offered her and looked through the reference letters. “I can show you these, my lord.”

“Thank you. I was wondering where they had gone.”

Mr. Baxter sat down at the other side of the table and began to ask the questions he had prepared. Eve answered them carefully. She had made lists for her father, and kept them in order when creditors, publishers and other visitors came to the house. She had also catalogued a small private collection at the home of a friend. The list had been alphabetical, with cross-references where they were useful.

“Cross-references?” Lord Emsworth repeated. “I have always been rather against them.”

“Have you, my lord?”

“They are apt to lead one away from the thing one is looking for.”

“Perhaps. But if a book is known by one title and filed under another, the reference can help.”

Emsworth considered this. “I don’t think I have ever wanted a book with two titles.”

Baxter leaned forward. “Miss Halliday, are you familiar with the Dewey system?”

“I have read something about it, but I have never used it.”

“Then you will need to learn the system in use at Blandings.”

“Of course.”

“Baxter,” said Emsworth, “what system do we use?”

“His lordship prefers the books to be arranged by subject.”

“So they are in order,” said Eve.

“Not precisely,” said Baxter. “The shelves have been rearranged on several occasions. His lordship has asked me to compile a list.”

“Have you finished it?”

“No.”

“Then Miss Halliday may be able to help.”

This was the first practical thing said in the room, and Eve was glad of it. She described how she would begin with the shelves, taking each book in turn and recording its title, author and location. Baxter asked about the format of her catalogue, and she began to explain. Emsworth, who had been turning one of the reference letters over in his hands, suddenly rose.

“I am sure I have seen this before,” he said.

“You have, my lord,” said Baxter. “It is the letter from Miss Halliday.”

“No, the other thing.” Emsworth patted his waistcoat. “I had it in my hand just now.”

He searched his pockets. Baxter rose to help. Eve saw the pince-nez cord hanging behind the Earl’s collar, and his spectacles had slipped down his back.

“Your pince-nez are caught in your coat,” she said.

Emsworth turned. Baxter retrieved them. The Earl put them on with a sigh.

“This is an awkward business,” he said. “I never know where anything is.”

“Miss Halliday appears to have found them, my lord,” Baxter said.

“Yes. Good. A useful quality in a librarian.”

The interview had gone so far from its intended course that Baxter looked as if he were considering whether it might be possible to start again from the beginning. But Emsworth had already settled the matter in his mind.

“Miss Halliday will come to Blandings and begin the work,” he said. “You can arrange the details, Baxter.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

Eve was careful not to show how relieved she felt. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll do my best.”

“I am sure you will. Do you know, I have been wondering whether there is a book about gardening that I have misplaced.”

“We may find it when I make the catalogue.”

“That is the spirit. Baxter, make a note.”

Baxter did so. Then he showed Eve out and gave her the address at which the arrangements would be confirmed. She left the hotel feeling that the interview had been a success, though not in any way she could have predicted.

She had still one errand to perform. Before going back to West Kensington, she returned to the Drones Club and found the porter at the entrance.

“I borrowed an umbrella from here this morning,” she said. “A gentleman gave it to me in the rain. Would you take it back, please? I’ve left a note for him.”

The porter accepted the umbrella and the folded note. “Certainly, miss.”

“Thank you. I’m afraid I don’t know his name.”

“That’s all right, miss. I’ll see that it gets to him.”

Eve walked away, and the porter took the umbrella to the cloak-room. He set it beside the others and placed the note on the counter for the next time Psmith came in.

Evening found Psmith alone in the smoking-room, where he had returned after dinner. He had the umbrella beside him, and every now and then he glanced at its polished handle with a thoughtful air. The porter came in carrying a folded note.

“A young lady left this with an umbrella, sir,” he said. “She said she had borrowed it this morning.”

Psmith took the note. It read: “Thank you for the umbrella. It was a great kindness, and I am returning it with many thanks. E. Halliday.”

“Miss Halliday?” said Psmith.

“Yes, sir. Miss Halliday. I took it from her myself.”

Psmith put the note down beside the umbrella. For a long moment he sat silent. Then he picked up the umbrella, opened it a fraction, and closed it again.

“Miss Halliday,” he said. “I shall have to remember that.”

Mr. Franklin laughed at my answer, and then looked after Rosanna’s little grey cloak as it disappeared among the sandhills.

“She has taken fright at me, I suppose,” he said. “I hope I have not behaved like a barbarian.”

“You have behaved, sir, like a gentleman who has been away too long from his own people,” I replied, getting my legs under me at last. “We shall soon put that right. But what brings you here at this hour? We had not looked for you till evening.”

“Four hours early, am I? Then I have been better than my word. I had a letter in London this morning, and it changed my plans.”

He took a letter from his pocket and gave it to me. I looked at the address first. It was in a hand I did not know, and the seal had been broken. Mr. Franklin told me to read it.

The letter ran as follows:

“London, Thursday.

“Dear Mr. Blake,

“I have been asked to send you the enclosed message with as little delay as possible. It concerns a matter which, I understand, was spoken of between you and your uncle some time ago. I know nothing of the particulars, and have no wish to know them. The gentleman who gave me the letter begged me to say that it is of importance you should reach Yorkshire before the rest of the family gather there. He would have written to you himself, but is prevented from doing so.

