The Chapters

The consultation took place at Kellynch Hall before the day was far advanced. Lady Russell and Mr Shepherd had each been invited to attend, and both arrived with that appearance of consideration which makes advice less acceptable to those who need it. Sir Walter received them in the library, where the Baronetage lay open beside the account books; Elizabeth sat near him, and Anne, who had been summoned from her own employment, took her place at a little distance from them all.

Lady Russell began. She had considered the matter, she said, with the seriousness its importance deserved, and had formed a plan which she hoped might relieve the family without disturbing the general arrangement of the house.

"Your present establishment is too large for the income it must now serve," she said. "I would not propose any change which might make Kellynch appear less handsomely kept, or deprive you of the comforts proper to your station. But the annual visit to London might be given up for a time. It is a considerable expense, and does not seem necessary to the management of the estate. The household might also be spared the cost of frequent entertainments. Your neighbours would understand that your present circumstances required a quieter way of living. No new furniture need be bought, and the allowance for dress might be fixed at a sum consistent with the rest."

She spoke with warmth, but without making too much of it. Her affection for the family had always made her careful not to appear to command them; and she had hoped that an offer of sacrifices so reasonable might be received as a kindness.

Sir Walter listened, his face growing more and more grave. "I am obliged to you, Lady Russell, for the trouble you have taken. But the plan is impossible. Kellynch cannot be kept up in a manner that invites remark. The London visit is a duty, not a diversion. There are people to see, and our position must be maintained. As for entertaining, I have never thought myself excessive. I cannot consent to a course of life that would make us appear to have fallen from our proper place."

Lady Russell only bowed, and said that she had not meant to press him.

Mr Shepherd now took up the subject. He had prepared a statement of their ordinary expenses, and laid it before Sir Walter with the discretion of a man who had often been obliged to deliver unwelcome truths in a form least likely to offend. He proposed that the accounts should be brought into order, that all purchases should be considered before they were made, and that a fixed yearly sum should be allowed for the house, the stable, and personal expenses. The two least-used carriage horses might be sold; the remaining horses and carriage might be kept for the occasions on which they were truly needed. Some of the servants could be dismissed, and the number of dishes at table reduced. These savings, with an end to purchases on credit, would bring the annual expenditure nearer to the income.

Sir Walter did not wait until the end. "You would have me dismiss my servants, sell my horses, and sit down to a table that would shame a respectable tradesman. I cannot suppose that you recommend this seriously."

Mr Shepherd, who had not quite finished, paused. "I do recommend it seriously, Sir Walter. The alternative is a continued increase of debt, and the accounts show that the present course cannot be kept up."

"Then the accounts must be mistaken," said Sir Walter. "Or the people who make them have been too free in their demands. I will not have the establishment reduced upon the idle notion that an Elliot of Kellynch should live as though he had no consequence."

He pushed the paper away. It fell partly across the open Baronetage, and Elizabeth moved it aside with an expression of distaste.

Mr Shepherd had expected resistance; he had not expected it to end so quickly. Lady Russell looked towards Anne, who had sat through both plans with an attention that made her father notice her at last. She had been silent because she knew that no one had asked her opinion, and because, in the presence of such certainty, it had seemed unlikely that any opinion of hers could have weight. But her concern for the family was stronger than her diffidence.

"Papa," she said, "if we are to remain at Kellynch, as I hope we may, we must spend less than we have been spending. It cannot be enough to choose two or three small savings and leave the rest as it is. We should fix the sum which the estate can provide, and keep to it. I would give up the yearly visit to London, all entertainments beyond what our neighbours expect, and every purchase of furniture or ornament. The stable might be reduced to one carriage and the horses needed for it. We could dismiss as many servants as the house can do without, and each of us must limit her own expenses. If the usual income will not meet the usual debts, then every comfort that can be spared must be spared until it does."

Anne had spoken without haste, and with no great force of voice; but the room had grown quiet before she finished. She had gone further than Lady Russell, who had proposed a temporary change of habits, and further than Mr Shepherd, whose reductions had been chiefly measured against the practical needs of the household. Anne had placed the whole comfort of the family under the command of its debts.

Elizabeth turned to her in surprise. No proposal of economy had yet been made which did not seem to her an attack on the dignity of Kellynch; and Anne, of all people, was the last from whom she had expected such plainness. Yet she considered it for a moment, and looked from the account book to her father.

"Anne is right," she said. "If we are to do anything, we must do it properly. I would rather give up the London visit than have Kellynch talked of as a house in difficulty. The rest may be borne too, if it is necessary."

The surprise of this support was not confined to Lady Russell and Mr Shepherd. Sir Walter stared at Elizabeth as if the words had come from some person seated behind her. Then he turned to Anne.

"Your plan is a great deal worse than the others. I cannot imagine what has put such ideas into your head. It is not for us to set an example of privation to the neighbourhood. My daughters are not to be treated as though their father's estate had no value."

"I did not mean that," Anne said. "I only meant that the income must be made to answer the expenses."

"A very easy thing to say," he replied. "If the income is not sufficient, the fault lies elsewhere. I will not have the house stripped, or my daughters deprived of what they have always had. And I will certainly not be confined to Kellynch all the year, with no proper change or society."

No one asked him to reconsider. Lady Russell had been troubled by the force of his refusal, and Elizabeth looked uncertain whether she ought to defend the opinion she had just expressed. Anne lowered her eyes. Mr Shepherd gathered the papers together, but kept one of them in his hand.

"There is one other consideration, Sir Walter," he said. "I have not wished to bring it forward without first hearing what reductions might be possible. If Kellynch Hall were let to a tenant, the income from it might, for a time, meet a large part of the obligations upon the estate. You could then live elsewhere at a cost more suited to your circumstances."

The effect was immediate. Sir Walter rose from his chair.

"Mr Shepherd, that proposal is wholly inadmissible. I will not hear of it. You have presumed too far, sir. I forbid the repetition of that word in my presence. Kellynch Hall is not to be given up to strangers, nor is its master to be driven from it by tradesmen's bills."

Mr Shepherd stood also, but remained calm. "I beg your pardon, Sir Walter. I was bound to lay before you every means that might answer the purpose."

"The purpose is not to be answered by a disgraceful surrender. I have told you what I will not permit. Let us speak of something else."

There was nothing else to speak of. Lady Russell tried to turn the conversation towards the expected visit of a neighbour, but Sir Walter did not take it up. He had put away the account book, and had reopened the Baronetage, fixing his eyes upon the Elliot entry as if some comfort might be drawn from it against the figures he had just seen.

The visit soon ended. Lady Russell left with Anne beside her, and, before she reached the carriage, told her that she had admired the spirit of her proposal, though she feared it had been made in vain. Mr Shepherd followed them after taking leave of Sir Walter, whose manner had returned to a stately courtesy, but whose hand had not been offered.

Elizabeth remained in the library. She had been affected by the scene in a way she could not quite explain to herself. Anne's words had sounded more decisive than her usual manner, and there had been no complaint in them, no effort to make anyone feel the hardship she proposed. Elizabeth had intended to support her, and had done so; yet now she wondered whether the agreement had been wise. Her own comforts had seemed very different when spoken of as sums in a yearly account.