“Believe me,

“Yours faithfully,

“Thomas Naylor.”

I read it twice, hoping the second time might make the first more intelligible. It did not.

“What is the message?” I asked.

“A few lines from my uncle. I can show you if you care to see them.”

“I have read enough, sir, to know that the business is private.”

“Quite right, Betteredge. Here is the other letter.” He produced a narrow slip of paper, but kept it in his hand. “I shall tell you what I can. My uncle has asked me to come to him. He has changed his mind about something he once told me, and says the change may affect my stay at Lady Verinder’s. I thought it best to lose no time.”

The answer was simple enough, and yet it did not satisfy me. There was a shadow on Mr. Franklin’s face that I had not seen when he first came out of the sandhills. It was not a shadow of fear, exactly. It was something between impatience and doubt.

“Does your uncle expect you at his house?” I asked.

“No. He has given me no address, and no time for a meeting. I have written to him from the inn. This is a matter to be settled between ourselves.” He paused and turned the little slip of paper over in his fingers. “I have brought something with me, Betteredge, which I should like you to keep for me overnight.”

“What sort of thing, sir?”

“Something that must be put away safely. It is in this packet.” He showed me a small sealed parcel, no bigger than a thin book. “Will you lock it in the plate-room? I don’t want it left in my bedroom.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“You need not ask what is in it.”

“I had no intention of doing so.”

“I know you better than that. Still, I must ask you to keep the packet sealed. I shall explain tomorrow.”

“Very good, sir.”

I took the packet from him. It was light, and I felt no more than the weight of its paper and the sealing wax. I could not guess at its contents, and I had no desire to try. A man who has managed the household of a great lady for half a century learns to keep his hands from things that are not his own. It is a rule that has saved me from much trouble, though it has not saved me from being blamed for other people’s.

“Now,” said Mr. Franklin, “let us go up to the house. I have a great deal to tell my aunt, and I am hungry enough to listen to it all afterward.”

“You will find her at home, sir. But first, if you please, I must know whether you have seen the Indians who came here this morning.”

“The Indians? No. Why do you ask?”

I told him the story of Penelope’s discovery, and the boy’s strange words. I did not repeat them all at once. I was obliged to stop at every turn to explain who had seen what, where the people had been standing, and why Penelope had got herself into a fright. When I had finished, Mr. Franklin was silent for a moment.

“Has my aunt heard of this?” he asked.

“No, sir. Not from me.”

“And what did the boy say?”

I repeated the words about the gentleman who was to arrive that day, and the thing he had about him.

Mr. Franklin looked at me with a seriousness that did not suit his bright face.

“Did you tell him what I had with me?”

“I didn’t know what you had with you, sir.”

“Quite so. You have not told my aunt?”

“No, sir.”

“Then let it rest for now. It may be nothing.”

“I have always found, sir, that a thing is most likely to be nothing when people are in a hurry to say so.”

“Have you, indeed? That must be one of your old sayings.”

“It is not one of my sayings, sir. It is an observation from Robinson Crusoe.”

“Then I shall be careful how I differ from it.”

We walked up through the plantation together. Mr. Franklin had more questions to ask, but before he could put them to me we came out upon the drive, and saw Penelope waiting at the house door. She had been looking down the road.

“Penelope,” I said, “what are you doing here?”

“I was looking for Mr. Franklin, father. My lady sent me to see if he had arrived.”

“Here he is, then.”

She curtseyed to him, and he bowed with the easy grace he had brought home from abroad. Penelope’s eyes went quickly from him to me.

“Has Rosanna come back?” I asked.

“No, father. She has gone on to Cobb’s Hole.”

“When did she go?”

“Not long after you left, I think. Nancy says she saw her going along the path, and thought she was coming home. But she turned towards the village.”

“What can she want at Cobb’s Hole?”

Penelope coloured. “I don’t know, father. She has a friend there, you know.”

“I know she has a friend there. I don’t know why she should go there instead of coming to dinner.”

“Perhaps she had something to say to him.”

“Her friend is a woman, I believe,” said Mr. Franklin.

“Yes, sir,” answered Penelope. “A fisherman’s widow. Rosanna goes to see her sometimes.”

There was no more to be got from the girl, and I saw that she had no more to tell. I gave her the packet to take into my room, with strict orders not to let it out of her sight. Mr. Franklin and I went on to the house, where my lady was already in the drawing-room.

Lady Verinder rose when her nephew came in, and gave him both her hands. She was glad to see him, and showed it plainly. Mr. Franklin kissed her hand, and then embraced her. The sight of them brought back to my mind the old days when Sir John was alive, and Miss Rachel was a child. I will not trouble you with the old days here. We have the new ones to think about.

“My dear Julia,” said Mr. Franklin, “I am afraid I have come before my time.”

“You are always welcome, Franklin. But is anything the matter?”

“Nothing that I can explain just now. A letter reached me in London this morning, and I thought I had better come at once.”

“You have done quite right. We will talk of it when you have rested. Have you had anything to eat?”

“I have had some coffee and a roll at the station. It was not enough to keep me alive.”