Sir Walter was displeased with them all. He considered Lady Russell's counsel too feminine, Mr Shepherd's too familiar, and Anne's entirely out of place. Elizabeth had surprised him most, for he had trusted her to understand that the appearance of wealth was an essential part of possessing it. He could not decide whether she had been misled by Anne, or had simply chosen the wrong moment to show an independence of judgement. He resolved to say nothing more to her until the next day.

The afternoon passed without bringing any alteration to the question. Mr Shepherd's figures remained where he had left them. Sir Walter did not look at them again, and Elizabeth, though she had asked for the account book to be left in the library, did not open it. Anne spent some time with Lady Russell, but neither of them could add anything to the plan she had already offered. It had been heard; it had been refused.

A little before dinner, a servant brought in a letter addressed to Anne. It had come from Uppercross, and the handwriting was Mary's.

Anne opened it at once. It was written in some haste, the lines running together in places.

"My dear Anne,

"I am very poorly today, and I do not know what is to become of me if this continues. I have had a headache since the morning, and I feel so weak that I can scarcely remain in the parlour. Charles says I have taken a chill, but he does not understand how bad I feel. I wish you were here. If Papa can spare you, do come to Uppercross as soon as you can. I am sure I should be better if I had you with me, and I cannot manage all that is to be done without you. Pray do not let me wait long.

"Yours affectionately, "Mary Musgrove"

Anne read it twice. There was little in it to show whether Mary's illness was serious, but there was enough in its appeals to make Anne uneasy. Mary's complaints were not always a measure of her danger; they were often a measure of her disappointment. Still, the request was direct, and it was within Anne's nature to feel that she ought to go.

Elizabeth, who had seen the letter arrive, asked what Mary wanted.

"She says she is unwell, and asks me to go to Uppercross."

"Mary is always unwell when she wants anything," Elizabeth said. "She has Charles there, and his mother, and all the Musgroves. Surely she need not send for you at once."

"She may need me," Anne replied.

Elizabeth seemed prepared to say more, but their father entered, and the letter was folded away. Sir Walter had recovered enough composure to discuss the next morning's callers, and Anne did not think it right to bring Mary's request before him while he was in that humour. At dinner, he spoke of the accounts as if the meeting had never occurred. He praised the cook's arrangement of the meal and complained of a minor change in the service, both of which matters were easier to manage than the family's expenses. Elizabeth joined him in the usual talk. Anne answered when she was addressed, but her thoughts were at Uppercross.

The letter had not made Mary more ill by being read, and Anne knew that a night's delay might be harmless. Yet she had watched her sister's health and spirits for years, and had never found that kindness was wasted, even when it could not cure the complaint. She resolved to go the next morning, if no one gave a reason why she should not. The distance was not great, and her presence might be of use.

By the time the evening was over, Sir Walter had returned to the Baronetage, Elizabeth had withdrawn, and the account book had been carried from the library without any decision having been written in it. No new measure had been agreed upon; no bill had been paid, and no sum had been saved. Their debts remained as pressing as before.

Anne was alone in her room when she settled her mind upon going to Mary. The letter lay on the table beside her, and the account of their expenses, which she had taken away in the hope of understanding it better, remained open at the figures she could not change. Her sister had asked for her, and that was enough. The debts of Kellynch still had no answer, but Anne would be at Uppercross in the morning.

Mary had been asleep a long time when the train gave a sudden jerk and stopped. She woke with a start and looked out of the window. The rain had ceased, but the sky was dark and the lamps on the platform shone dimly through a thin mist. There were not many people about, and the station looked small and cold after the bright, busy places she had seen in London.

Mrs. Medlock got up at once and pulled her mantle straight. “Here we are,” she said. “You must come along now, Mary.”

Mary stood up, stiff from sitting still, and followed her out of the carriage. She was cross because she had been wakened, and because she did not know what she was expected to do next. She saw a tall man standing a little apart from the porter and the few people who had come to meet the train. He wore a long black coat and a soft hat, and he held himself very straight, though his back was crooked. His face looked pale in the station light, and his black hair was just beginning to turn gray.

Mrs. Medlock went toward him quickly.

“Mr. Craven,” she said. “I have brought the child.”

The man turned his eyes upon Mary. She stared back at him. He looked so unlike the sort of person she had expected that for a moment she was too surprised to speak. He was neither old nor young, and he had a dark, tired face. He did not smile. Mary thought he looked as if he had forgotten that she was there, even while he was looking at her.

“This is Mary?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Medlock.

Mary said nothing.

“We had better go,” he said.

He turned away at once and began to walk along the platform. Mrs. Medlock took Mary by the arm and followed him. A closed carriage stood waiting outside the station, with a man on the box and a pair of dark horses. The manservant opened the door. Mr. Craven got in first, and Mary was put in beside him. Mrs. Medlock sat opposite.

The door shut, and the carriage started. The station lamps slipped away behind them. Mary sat very still in her corner and looked out through the window, but she could see nothing except the dark road and the shine of the carriage lamps. Every now and then a light appeared far away and vanished again. The horses’ hoofs made a steady sound, and the wheels rattled over the rough road.

Nobody spoke for a while. Mr. Craven sat as stiffly as if he were alone. His hands were folded on the stick he held between his knees. Mary glanced at him once or twice, but he did not look at her again. She did not know whether he was thinking of her or of something else. She began to feel that he was a very strange man, and that Misselthwaite must be a very strange place.

Mrs. Medlock sat with her hands folded too. She seemed to feel that there was nothing to say. Mary had not been accustomed to travelling without people talking to her, even when she did not care to answer. She thought she might ask how long the drive would be, but she did not want to seem interested.

The road grew rougher. The carriage rocked from side to side, and once Mary was nearly thrown against the door. She caught at the strap and frowned.

“Is it far?” she asked.

“Near enough,” Mrs. Medlock answered. “We’ve a good bit across the moor yet.”

Mary had heard the word before, but it meant nothing to her. She looked out again. The dark was so deep that the lamps seemed to make only a little yellow space ahead of them. Beyond it there was nothing at all.

After a time the carriage slowed. The horses’ hoofs clattered, then stopped. The driver spoke to them, and one of them tossed its head with a sound of harness jingling.

“What is it?” Mrs. Medlock asked.

“Something in the road,” the driver called back. “I’ll see.”

Mr. Craven leaned forward, but said nothing. Mrs. Medlock opened the carriage door before Mary had time to ask another question.

“Stay where you are,” she said.

But Mary was tired of sitting in the dark and being told to stay where she was. She followed Mrs. Medlock out. The air struck cold against her face. She had not known it could be so cold at night. There was a wind, and it went across the open ground with a low, rushing sound. The road looked pale in the carriage lamps, and just beyond it the moor stretched away into darkness.

The driver had climbed down. A sheep stood in the road, blinking in the light and refusing to move. He was trying to get it to the side, but it only turned round and stood in his way again.