“Betteredge, tell them to bring him something. He must be hungry.”

I was on my way to the door, when I noticed my lady’s face change. Mr. Franklin had put the letter from Mr. Naylor on the table beside him. She had read the name and the address, and now she was looking at her nephew.

“Franklin,” she said, “is this connected with your uncle?”

“It is, aunt.”

“I will not have the subject of the Moonstone discussed under my roof.”

Mr. Franklin started, and I started too. I had not heard my lady mention the name before. She spoke quietly, but the quietness was of a kind that put an end to any answer before it was made.

“I understand,” he said. “I will say no more about it here.”

“Thank you, my dear. I know that you will keep your word.”

He bowed his head. The matter was ended.

I have been blamed by some people for thinking too much of my lady’s wishes, and by others for thinking too little of them. It is one of the troubles of a house-steward that everybody considers his own judgment the best, so long as the house-steward does not happen to agree with him. In the present case, I thought my lady had given an order that was to be obeyed. I had no more to say on the subject.

I left the room and sent the kitchen-maid to prepare Mr. Franklin a meal. When I returned, I found him talking with my lady about the road, the weather, and the journey from London. She had asked him nothing more about the letter, and he had said nothing more about it. That was as it should be.

The meal was brought in. Mr. Franklin ate with a good appetite, and my lady watched him with the pleasure that a mother feels in seeing a young man eat after a journey. I stood near the door, ready to take any message she might give me.

When he had finished, he asked if he might go to his room and change. My lady told him that he might, and I went upstairs with him. He had brought two bags and a small travelling case. I saw that the case had a lock, but I did not ask him to open it. He took the packet from my hand and looked at it.

“You have kept it safe,” he said.

“Just as you asked, sir.”

“Will you put it away in the plate-room now? I shall not need it till tomorrow.”

I went with him to the plate-room. The room is small, and has an iron safe fixed in the wall. I unlocked the safe, and he placed the packet inside. I closed the door and turned the key. There was no writing on the packet, and no mark that I could see to tell me what it held. I did not touch it again.

“Thank you, Betteredge,” said Mr. Franklin. “You are a good friend.”

“I am only doing my duty, sir.”

“Duty is a very good thing when it takes the form of friendship.”

I returned the key to my pocket and shut the plate-room door. Mr. Franklin went to his room to dress, and I went down to see that his dinner had been properly served. The packet was locked away, and that was all I knew of it.

By the time I returned to the drawing-room, my lady had gone upstairs to her own room. Mr. Franklin was alone. He had changed his travelling clothes for a suit that looked a little less brilliant than the one he had worn at the sands, though his foreign taste still showed itself in the way he tied his neckcloth and carried his watch.

“Have you seen Penelope?” he asked.

“She has gone back to her duties, sir.”

“And Rosanna?”

“She has not yet come home.”

“Do you think she will be safe at Cobb’s Hole?”

“I don’t know, sir. She is a steady girl, and she knows the way.”

He looked at the window as though he expected to see the girl there. Then he turned back to me.

“Does she often go to this place?”

“She goes there now and then. It is the only friend she has in the neighbourhood.”

“Has she been out today before?”

“She was at the Shivering Sand when I found her.”

He made no reply. I wondered whether he had heard anything in my voice that had not been there before. I had no such intention. Rosanna was a poor girl, and there was no reason for Mr. Franklin to think of her more than any other servant.

I left him there and went about my work. The house was busy with the preparations for his arrival, but the usual calm did not return. My lady had shut the door on one subject, and Mr. Franklin had agreed to leave it outside. I did not know then how long that door would remain shut, or what was waiting on the other side of it.

The hours passed slowly. I went twice to the back entrance to ask whether Rosanna had returned, and twice I was told that she had not. Nancy said she had no patience with her, and I told Nancy to keep her opinions to herself. Penelope said that Rosanna had gone to see her friend, and I told Penelope that she must be back before it grew too late. Neither of them could tell me when that would be.

At supper, Mr. Franklin talked cheerfully with my lady about his travels. He spoke of places abroad, and of people whose names I could not remember, and my lady listened with a smile. The subject she had forbidden did not pass his lips. Nor did he ask me about the packet again.

When the supper things had been cleared away, I returned to my own room. It was late, though not yet bedtime. I took Robinson Crusoe from its place and settled myself in my beehive chair. The book opened at the old familiar passage, and I began to read. Outside, the house was quiet. The packet was locked in the plate-room, and Rosanna Spearman had still not come back to the house.

“Oh, darling, I’ve been so miserable,” Brett said.

The cab moved along the dark street. The driver turned round and asked where we were going.

“Take me to the Select,” Brett said.

I gave him the address. Brett leaned back again and shut her eyes. We rode across the river and up the Boulevard Saint-Germain. The night was warm. The cafés were full and the tables stood out on the pavements in the light.

“Are you going to tell me what’s the matter?” I asked.

“I don’t know what’s the matter.”

“You look tired.”

“I am tired. That isn’t the same thing.”

“No.”

“Don’t be so understanding, Jake.”

“I’m not.”

She opened her eyes and looked at me. “You are, though. It’s one of your worst habits.”