“Keep off the road, there,” he said, not unkindly, when Mary came near.

Mary took two steps away from the carriage. There was no wall or fence beside the road, only the wide dark space beyond. She could not see where the moor ended. The wind pressed at her coat and made her want to turn back, but she stood still for a minute, listening to it. There was a smell of wet earth and cold grass. She had never stood in such a place. In India, even at night, the air had been warm, and there had always been voices and lights somewhere near. Here there seemed to be nothing but the wind and the dark.

“Come in, child,” Mrs. Medlock called. “You’ll catch your death out there.”

Mary went back to the carriage. The sheep had at last been coaxed off the road, and the driver climbed onto the box. Mrs. Medlock closed the door behind her.

“Don’t go wandering about when you get to the house,” she said. “There’s no sense in it. You’ll only lose your way.”

“I wasn’t wandering,” said Mary.

“Then you’d better remember what I tell you.”

Mary was silent. She did not like being spoken to as if she were a baby. The carriage went on again, and the lamps made their little yellow space on the road. Mr. Craven had not said a word. He did not turn his head toward her. She began to wonder if he would speak to her at all before they reached the house.

The journey seemed longer after they stopped. The road twisted and dipped, and the carriage moved so slowly at times that Mary thought it must have stopped again. Then, at last, something large and dark appeared ahead. It seemed to rise out of the night. There were towers and chimneys, and many windows, but almost all of them were dark. The carriage passed between stone posts and rolled up to a great door. A man with a lantern came out to meet them.

Mr. Craven stepped down and walked into the house without looking behind him. Mrs. Medlock took Mary’s hand and led her after him. The entrance hall was so big that Mary could not see all of it at once. The stone floor shone faintly in the lamplight. A broad staircase went up into the darkness, and the air smelled cold and shut away.

A man in a plain dark coat came from a passage and bowed.

“Take the child to her room,” Mr. Craven said to Mrs. Medlock. “She can have supper there.”

He spoke in the same brief, cold way as before. Then he turned and went through another door. Mary watched him disappear. She had thought perhaps he would say something more, even if it were only that she was to behave herself. But he had gone, and nobody seemed surprised.

Mrs. Medlock took Mary upstairs. The passages were long and dim, and the house made little sounds of its own: a board creaked under their feet, a shutter moved somewhere, and the wind passed along the chimney with a low rush. They went up one staircase, then along a passage, then up another flight. Mary’s legs were tired by the time they came to a small room with a fire burning in it.

“This is where you’ll sleep,” Mrs. Medlock said. “And you’ll eat your supper here, too. You’ll have to get used to being by yourself. There’s no one to amuse you.”

Mary looked around. The room was large enough, but it had heavy curtains and dark furniture. A little bed stood in one corner, and a fire burned low in the grate. The room had been prepared for her, but it did not seem like a child’s room. It was as quiet as the rest of the house.

“I don’t want to be amused,” Mary said.

“Then you’ll be all right,” said Mrs. Medlock. “I’ll send up your supper.”

She left Mary alone. Mary took off her hat and gloves and stood before the fire. Her hands were cold from the wind. She could still feel the open darkness of the moor around her, and she had a queer feeling that the house was even larger than it had looked from outside. She could not hear people moving about, though she knew there must be servants in it.

A little later there was a knock, and a manservant came in carrying a tray. He was a thin man with a brown, weather-beaten face. He set the tray on the table and began to tell her something in a quick, thick Yorkshire voice. Mary listened, but the words ran together. She understood only that he was asking if she wanted something.

“I don’t understand what you are saying,” she told him.

He looked at her and tried again, more slowly, but his words were still strange to her. Mary frowned.

“I said I don’t understand,” she repeated. “Speak properly.”

The man glanced at her, then at the open door. Mrs. Medlock came in just then.

“What is it, Martha?” she asked.

“It’s John, ma’am,” Mary said. “He said something, but I couldn’t understand him.”

Mrs. Medlock looked at the man. “She’s not used to Yorkshire, John. Tell her where the bread is, and then you can go.”

He pointed to the plate and said something that sounded to Mary like “There’s a bit o’ bread for thee.” She looked at Mrs. Medlock.

“He says there’s bread,” Mrs. Medlock explained. “You’ll learn to understand him soon enough.”

Mary ate a little bread and some meat. She was hungry, but the food tasted different from what she was used to. John stood waiting by the door until she had finished. When she pushed the plate away, he took the tray and went out.

“You must learn to be less sharp with people,” Mrs. Medlock said. “They won’t all jump when you speak.”

“They don’t jump,” said Mary. “They only say things I can’t understand.”

“You’ll understand enough before long.”

Mrs. Medlock turned down the bed and told her where she would find her things in the morning. She spoke briskly, as if there were a great many things to be done and she had no time to waste on a child. Then she wished Mary good night and went out, shutting the door behind her.

Mary undressed slowly. The room was strange, the house was strange, and the bed was so high that she had to climb into it. She pulled the blankets up to her chin and lay still. The fire had sunk low, and the shadows in the room had grown longer. She thought of the dark moor and the man with the crooked back who had said almost nothing to her. She had never been in a house where people seemed to go away so completely.

She was beginning to feel sleepy when a sound made her open her eyes. It came from somewhere beyond the room. There was a soft, scraping noise, followed by a little tap, then silence. Mary sat up and listened. After a moment it came again, a thin rattle that seemed to move along the passage.

She did not like it. She could not tell what it was, but it was not the sound of footsteps. She got out of bed and went to the door. Before she could open it, she heard Mrs. Medlock’s steps coming along the passage.

“What was that?” Mary asked when she opened the door.

“Only the wind,” Mrs. Medlock said. “It rattles the old house. Get back to bed.”

Mary looked past her into the dim passage, but Mrs. Medlock had already turned away.

The door closed, and Mary climbed back into bed. She lay very still in the dark, listening. She did not believe that the wind had made the sound. She had been told to stay in bed, and she had always done what she liked. She meant to find out for herself what it was.

The cab started forward again. Brett leaned back with her eyes shut. Her hand was on the seat between us.

"Take me to the Rotonde, Jake."

"We were going to the park."

"I know. Tell him the Rotonde."

I leaned forward and gave the driver the direction. The cab turned toward the Boulevard Montparnasse.

"You're not going to ask me why?" Brett said.

"No."

"That's kind of you."

"I thought you might tell me."

"Perhaps I will."

We went along the dark streets. The driver took the corners fast, and Brett leaned against me when the cab swayed. She did not open her eyes.

"Do you know a man called George Bingham?" she asked.

"No."

"I met him last week. He has a great deal of money."

"That sounds useful."

"He has houses and things. He says he can get anything he wants."

"Can he?"

"Apparently."

The cab went on through the streets. The lamps shone on the pavement, and the shops were shut.

"He asked me to go down to the south with him," Brett said. "Somewhere on the coast. He has a place there."

"Are you going?"

"I don't know."

"You could."

"Yes. I could."

She opened her eyes and looked at me. Then she turned to the window.

"Do you like him?"

"He's rich."