The cab swung into the street and stopped before the Select. Brett got out first. I paid the driver and we went in. The place was crowded. The tables were close together and the room was blue with smoke. Brett looked around, then smiled at someone near the back. He was a big man with a pink face and a fair moustache. He stood up and came over.

“Lady Brett,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

“Hello, Gerald. You remember Jacob Barnes?”

“Of course,” he said, though I had never seen him before. “How are you, Barnes?”

“Fine.”

“Sit down, both of you. I’ve been waiting for someone to turn up.”

Brett sat beside him. I took the chair opposite. A waiter came and Gerald ordered champagne.

“You shouldn’t,” Brett said.

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

“I’ve got nothing to do tomorrow.”

“You always have something to do tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow.”

He was pleased with himself. He wore a light suit and a pale tie, and had a large gold watch-chain. He poured the champagne himself.

“Have you been seeing a lot of our friends?” he asked Brett.

“No. I’ve been staying in.”

“Then you must come out more.”

“I don’t think I must do anything.”

He laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

I watched him. He had the broad, easy look of a man who was used to having things done for him. Brett drank from her glass and looked at the people in the room.

“Gerald and I met last week,” she said.

“Did you?” I said.

“Where was it?” Gerald asked.

“At the Ritz.”

“Was it the Ritz?”

“Yes. You were there.”

“Of course. I was there.”

“He had a very good table,” Brett said.

“I know people there,” Gerald said.

“I expect you do,” I said.

He smiled at me as if I had said something pleasant. Brett took another drink. The waiter brought a dish of olives and some sandwiches. Gerald asked Brett if she would come to dinner with him the next evening.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You said you would.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You did, darling.”

“Don’t call me darling.”

He laughed again and turned to me. “She’s in a difficult mood tonight.”

Brett looked at him. “I’m in the same mood I’m always in.”

“Then we shall have to make the best of it.”

“I don’t see why.”

He shrugged and poured more champagne. He was not embarrassed. I could see that Brett had been with him before, and that he had money. I had never heard his name.

“What do you do, Gerald?” I asked.

“I have interests in several things.”

“Do you?”

“Some property, a little shipping, and other things. There’s not much to tell.”

He spoke as if there were much to tell, and it was all a secret. Brett looked at me.

“You see what he’s like,” she said.

“I see.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I suppose I don’t.”

Gerald leaned forward. “I say, Brett, I thought we were going somewhere after this.”

“We are.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shall we go to Montmartre?”

“No.”

“Then where?”

“I don’t know, Gerald.”

He looked at her a moment, then grinned. “You see? She’s impossible.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to go with you,” I said.

“Don’t be absurd, Barnes. Of course she does.”

Brett stared at her glass. “I’m going to have another drink.”

Gerald called the waiter. I did not want any more champagne. We sat and drank while Gerald talked about the races. He had a horse running at Auteuil and knew a man who had a stable near Chantilly. He talked about odds and owners and the price of a yearling. Brett listened to him and said nothing. After a while Gerald asked her if she had been to the races.

“Not lately.”

“You should come with me. I’ll take you in my car.”

“That would be lovely.”

“Tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Some other day, then.”

“Perhaps.”

Gerald looked at me. “You must come, too, Barnes.”

“Thanks.”

“You like racing?”

“I like the horses.”

“So do I. I like everything about it.”

Brett laughed once, without smiling. “You like having the car.”

“Well, it is a very good car.”

We stayed another while. Gerald had another bottle brought. Brett’s face was flushed and her eyes were bright. She was tired, but she did not want to go. There was nowhere she wanted to go. I did not want to ask her to come away. I knew she would if I asked, and I did not know what to do with her when she came.

“Shall we go?” she said at last.

“Of course,” Gerald said. “I’ll have the car brought round.”

“No. We’ll take a taxi.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

We went out. Gerald called after her that he would see her the next day. She waved without turning. A taxi came along the boulevard and stopped. Brett got in, then leaned out through the window.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Somewhere.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, Jake. Go back to your girl.”

I had forgotten the envelope until she said it. “I left her the money.”

“You’d better go back.”

“I suppose so.”

Brett held my hand through the window. “Good night, darling.”

“Good night.”

The taxi started. She let go of my hand and the driver pulled away into the traffic. I stood on the pavement until I could no longer see the red light. Then I walked back toward the bal musette.

The streets were quiet now. The cafés were still open, but most of the tables had been cleared. I walked past the Pantheon and down the hill toward the club. The door was open. The accordion was playing, and the floor was crowded. I went in.

Georgette was sitting at a table with two of the young men. One had his arm along the back of her chair. The other was drinking beer. Georgette saw me and smiled.

“Jacob,” she said. “You are back.”

“I came for my envelope.”

“What envelope?”

“The one I left for you.”

“Oh. I have it.”

She reached into her bag and brought it out. It was still sealed. She handed it to me.

“You didn’t go with one of them?”

“I did not go with anybody.”

“I thought you might.”

“I thought you had gone for good.”

“I did go.”

“But you came back.”

“Yes.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Not especially.”

She laughed. The young men looked at me, then at her. One of them lifted his glass.

“Your friend is very funny,” he said.