"That isn't what I asked."

"No. But it's what I answered."

We were nearly at the boulevard. The cab slowed at a crossing and moved on.

"Would you rather go somewhere else?" I asked.

"No. I told you where I wanted to go."

"All right."

"You're very good about it."

"About what?"

"Oh, don't be tiresome."

At the Rotonde there were still people at the tables. We got out and went in. The room was smoky, and the light fell on the empty glasses and the men sitting late over their drinks. We found a table near the window. Brett took off her hat and set it beside her.

"Brandy and soda," she said.

I ordered one too. A waiter brought the drinks and Brett held hers in both hands.

"Do you want to talk about Bingham?" I asked.

"No. I wanted you to know his name."

"I know it now."

"I thought you might have heard of him."

"I haven't."

"He's one of those men who can do things."

"What things?"

"Anything. He can go anywhere. He can buy a house and furnish it and have the servants there before he arrives."

"That must be convenient."

"It would be for a little while."

She drank. Her face had the same look it had had in the cab, but there was more color in it now.

"Are you going to see him again?"

"Perhaps."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"He sounds like a very sensible man."

"He is. That is what makes it worse."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I like people who are not sensible."

"You ought to be careful."

"Are you warning me?"

"No."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I don't know."

She looked at me for a moment, then smiled. It was not a happy smile.

"I've been miserable," she said.

"I know."

"How could you know?"

"You told me."

"That isn't what I mean."

"No," I said.

She put the glass down and watched the people in the street.

"You're always kind when you don't want to be."

"That's a bad way to put it."

"Is it?"

The waiter came, and Brett ordered another brandy and soda. I watched him go to the bar. Neither of us said anything until he came back.

"Are you going to stay with me?" she said.

"Would you like me to?"

"That's not what I asked."

"No."

"Then don't ask me questions."

She drank from her glass.

I wanted her to ask me to stay, and I knew she would not.

We sat there until the room began to empty. A man at the next table paid and went out. Brett took a cigarette from her case and I lit it for her. She put the cigarette between her lips and looked at me over the flame.

"Let's go," she said.

"Where?"

"Back where we were."

"The dance?"

"I left something there."

"Your hat?"

"No."

We went out and found a taxi. I told the driver to go to the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Geneviève. Brett sat close beside me without touching me. At the bal the music had stopped. A few people were still there, talking at the tables. The proprietor stood behind the bar, and the policeman was gone.

"Wait here," I said to the driver.

"Are you coming back?" Brett asked.

"Yes."

She nodded. I went inside.

Georgette was at a table with two of the young men. Her hat was tilted to one side, and she had a glass in front of her. She was talking and laughing. When she saw me she lifted her hand.

"Well, Jacob. You have come back."

"I left something."

"Did you leave me?"

"No. I left an envelope with Madame."

"What was in it?"

"Money."

"Ah."

She smiled, and one of the young men looked at me. He had a long narrow face and his hair was waved flat on his head.

"You are still here," I said.

"Why not? I have been dancing."

"You were having a good time."

"Yes. I was."

Madame was behind the bar. I asked for the envelope. She took it from under the counter and handed it to me. It had not been opened.

"She did not ask for it," Madame said.

"I know."

"You gave it for her?"

"Yes."

Georgette looked over from the table.

"Are you taking it away?"

"Yes."

"Then you must have it."

"I suppose so."

She shrugged and turned back to the young men. I put the envelope in my pocket.

"Good night, Georgette."

"Good night, Jacob."

I went out and got into the taxi. Brett was sitting where I had left her.

"Did you find it?"

"Yes."

"Was she there?"

"Yes."

"Was she enjoying herself?"

"She was."

Brett looked out of the window. I told the driver to go to the Quai des Grands Augustins.

"Why there?" she asked.

"I thought we could walk."

"You always think of something."

The taxi drove down the hill and crossed toward the river. The streets were quiet. At the quay the driver stopped. Brett got out first, and I paid him. The taxi went off toward the bridge.

We stood by the river. The water moved under the dark arches, and a barge passed with a lantern at its stern. We walked along the quay. The bookstalls were closed, and the boxes stood shut against the wall. Brett held her coat around her.

"It's cold now," she said.

"Not very."

"You're not cold."

"No."

We walked on toward the bridge. A man was sweeping in front of a café. The chairs were turned up on the tables, and the windows were dark.

"Do you think Bingham will take me away?" Brett asked.

"If you want to go."

"I don't know what I want."

"That makes it difficult."

"Does it?"

"Yes."

She stopped and looked at me.

"You never say what you mean."

"I said I didn't know."

"You do know."

We began walking again.

"Are you going to see him?" I asked.

"I said perhaps."

"Yes."

"I wish you wouldn't make me answer."

"I didn't."

"No. You don't have to."

We crossed the bridge and went along the other side. A cart came over the stones behind us. The horse's hooves made a hollow sound. Brett walked with her head down.

"You're angry with me," she said.

"No."

"You're angry with somebody."

"Maybe."

"That isn't an answer."

"It's the one I have."

She laughed once, without smiling.

"You could come away with me."

"Where?"

"Anywhere. You said you liked to go south."

"I do."

"We could go tomorrow."

"I have work."

"You always have work."

"Yes."

She looked straight ahead. We passed a café where a few men sat with their collars up, drinking coffee. One of them watched us through the window.

"I can't keep going like this," Brett said.

"No."

"You don't think I can?"

"I think you can do what you want."

"That's a horrible thing to say."

"It is true."

She stopped again. I stopped with her. For a while she looked at the river. Then she began walking, and I walked beside her.

We came to the end of the quay and turned toward the Île de la Cité. The sky was beginning to show above the roofs. It was a pale gray, and there was a little light on the water. The first carts were moving through the streets. Somewhere a church clock struck.

"Will you take me somewhere?" Brett asked.

"Where?"

"Home."

We went to the corner and I hailed a taxi. The driver pulled in beside us. Brett got into the cab and leaned out.

"Will you come?"

"No. I can walk."

"You always can."

"Yes."

"Good night, darling."

"Good night."

She drew her head back. I shut the door and told the driver where to take her. The cab moved away. I watched it turn at the end of the street and disappear.

The light had come up over the river. I walked on alone, along the quay, toward home.

By the time Eve reached the end of Shaftesbury Avenue the rain had stopped, and the umbrella had become a piece of superfluous luggage. The sun, having watched its opportunity from behind a cloud, was now shining with the air of one who had been responsible for the improvement all along.

Eve was not a girl who found it easy to keep a thing that did not belong to her. The umbrella had plainly come from the club opposite Thorpe & Briscoe, and although the tall young man had pressed it upon her with a manner that discouraged inquiry, she felt that he might want it again. She retraced her steps.

The Drones porter looked surprised to see her. This was not because visitors did not come to the club, but because visitors in hats of that quality seldom came carrying umbrellas.

"I wonder if you could tell me whose umbrella this is?" said Eve. "A gentleman lent it to me this morning. I should like to leave it for him."

The porter glanced at the handle. "It belongs to Mr. Walderwick, miss."

"Then I hope he has not been wanting it."

"He has not asked for it, miss."

Eve had no means of knowing whether this was good news or bad. She put the umbrella into the porter's hands, together with a folded note.

"If the gentleman who gave it to me calls, would you give him this? He was tall, and wore a monocle."

"Yes, miss."

"And would you tell him I am very grateful? I didn't need it after all."

"I will, miss."

Eve smiled at him, and went back into the sunshine. Her note said, "Thank you for the umbrella. It was very kind of you to lend it to a stranger. I have returned it to the porter. The lady from under the awning."

It was a curious note, but then the morning had been curious. She was content to leave it at that.

Psmith was in the smoking-room when the porter brought in the umbrella and the note. He read the latter slowly, and then, with a faint and thoughtful smile, put it in his pocket.

"Did the lady leave her name?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"An omission, but not an unpardonable one."

The porter withdrew. Psmith sat on for a few moments, contemplating the umbrella. A man less philosophic might have found his morning's adventure complete. Psmith, however, had an instinct that there was more to come.

It came in the person of Mr. Walderwick, who entered the smoking-room with the expression of a gentleman whose morning had been disturbed by the discovery that his property was not where he had left it.

"Smith," he said, walking up to Psmith, "I want a word with you."

"By all means, Walderwick. You have only to mention it."

"That umbrella of mine. I saw you take it from the cloakroom this morning."

Psmith looked at the umbrella beside him. "Did you?"

"Of course I did. I was sitting over there. You took it out and went off with it."

"Then there can be no doubt about the matter."

"No. There can't. I want to know why."

Psmith's expression remained grave. He had often found that a look of grave attention could save a man from the necessity of a reply.

"Well?" said Walderwick.

"Well?"

"Are you going to tell me?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

Walderwick stared at him. "You took my umbrella."

"So you have said."

"And you have got it now."

"That is also true."

"You don't seem in the least ashamed of yourself."

Psmith looked at the other with a mild surprise. "I should be sorry to think that I had given that impression."

Walderwick's face reddened. He was not accustomed to being met with this sort of calm. He had expected an apology, a lie, or at least a hurried attempt to return the umbrella. Instead he was being invited to take part in a conversation that appeared to have no destination.

"Well," he said, "what do you propose to do?"

Psmith put a hand into his pocket and brought out his cheque-book.

"I propose to buy the umbrella from you."

Walderwick laughed. "Buy it?"

"If you would care to name a price."

"Why should I sell it?"

"I can think of several reasons. You may be tired of it. It may have become associated in your mind with an unpleasant morning. It may be that you have long wished to possess the money which an umbrella represents when converted into cash."

"How much?"

Psmith considered. "A hundred pounds."

Walderwick stopped laughing.

"You're joking."

"I never joke about umbrellas."

"A hundred pounds for that?"

Psmith held out his cheque-book. "If the figure displeases you, we can discuss it."

Walderwick was a sporting man, and sporting men do not always find it easy to refuse a large sum of money. He looked at Psmith, looked at the umbrella, and then looked at the cheque-book.

"I don't know what's got into you," he said.

"Neither do I, but it seems a harmless condition."

Walderwick named a lower figure, which Psmith accepted without comment. A few moments later the umbrella had changed hands. The cheque went into Walderwick's pocket, and Psmith, who had begun the day with no umbrella of his own, now possessed one at a cost that would have bought a small herd of them.

"There," said Walderwick, still perplexed. "I hope that satisfies you."

"Entirely. And may I say that you have made a very handsome bargain?"

Walderwick left the smoking-room, shaking his head. Psmith remained by the window, the umbrella resting against his chair. He had not explained himself, and he had not been asked to do so again.

* * * * *

Eve had spent the early part of the afternoon in doing what young women with little money must do, which is to walk when they would prefer a cab and to make a luncheon out of what the day affords. She had visited the Cadogan Hotel to ask whether letters would be forwarded to Cynthia, and, finding no letter for herself there, had walked westward again.

It was near Berkeley Square that she encountered the tall young man with the monocle.

She was crossing the street when she saw him coming towards her, carrying a familiar-looking umbrella. The likeness was so strong that she stopped.

"Excuse me," she said. "I think you were the gentleman who gave me an umbrella this morning."

Psmith paused. "I am afraid you have mistaken me for someone else."

"That is very possible," said Eve. "You do look remarkably like him."

"An unfortunate resemblance, I should think."

"But he had a monocle."

"A common affliction among people of my type."

"And he was tall."

"Also common."

Eve laughed. "I suppose I ought to say thank you again. I returned the umbrella to the club."

"I am glad you did."

"Then you did lend it to me?"

Psmith gazed at her with the solemnity of a judge. "I did not say that."

"No. You said I had mistaken you for someone else."

"I have frequently been mistaken for someone else."

"That must be very trying."

"On the other person, undoubtedly."

Eve smiled. "Well, whoever he was, he was very kind."

"I shall be sure to pass on the compliment if I meet him."

They walked together as far as the corner. Eve was on her way to an appointment, and Psmith, in the absence of a better object, was walking in the same direction. He had no need to tell her his name, and she had no reason to ask it. The conversation moved on to the weather, which had become bright enough to make the morning seem a rumour, and then to the difficulty of finding one's way about London.

At the next turning Eve said she must go left. Psmith said he must go right. They parted with the pleasant ease of two people who had met by chance and had nothing to arrange.

Psmith continued along the street. Eve went towards the hotel where her appointment had been made.

* * * * *

The interview had been arranged for four o'clock at the Hyde Park Hotel. Lord Emsworth had reached London shortly before the hour, after a journey during which he had been unable to find his pince-nez and had consequently read none of the newspaper he had bought at Paddington.

Baxter had found the glasses in the Earl's pocket before they left the station. This had not helped matters much, for Lord Emsworth had by then forgotten why he had wished to read the paper.

The papers for the interview were in the hotel sitting-room. Baxter had placed them in a neat pile on the table, with the names of the applicants written on their covers. There was also, beside them, a folder concerning the Canadian poet Ralston McTodd, whom Lord Emsworth was to meet at luncheon the following day. Baxter had included the folder because he wished to remind his employer of the arrangements. It was the sort of precaution that would have been sensible if Lord Emsworth had not been Lord Emsworth.

Eve arrived exactly on time. She was shown into the sitting-room and found a thin, elderly gentleman standing beside the window, holding a sheet of paper and peering at it through his pince-nez.

"Miss Halliday?" he said.

"Yes, my lord."

"Ah. I have been expecting you."

"I hope I am not late."

"No, no. You are quite punctual. That is always a good thing."

Baxter, who had been standing near the fireplace, stepped forward. "Miss Halliday is here about the library catalogue, my lord."

"Yes, yes. The library catalogue." Lord Emsworth looked down at the paper in his hand. "You have read this?"

Eve looked at it. It was a printed page of verse.

"I am afraid I have not, my lord."

"That is a pity. It is by Mr. McTodd. He is coming to lunch tomorrow. I thought you might tell me whether it was any good."