“He is not my friend,” Georgette said.

“That’s right,” I said.

She grinned. “You see?”

The accordion stopped. The proprietor climbed down from his stool and wiped his face with a towel. The room was hot and smelled of beer and wet clothes. I put the envelope in my pocket.

“Are you going to stay?” Georgette asked.

“No.”

“You look tired.”

“I am.”

“You should go to bed.”

“I will.”

“Good night, Jacob.”

“Good night.”

I went outside. It was cooler in the street. The air had changed. There was a little wind coming down from the hill. I walked down toward the river.

I did not know where Brett had gone. I thought she might go to Montmartre after all. I thought she might go to Gerald’s hotel. She had said she was miserable, and I had gone with her to a place where she had met a man with money the week before. He had asked her to dinner. She had said perhaps. I had sat across from them and listened to him talk about his car and his horses. Brett had watched me while he talked. I had tried to act as if I did not care.

I was jealous of Gerald because he had money and could ask Brett to dinner as if the answer did not matter.

I went down to the river and walked along the quay. The water was dark and slow. Lights showed in it and broke when the current moved. I passed a man sleeping against the wall and a couple walking close together. They were speaking softly and I could not hear what they said.

At the next bridge I stopped and leaned on the stone. Across the river the windows of the houses were dark. A few lights were still on. It was nearly morning.

I thought of Brett in the taxi. She had pressed my hand and called me darling. She had told me to go back to Georgette. She had gone away with the driver, and I had stood there watching. I could not tell whether she wanted me to follow or wanted me to stay where I was. There was no use trying to tell.

The sky had begun to get pale. A cart went over the bridge behind me, the horse walking slowly, its shoes striking the stones. I started along the river again. I had no reason to hurry. When the first light showed on the water, I was alone, walking home.

I left the Herald with the five-thousand-dollar check on my mind and the afternoon ahead of me. The bank was only a few blocks away. I walked there.

The First National had marble floors, brass cages and a clock that said ten minutes past two when I went in. A man in a gray suit sat behind a railing marked “Assistant Cashier.” He had a square pink face and a shine on his bald head.

I told him I was looking into Donald Willsson’s death and asked whether a check for five thousand dollars had been presented that morning. He looked at me without moving his head.

“Have you the number?”

I had not thought to get it. I went back to the Herald, where Miss Lewis found the checkbook stub and read me the number. The trip cost me a quarter in car fare and ten minutes. I gave the number to the man at the bank.

He disappeared through a door behind him. When he came back he had a ledger and a check in a paper sleeve. He did not pass either of them across the railing.

“This check has not been presented,” he said.

“Could it have been certified?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

He looked at the number again, then at me. “I’m sure.”

I put my elbows on the brass rail. “Who are you?”

“Edward Pike. Assistant cashier.”

“Mr. Pike, the check was written yesterday. Can you tell me if it was drawn against a balance large enough to cover it?”

“I can tell you it was drawn on Mr. Willsson’s account. I can’t tell you his balance.”

“Was the checkbook kept here?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t have the check.”

“I have no check. I have a record that it hasn’t come through this bank.”

“Could somebody cash it somewhere else?”

“Not without presenting it somewhere.”

“Maybe they tried.”

“Then it would have been presented.”

He returned the paper sleeve to the desk behind him. I couldn’t see what was in it. I didn’t suppose it was the check.

“Is there any way a check could be paid without your knowing it?” I asked.

“Not this one.”

“Could it have been certified somewhere else?”

“No.”

I thanked him and went out. The check had not reached the bank. It had left the Herald with Donald, or had been left somewhere between the Herald and the place where he was going. A five-thousand-dollar check was a handy thing to have if you could get it turned into money. A five-thousand-dollar check that nobody had seen was only a number in a dead man’s book.

I went to the hotel. The lobby smelled of wet wool and cigar smoke. I had a key in my pocket and no appointment to keep. The clerk told me a woman was waiting for me in the parlor.

She had not sent up a name. I knew who she was before I got through the door.

Donald Willsson’s widow stood by a window with her hands together in front of her. She wore a dark coat and a small hat. Her hair was pale under it. She looked as she had the night before, but the color had come back into her face. She turned when I came in.

“You came to see me,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to speak to you.”

“Is that all?”

She looked at me steadily. “For the moment.”

I pulled a chair out for her and took one for myself. She stayed standing.

“You know that I have been speaking to your father-in-law,” I said.

“I know you went to see him this morning.”

“Who told you?”

“Mr. Thaler.”

That did not surprise me. “He was at your house?”

“He called me.”

“From where?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did he want?”

“To tell me that you had gone to see Mr. Willsson, and to ask if you were coming to see me.”

“He didn’t appear in person?”

“No.”

“Did you tell him I was?”

“I told him I had not asked you to come.”

“That was true.”

“Yes.”

She sat down then. Her hands went into her lap. There were no green slippers under the dark coat. I had seen the green slipper the night before, and what might have been blood on it. I didn’t ask her about it yet.

“Why did you come here?” I said.

“I wanted to know what you told Mr. Willsson.”

“I told him I had seen you go out last night and come back with something on your shoe that looked like blood.”

She flinched a little. “And what did he say?”