Eve hesitated. She had not come to review poetry, and the paper looked as if it had been handed to her by mistake.

"I would be glad to help, if I knew more about poetry," she said. "But I thought we were to discuss the library."

"Ah!" said Lord Emsworth. "Yes, of course. The library."

Baxter took the verse from the Earl and put it on the table. "The papers have been mixed, my lord."

"Have they? I knew there was something wrong. I had been expecting a list of books."

"There is a list of books here," said Baxter.

He opened the proper folder and handed it to Eve. She read the first few titles. The pages were a collection of notes on books in the Blandings library, some with dates, some with brief descriptions, and some with questions in Baxter's neat hand.

Lord Emsworth sat down. "The library is in a sad state. I believe some of the books have been in the wrong places for years."

Eve looked at the notes. "I can see how that would happen. The first thing would be to make a list of every book, and then to decide on the order."

"Yes. That sounds right."

"I have not catalogued a whole library before, my lord. But I have done a good deal of reading, and I should be able to work from the books themselves."

Lord Emsworth appeared relieved. "That is all I want. I should not like you to come down and find that we expect you to know everything already."

Baxter's face showed that he had expected a more thorough answer. "Miss Halliday, do you understand that this will involve a great deal of work? The books have not been properly arranged."

"Yes."

"And the collection is substantial."

"That is what I hoped."

"How long do you expect it to take you?"

Eve looked down at the list. "I could give you a better answer after seeing the library."

Baxter did not seem entirely satisfied. "But a rough estimate?"

"I could not make one honestly."

At this, Lord Emsworth gave her a look of approval. "That is sensible. People are always making estimates about things they have not seen."

Baxter turned a page in his notes. "Miss Halliday, you mentioned to Miss Clarkson that you were available until September."

"I am. I have been hoping to find work for the summer."

"Would you be willing to stay at Blandings while the catalogue is in progress?"

Eve looked at him. "I had understood that the position would be temporary."

"It is temporary," said Baxter. "But the work itself will be at the Castle."

There was a pause.

Eve had been expecting an interview in London, not a journey into Shropshire. She had thought that the books might be sent to town, or that the cataloguing could be done in a room at the hotel. She had never imagined living at a country house. She had not brought the kind of clothes she would want for such a visit, and the thought of arriving at Blandings with little more than a hat and a suitcase made her feel suddenly less sure of herself.

Lord Emsworth, who had been watching her, put down his pince-nez. "It is not a difficult journey. I can arrange for you to come down with me."

Baxter raised his eyebrows. "My lord, I thought you intended to leave for Blandings this evening."

"So I do."

"Miss Halliday may require time to prepare."

"Of course. I was not suggesting she come at once."

Eve's face cleared. "If I had a little time to get ready, I would be glad to go."

"Good," said Lord Emsworth. "Then we have settled it."

Baxter, who had hoped to conduct the interview according to the schedule he had prepared, turned to another page. "There remains the matter of remuneration."

Eve's thoughts returned at once to the reason she had come. "I should be grateful for whatever is usual."

"How much is that?" asked Lord Emsworth.

"I really don't know, my lord."

Baxter named a figure. Eve thought of the allowance Uncle Thomas had left her, and of the safety bets, and the hats, and the hard-upness that had brought her to the bureau that morning. The sum was not large, but it was money she could earn.

"That would be quite satisfactory," she said.

Lord Emsworth nodded. "Then I think we have done very well."

It was not quite how Eve had expected the interview to go. She had been asked to assess an unpublished poem, told to travel to a castle in Shropshire, and offered a temporary post by a man who seemed to have come to the meeting with papers for somebody else. Yet she had not been turned down, and the work sounded more interesting than the places Miss Clarkson had been unable to find.

Baxter escorted her to the door and promised to write with the arrangements. Lord Emsworth remained by the table, examining the misplaced sheet of verse.

"I wonder what he means by this line," he said.

Baxter followed Eve into the hall.

* * * * *

At a quarter to seven Psmith sat alone in the smoking-room of the Drones Club. The umbrella stood beside his chair. It had been polished by the porter and looked as good as new, which, to Psmith, seemed an agreeable return on his investment.

He was considering the note Eve had left when the porter came in.

"That young lady who brought back the umbrella this morning has just been mentioned by Mr. Baxter, sir. Miss Halliday, I think he said."

Psmith looked up.

"Halliday?"

"Yes, sir. Miss Eve Halliday."

The porter withdrew. Psmith sat for a while with his eyes on the umbrella.

Then, with a faint smile, he settled back in his chair.

The account was sufficiently alarming, and sufficiently convincing, to occupy my mind for some minutes. I shut the book with a shiver. At that moment John came into the library.

“Have you found anything, Hastings?”

“Only that the symptoms are consistent with strychnine poisoning.”

He looked at me gravely.

“Then we must lose no time. You had better go for Poirot at once.”

I caught up my coat and hat. The morning was already bright, though the sky to the east was still clouded. The air had that heavy, breathless quality which comes after a storm. I walked quickly down the drive, and had nearly reached the lodge when I met Baily returning from the village.

“Has Dr. Wilkins come?” I asked.

“He’s at the house now, sir. I went for him, but the car had gone on before I got there.” He looked troubled, and lowered his voice. “It’s a bad business, sir.”

I hurried on. Poirot lodged in one of the cottages occupied by the Belgian refugees. He was up and dressed when I reached it, and opened the door before I had time to knock a second time.

“Ah, Hastings! I know. Mrs. Inglethorp is dead.”

I stared at him.

“You know already?”

“Baily told me. He stopped here on his way to Dr. Wilkins. He was greatly distressed, poor man.”

“Then you know all that has happened?”

“I know that the lady is dead, and that there is agitation at Styles. I know nothing more. You will tell me.”

I gave him a rapid account of the night’s events, from Lawrence’s summons to the arrival of the doctors. He listened without interruption, his eyes fixed on my face.

“And you think that Dr. Bauerstein suspects poison?”

“I am sure of it. He spoke of the convulsions as tetanic.”

“Good. We will go to Styles.”

He took his hat and stick. We set out together, and I told him of the symptoms I had read about in the medical book.

“Have you seen the body?” he asked.

“No. Dr. Wilkins and Dr. Bauerstein are in the room with it.”

“And the rooms are locked?”

“Yes. Dr. Bauerstein gave the keys to John.”

Poirot nodded, but made no comment. For some distance we walked in silence. I was conscious of a growing excitement. Here, at last, was Poirot in his element. I had only to place the facts before him, and I felt sure he would soon clear away the mystery that hung over Styles.

As we reached the house, a figure came quickly up the drive from the direction of the village. It was Alfred Inglethorp. He was splashed with mud, and his beard was damp with the morning mist. At the sight of us he stopped short.

“Poirot!” I cried. “Mr. Inglethorp has just returned.”

Alfred looked at me, then at Poirot.

“I have only this moment heard,” he said. His voice was strained, but quite steady. “Where is she?”

“In her room,” I answered.

He made a sudden movement towards the house. Then he checked himself, and turned to John, who had appeared in the doorway.