“He said you killed your husband.”

“Did he?”

“Before that he called you a lot of things.”

She watched my face. “Did you believe him?”

“No.”

“Do you believe me?”

“I haven’t heard anything from you yet.”

She leaned forward. “I did not kill Donald.”

“That’s a good beginning. What did you do between ten-twenty and eleven-five last night?”

“I went to meet someone.”

“A man?”

“Yes.”

“Did you meet him?”

“No.”

“Where?”

“I’d rather not tell you.”

“That’s not much help.”

“I know. But I didn’t kill Donald.”

“What happened to your shoe?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t notice the mark?”

“Not until I came home. I saw something dark on it. I thought it was mud or grease. Then you looked at it.”

“You didn’t wash it?”

“No. I was frightened.”

“Of the mark?”

“Of what it might mean.”

“Did you go to Hurricane Street?”

“No.”

“Did you go near it?”

“No.”

She said it quietly, without trying to make the words stronger than they were. I watched her a while. Her eyes were light gray, and tired.

“Who were you going to meet?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Was it Donald?”

“No.”

“Then why not tell me?”

“Because I don’t know what you’ll do with it.”

“I might try to find the man.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Maybe he knows something about your husband’s death.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you know who called you last night?”

She shook her head. “A woman. I had to go.”

“Who was she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she give you a name?”

“No.”

“What did she say?”

“She said there was something I had to hear from her. I thought she knew something about Donald. I went to the address she gave me.”

“Did she show up?”

“No.”

“You waited?”

“Not long. I was afraid to stay.”

“Where was the address?”

She looked down at her hands. “I won’t tell you.”

I sat back. “You came to my hotel to tell me you didn’t kill your husband, but you won’t tell me where you were when he was killed.”

“I know how it sounds.”

“It sounds like you have something to hide.”

“I do.”

“What?”

She looked up. “My life.”

It was a fair answer, but it didn’t help me any. “Did Donald have enemies besides his father and the men he was writing about?”

“I don’t know.”

“You lived with him.”

“I was away from him a great deal.”

“Were you jealous of him?”

Her mouth went tight. “That is what his father told you?”

“He said you were jealous, domineering, spoiled, suspicious, greedy, mean, unscrupulous, deceitful and selfish. He ran out of breath before he ran out of names.”

“I was jealous,” she said. “I was suspicious. I had reason to be.”

“Of whom?”

“I won’t tell you.”

“Did you threaten him?”

“Many times.”

“Did you want him dead?”

“No.”

“Did he know you were meeting someone last night?”

“No.”

“Did he know you were meeting someone any night?”

She didn’t answer.

I let the silence sit with us. It had more sense than some people.

At last she asked, “Will you tell the police about the shoe?”

“I haven’t talked to the police.”

“Will you?”

“If it becomes useful.”

“Useful to whom?”

“To me.”

She made a little movement with her shoulders. “You don’t care what happens to me.”

“I don’t know you well enough.”

“He was my husband.”

“He was also the man who hired me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For bringing you here and then leaving you to find him dead.”

“That isn’t your fault.”

“You may say that now.”

I got up. She did too, quickly.

“Are you going to the police?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you going to see my father-in-law again?”

“Not today.”

She looked as if she wanted to say something else. She swallowed it.

“If you find out anything,” she said, “tell me before you tell Mr. Willsson.”

“I’ll decide when I know something.”

She held my eyes a moment, then went out. The clerk watched her cross the lobby. I didn’t ask him anything. A hotel clerk who watches a woman leave doesn’t have much to add to a case.

In my room I found a plain envelope on the desk. It had no name on it. The flap was tucked in, not sealed. Inside was a strip of paper with a line typed on it:

THE CHECK IS NO GOOD TO YOU. LEAVE IT ALONE.

I turned the paper over. There was nothing on the back.

It could have come from anybody. The type was an ordinary office machine, the paper a strip torn from a sheet. The message was short and sure of itself. Somebody knew about the check and thought I might do something with it. That narrowed the field to people who had been in Donald’s office, people who had been watching me, or people who had good ears.

I called downstairs and asked whether anybody had brought the envelope. The clerk said it had been on the desk when the maid came through. He had no idea who left it. Nobody had asked for my room.

The message had not signed itself. I didn’t need it to. Max Thaler had sent it without coming to see me.

I folded the paper and put it in my pocket. Then I sat down to think about the check. Donald had written it before he went out of the office. He had been gone twenty minutes, long enough to get to the bank and back, according to Miss Lewis. He had talked on the telephone to a woman who wanted him at ten. He had said he would have to hurry away. He had told me to come to his house at ten. He had died at ten-forty in Hurricane Street.

The check might have been in his pocket when he died. It might have been taken from him. It might have been handed to somebody before he died. Or it might have gone nowhere at all.

The message didn’t tell me which.

I went out again and walked the blocks around the Herald, the bank and the street where Donald had been killed. I looked at the entrances, the alleys and the little shops that would have been open the day before. A man could have spent the twenty minutes in a dozen places. He could have made the trip to the bank and back, but he hadn’t gone there. He could have gone to Hurricane Street. He could have gone somewhere else and been on his way from there when somebody stopped him.