“John, I am heartbroken. I know you will understand that I had no choice. I was absent from the house all night.”

“Where have you been?” asked John.

“I walked into the village with Bauerstein. After I left him, I went on to Tadminster. The storm came up, and I stayed at the Red Lion. I did not return to Styles until this morning.”

“Were you there all night?” I asked.

“I was. The landlord will confirm it. I left as soon as the roads were passable.”

A movement behind Alfred drew my attention. Baily had come up from the lodge and stood with his cap in his hands.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “I saw you in the stable yard last night, just before one.”

For a second Alfred’s face went very still.

“You must be mistaken, Baily.”

“I thought at first it was one of the grooms, sir. But then I saw you cross by the coach-house door. I was in the stable, because the thunder had started the horses.”

Alfred looked at him sharply.

“I assure you, you are mistaken. I was at Tadminster.”

Baily flushed.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I only thought I ought to say what I saw.”

There was a brief silence. John’s face had hardened, but he said nothing. Poirot, who had been watching Alfred, now turned to him.

“You must forgive us, Monsieur. The whole household is upset. We shall not detain you.”

Alfred inclined his head and passed into the house. No one followed him. John remained by the door, his eyes on the muddy drive.

“Come,” said Poirot quietly. “We must see the room.”

John took the keys from his pocket. His hand shook as he unlocked the door to Mrs. Inglethorp’s room. We entered, and he turned the key behind us.

The room had been put in order by no one. The overturned table still lay on its side, and the ornaments on the mantelpiece stood in their neat row. The bedclothes were twisted and rumpled. A faint smell of brandy lingered in the air.

Poirot moved slowly round the room, looking first at the windows, then at the door, and finally at the bed. He touched nothing. His eyes missed no detail, or so it seemed to me.

“The bolts,” he said at last. “You found them as they are now?”

“Yes,” I replied. “They were fastened when we broke in.”

He examined each one, then the connecting door to Mr. Inglethorp’s room. It, too, had been bolted from within Mrs. Inglethorp’s room.

“You said there was a door into Miss Cynthia’s room?”

“Yes. That was bolted too.”

He went to it and studied the bolt. Then he glanced at the dressing-table, where several small objects were arranged in a disorderly cluster: a brush, a comb, a hand mirror, and a little tray of pins.

“Had Mrs. Inglethorp been using this table?” he asked.

“I don’t know. She came upstairs with the despatch-case. Cynthia was to bring it to her.”

Poirot’s eyes travelled over the floor. He stooped beside the bed and peered into the narrow space between it and the wall. Then, very carefully, he reached down and drew out a tiny square of paper. It was folded once, and at one edge there was a dark stain.

He held it in his fingers for a moment, then showed it to me.

“What do you make of that, Hastings?”

“It looks like a scrap of paper.”

“Precisely.”

“What is it?”

Poirot put it away in his pocket.

“I am not ready to tell you.”

I felt a little nettled. I had always prided myself on my powers of observation, and I could see nothing in the scrap to justify this air of mystery.

Poirot examined the carpet around the bed, and then the space beneath the dressing-table. He looked into the fireplace, where the ashes were still faintly grey, but he did not disturb them.

“Have you noticed anything else?” he asked me.

“No.”

“Then perhaps you will tell me who has been in the room since Mrs. Inglethorp died.”

“Dr. Bauerstein and Dr. Wilkins. John, Lawrence, Mary, Cynthia, Dorcas, and the servants who came in when we broke down the door.”

“Good. And before that?”

“I cannot say.”

Poirot nodded. He took one last look about the room, then unlocked the door and stepped into the passage. We found Mary there. Her face was pale, and her expression was difficult to read.

“Mrs. Cavendish,” said Poirot, “I should like to speak to Mademoiselle Cynthia.”

She looked at him for a moment, then turned and went towards the girl’s room. We followed her.

Cynthia was sitting by the window, in a dressing-gown, with her hair loose about her shoulders. She looked tired and bewildered. Poirot stood before her with a grave courtesy.

“Mademoiselle, did you sleep soundly last night?”

“I did,” she answered. “I was very tired. Mrs. Cavendish woke me, and I did not know what was happening at first.”

Poirot bowed.

“Thank you.”

He asked no more. Mary watched him closely, but he gave her no sign of what he thought. After a moment he turned away, and we went downstairs.

The house seemed to have fallen into a hush. Dr. Wilkins had left, and John told us that the post-mortem would take place later that day. Lawrence was in the library, walking restlessly up and down. He stopped when we entered.

“Have you learned anything?” he asked.

“Nothing that I can tell you,” said Poirot.

Lawrence gave a short, bitter laugh.

“Then we are no further forward.”

Poirot looked at him calmly.

“Perhaps, Monsieur, we are.”

For the next hour we moved from one room to another, speaking with the members of the household as they could be found. Poirot asked few questions, and none of them seemed important to me. He wanted to know where each person had been at the time the alarm was raised, who had entered the room, and whether the doors and windows had been secured. He asked John to describe the order in which the household had gathered in the passage. He asked Dorcas whether she had noticed anything unusual in the room earlier in the evening.

“No, sir,” she said. “The poor mistress seemed upset, but she was always particular about her room. Everything was just as it should be.”

“And the coffee?” Poirot asked.

“Mr. Inglethorp took it up, sir. Mrs. Inglethorp carried it to her room herself. She had not tasted it when I saw her.”

Poirot listened, and made no comment.

Later, Dr. Bauerstein came downstairs. He had the same grave expression as before, but his eyes rested on Poirot with an interest that was almost challenging.

“You are Monsieur Poirot?” he said.

“I am.”

“I understand you have been asked to investigate.”

“I have been asked to look into the matter.”

Dr. Bauerstein studied him for a moment.

“Then I need hardly say that the room should remain undisturbed.”

“Of course,” said Poirot. “I have disturbed nothing.”

The doctor gave a faint nod and went out. Poirot watched him until the front door closed.

It was now nearly eleven o’clock. John had given Poirot the key to Mrs. Inglethorp’s room, with the doctor’s permission to examine it further. Poirot said little as we went upstairs. He unlocked the door, and we entered alone. The room was just as we had left it.

He walked to the bed and took the little square of paper from his pocket. He placed it on the small table between us. The dark mark at its edge was clear in the morning light.

“You see, Hastings,” he said, “the important thing is not what the object is, but when it came here.”

I stared at him in bewilderment. I did not in the least understand his meaning.

I had the check book in my pocket when I left the Herald. Miss Lewis had let me take it after I told her I wanted to see whether the bank could tell me anything about the five thousand dollars. She was uneasy about it, but the dead man could hardly need it now.

The First National Bank was three blocks away. A man at a desk directed me to Mr. Morrow, an assistant cashier with a gray mustache and a small, careful face. I put the check book on his desk and showed him the last stub.

"Can you tell me whether this check has been presented?"

He looked at the stub, then at me.

"Are you representing Mr. Willsson?"

"I was hired by him. He was killed before I could see him."

Morrow's face changed a little. He picked up the book and studied the account number on its cover.