At four I took another look at the alley across from the place where he had fallen. It was narrow, dark even in daylight, and ended at a fence. There was nothing left on the ground that told me who had stood there with a pistol. I looked at the windows across the street and wondered how many people had watched the shooting through curtains without being able to see a thing.

I went back to the hotel before dark. The message was still in my pocket. I had no new answers, and the old ones were getting less useful.

The Western Union office was two streets over. I went there with a sheet of blank copy paper and wrote a wire to the Old Man in San Francisco. I read it twice before I gave it to the operator.

WILLSSON KILLED TEN FORTY LAST NIGHT HURRICANE STREET. SIX SHOTS .32. WIDOW OUT AT TIME, SAYS SHE DID NOT KILL HIM, REFUSES TO GIVE WHERE SHE WENT. FATHER ELIHU BELIEVES WIDOW GUILTY, OFFERS NO FACTS. THALER VISITED WIDOW BY PHONE AND SENT ME ANONYMOUS WARNING ABOUT FIVE THOUSAND DOLLAR CHECK. CHECK NOT PRESENTED OR CERTIFIED AT FIRST NATIONAL. CHECK NUMBER KNOWN. INVESTIGATION CONTINUING.

I paid for it and went back to the hotel. Night had settled in. I took off my coat and sat at the desk. The room was quiet except for a pipe ticking in the wall and a car passing below.

Donald had written the check. He had carried it away. The bank had never seen it. Max Thaler knew about it. That was all I had.

I looked at the envelope again. There was nothing in it but the message. I put it away and sat alone in the room, with the wire sent and the question of where the check had gone still open.

Mary had been asleep for some time when the train stopped at a little station. Mrs. Medlock touched her shoulder.

"Wake up," she said. "We have come to Thwaite."

Mary opened her eyes and looked out at the platform. There was a lamp burning near the station door, and a few men in rough coats stood about in the darkness. A carriage waited beyond them. A tall, thin gentleman in a dark coat stood beside it, with one hand on the carriage door. His face was pale, and his shoulders bent a little forward. He looked at Mary, but he did not come toward her.

"Mr. Craven," Mrs. Medlock said. "Here is your niece."

"Yes," he answered. Then, after a moment, he said, "You must be tired."

Mary looked at him with a curious, steady stare. She had never seen a hunchback before, and she wondered if that was what he was. He was not like the hunchback in the fairy story, who had seemed almost funny. Mr. Craven's face was so sad that she did not know what to say to him.

He did not seem to expect her to say anything. He turned to Mrs. Medlock.

"Is everything ready?"

"Yes, sir," she answered. "The carriage is here."

"Then come along."

The station was very small, and the night was very dark. Mrs. Medlock helped Mary into the carriage and climbed in after her. Mr. Craven sat opposite. The door shut, and they set off.

Mary sat back in her corner and watched the lamps of the station disappear. She wanted to ask whether they had far to go, but Mr. Craven's face was turned away from her, and she did not like to speak first. After a while she asked Mrs. Medlock instead.

"Is it a long way?"

"Near enough," said Mrs. Medlock. "It takes a good bit of driving."

The wheels moved steadily over a hard road. There was very little to see outside. Mary could make out a few dim shapes and once or twice a light in the distance, but soon even these were gone. The carriage lamps showed only the road just in front of them. The night was cold, and the wind made a low sound against the carriage.

No one spoke for some time. Mr. Craven sat as still as if he were alone. Mrs. Medlock seemed to think it best not to talk while he was there, and Mary had nothing to say. She had felt lonely in the railway carriage, but now she was too curious to feel lonely. She wondered what the great house would be like, and whether it would really have so many rooms. She wondered, too, if Mr. Craven would go away as soon as she arrived.

The carriage stopped so suddenly that Mary was thrown forward against the seat.

"What is it?" Mrs. Medlock asked.

"Something in the road, ma'am," the coachman called. "I can't get round it till I see what it is."

Mr. Craven opened the carriage door.

"Stay here," he said to Mary. Then he stepped down into the darkness.

Mary heard footsteps on the road, and the coachman's voice speaking to him. She leaned forward to look past Mrs. Medlock, but she could see nothing except a patch of light on the ground. She did not care for being told to stay where she was. She pushed the door open and got down.

"Mary!" Mrs. Medlock called sharply. "Get back in at once."

But Mary was already on the other side of the carriage, where the light did not reach. There was something large and dark lying across the road. A sheep, she thought, though she could not be sure. The coachman was walking around it, and Mr. Craven stood near the hedge, looking toward the moor.

Mary turned that way, too. Beyond the road there was nothing but darkness. The wind swept across it, cold and strong, and seemed to come from far away. The moor was not a place one could see in the night. It was a great black space under the sky, with no lamps and no houses. Mary had never stood in a place that seemed so wide.

She stayed there for only a minute. The cold went through her thin coat, and she felt the wind lift her hair under her hat. Then Mrs. Medlock caught her by the arm.

"Come in," she said. "You can't be wandering about in the dark."

Mary allowed herself to be put back into the carriage. Mr. Craven did not speak to her. The coachman had moved the sheep off the road, and soon they were driving again.

"You shouldn't get out when you're told to stay in," Mrs. Medlock said. "You might have lost your way."

"I could see the carriage," said Mary.

"That isn't the point," said Mrs. Medlock. "It's a lonely place, and there's no sense in running about in it at night."

Mary looked out of the window again. The road, the moor and the sky were all hidden in darkness. She did not answer.

They drove on for a long time. Once there was a sudden rush of wind against the carriage, and the wheels rattled over a rough stretch of road. At last the carriage began to move more slowly. Mary saw a few lights ahead, scattered through the dark, and then a great mass of a house rose up before her. It was so large that she could not see where it ended.

The carriage rolled under a stone arch and stopped. Mr. Craven got out first. A man came to the carriage and opened the door for Mrs. Medlock and Mary. Mary stepped down into a great hall. The air inside was cold, and the place was dimly lit by a lamp. There were shadows in the corners and a stone floor beneath her feet. She had never been in a house that seemed so quiet.

Mr. Craven stood near the entrance.

"Mrs. Medlock will see that you have what you need," he said.

Mary looked up at him. He seemed as if he might say something else, but he did not. He turned away and went along the hall with the man who had opened the carriage door. Mary watched him until he disappeared.

"Come with me," said Mrs. Medlock. "We have a long way to go yet."

They went up a wide staircase and along a passage. The house was full of doors, and some of them were so old that Mary thought they might have been there for hundreds of years. There were no lights except the lamps they passed, and the passage seemed to stretch on and on.

"This is your room," Mrs. Medlock said at last, opening a door. "You'll sleep here. Your things will be brought in. You can wash and change, and supper will be sent up."

The room was large and bare. It had a high bed, a dressing-table, a chair and a little table near the fire. Mary stood still and looked around. A fire burned low in the grate, but it gave out very little heat.

"Will you see Mr. Craven again?" she asked.

"That I can't tell you," Mrs. Medlock answered. "He comes and goes as he pleases. You'll not be seeing much of him, I daresay."

She left Mary to wash her hands and face. Mary did not feel much like doing it, but she knew that Mrs. Medlock would come back and complain if she did not. When she had finished, she sat in the chair by the fire and looked at the room. It seemed just as gloomy as the house outside it. She had not thought it possible for a house to be so big and still.

A knock came, and a man entered carrying a tray. He was not a maid, as Mary had expected, but a thin, gray-haired man in a dark coat. He set the tray down on the table and said something in a voice that was difficult for her to understand.

Mary looked at him.

"What did you say?"

He repeated it, but the words sounded no clearer.

"I don't understand you," she said. "You speak too strangely."

The man looked at her, not crossly, but with a quiet sort of amusement.

"Ah, well," he said, and then he spoke more slowly. "There's your supper, miss. Mrs. Medlock said you were to have it up here."

Mary could understand him now, though she did not know what he had said before.

"Are you from Yorkshire?" she asked.

"Aye, miss," he answered. "Born and bred."

Mary stared at him. She had not heard speech like his before. She took a seat and waited until he had gone. Then she looked at the food. There was soup, bread and a piece of meat. She had not been hungry during the journey, but she ate a little of the soup and some bread.

After a while Mrs. Medlock came in to ask if she had finished.

"That man spoke so strangely," Mary said. "I couldn't understand him."

"That was John, the footman," said Mrs. Medlock. "He speaks broad Yorkshire, and you're not used to it. You'll get used to it in time."

"I don't want to get used to it," Mary answered.

Mrs. Medlock gave her a look.

"You'll have to get used to many things here. Now, I'll help you get ready for bed. You must go to sleep. You've had a tiring day."

She helped Mary out of her dress and put her into a nightgown. Then she drew the curtains and turned down the bed. Mary got in and pulled the blankets up to her chin. Mrs. Medlock stood near the fire, looking at her.

"Ring if you want anything," she said. "But don't go roaming about the house. There are rooms you mustn't go into."

Mary's eyes narrowed.

"Why?"

"Because Mr. Craven doesn't want you to," Mrs. Medlock said. "That should be enough."

Mary did not answer. Mrs. Medlock went to the door.

"Good night," she said.

The door shut behind her. Mary lay very still and listened. She could hear the wind against the house. It made the windows rattle now and then, and somewhere far away a door seemed to creak. The house was so quiet that every sound seemed louder than it would have in another place.

Mary was not sleepy yet. She turned her head and looked into the darkness of the room. The fire was almost out, and only a little red glow showed in the grate.

Then she heard a sound from somewhere in the house. It was a strange, low sound, and it seemed to come from a long way off. It stopped, then began again. Mary sat up in bed.

A moment later Mrs. Medlock came back into the room. She had heard it, too.

"What was that?" Mary asked.

"It was the wind," Mrs. Medlock said.

"It didn't sound like the wind."

"Of course it did," Mrs. Medlock answered. "You must go to sleep now."

She did not stay. The door shut again, and Mary was alone.

She lay back against the pillow, but she did not close her eyes. The sound had not seemed like the wind. She was sure of it. The house was full of shut rooms and long passages, and something in it had made that sound.

Mary lay awake in the dark, listening. She had decided that she would find out for herself what it was.