"That is his personal account," he said. "I can tell you the check has not been presented."

"Has it been certified?"

"No. We have no record of it being certified."

"Could the check have gone through another bank?"

"It could have been deposited elsewhere and sent here for payment. It has not been."

"Can you tell me the number?"

He found the stub again. "The check was number 184. The number is in the book, but there is no payee entered."

"Would you know it if somebody had brought it in to cash?"

"If it had come through this bank, I would. But it has not."

"Has anyone asked you to certify a check for five thousand dollars from this account?"

"No."

He gave me back the book. I thanked him and put it away. The check itself had not reached the bank. That was all I could take from Morrow, and all I had expected. Donald had written it, torn it out, and carried it off. Somewhere between the Herald and Hurricane Street it had ceased to be an ordinary check.

I went back to the Herald and gave the book to Miss Lewis. She asked if the bank had found anything.

"Nothing that helps."

She looked down at the check book.

"Do you think it was for someone here?"

"I think it was for somebody. That's as far as I can get."

She wanted to ask more, but the telephone rang and she turned to it. I left while she was listening.

I spent the rest of the afternoon walking the streets and looking at the places a man could reach in twenty minutes from the Herald. The First National was five minutes away. The Great Western was farther. The eleven-hundred block of Hurricane was farther still. There were enough alleys between those places to hide a man, a check, or six shots. I looked into two of them and found only garbage cans and a cat that didn't care who had been killed.

At the Great Western a clerk told me a lady was waiting in the lobby. He did not know her name. I did. She was sitting at the far end of a leather sofa with her hands folded over a small black purse. Her hair was smooth and yellow. Her face was pale. She had changed her green slippers for black shoes.

She got up when I came in.

"I came to see you," she said.

"I gathered that."

"I did not know where else to go."

I took her up to my room. She looked around at the cheap furniture and the unmade bed without comment. I shut the door and offered her the chair. She remained standing.

"You have been to my father-in-law," she said.

"Yes."

"He believes I killed Donald."

"He believes a good many things."

"Do you?"

"I haven't made up my mind."

Her mouth tightened. She sat down, slowly, as if she had been on her feet too long.

"You told him about my shoe."

"I told him what I saw."

"It was not blood."

"What was it?"

She looked at the window. The glass showed the roofs across the street and a strip of gray sky.

"I don't know. There was something on it. I saw it after I came back. I thought it was blood, too."

"Where did it come from?"

"I don't know."

"You were out forty-five minutes."

"Yes."

"Where did you go?"

She took a breath and let it out through her nose.

"Do you intend to ask me that until I answer?"

"Probably."

"I drove around. I had received a telephone call."

"From whom?"

"I didn't know the voice."

"What did the voice say?"

"It said Donald wanted me to come to him."

"Where?"

"On Hurricane Street."

She watched me to see what I would do with that. I didn't do anything.

"You went there?"

"I drove there. I didn't find him."

"At ten-forty?"

"I don't know what time it was. I was frightened. I drove around the block and went back to the house."

"Who called you?"

"I have told you, I don't know."

"Why didn't you tell the police?"

"I did. They asked me where I had been. I told them I had driven around."

"That isn't the same thing."

"No." She put her hands together more tightly. "I was afraid they would think I had gone there to meet him. I don't know what they think now."

"You went out before he was killed."

"I know."

"And you came back with something that looked like blood on your shoe."

"I know."

"You want me to believe that's all there is to it."

"I want you to find out who killed him."

"That's what I was hired to do."

"Donald hired you?"

"Yes."

She frowned. "He never told me."

"He kept things to himself."

"Yes."

She said it so quietly that I looked at her. Her eyes were dry and steady, but she had gone whiter than she had been in the lobby.

"Did Donald tell you he was going to Hurricane Street?" I asked.

"No."

"Did he tell you he was going to see a woman?"

"No."

"Did you know he had made a five-thousand-dollar check?"

"No. What check?"

I watched her face. She didn't seem to be acting surprised. That didn't prove anything.

"He wrote one yesterday afternoon. There was no payee on the stub."

"Five thousand dollars?" she asked.

"Yes."

"What would he need that much money for?"

"I was hoping you knew."

She shook her head. "I didn't know he had that kind of money in his own account."

"He did."

"His father controlled everything."

"Not everything, apparently."

She looked at me, and then away again.

"Do you think the check had something to do with his death?"

"I think it has something to do with something. I don't know what."

"Could it have been for the person who called me?"

"It could have been. It could have been for somebody else."

She pressed the clasp of her purse with her thumb. The metal clicked.

"That is what frightens me," she said. "I don't know which people were near Donald, or why."

"Max Thaler was at your house this morning."

She stopped moving her thumb.

"I know."

"What did he want?"

"To talk about Donald."

"What did he say?"

"That people were saying unpleasant things. That I ought not to be alone."

"Did he say who was saying them?"

"No."

"Did you ask him?"

"Yes. He said it was not important."

"Did you believe him?"

"No."

"Then why let him in?"

"He came to the door. I thought he might know something."

"He knows a lot of things."

"Does he know who killed Donald?"

"I don't know."

She looked at me as if she wanted me to say more. I didn't have more.

"I saw him go into your house," I said. "You could have told me he had been there."

"I could have."

"Why didn't you?"

"I didn't know you had seen him."

"You didn't know what I had seen when you came here, either."

"No." She stood. "I came because I thought you might find something I had missed."

"That's a reason. It isn't the reason."

Her eyes met mine.

"I don't want them to put me in jail for something I didn't do."

"Then tell the truth."

"I have told you what I know."

"That isn't always the same thing."

She picked up her purse. "If I hear anything more, I will tell you."

"Use the telephone."

"I don't know whether the telephone is safe."

"Then come here."

She had already done that. I opened the door. She paused on the threshold.

"Do you think Donald was a good man?"

"I didn't know him."

"His father says he was foolish."

"His father says you killed him."

A little color came into her face.

"Good night."

She went down alone. I stayed by the door until I heard the outside door open and close. Then I went to the window and watched the street. She crossed to the corner and turned out of sight.

I was still looking at the street when a hotel boy brought up a small envelope. There was no name on it. The boy said it had been left at the desk for me and that the man who brought it had gone.

Inside was a card with four words written on it.

"Mr. Neill, see that check."

The name at the bottom was Max Thaler.

I read it twice. There was no explanation and no invitation to a meeting. The writing was neat and small. I put the card in my pocket.

Thaler knew I was asking about the check. He might have heard it from the widow, from somebody at the bank, or from one of the people I had questioned at the Herald. The message didn't say which. It also didn't say what he wanted me to see. A man who knew where a five-thousand-dollar check had gone could have told me. Thaler hadn't.

I went out and found a telegraph office. I had a report to send to the Old Man in San Francisco, and I didn't want to wait until morning.

I wrote the message carefully, keeping it short enough to go through without spending the whole fee on adjectives.

"OLD MAN, CONTINENTAL DETECTIVE AGENCY, SAN FRANCISCO. DONALD WILLSSON MURDER STILL OPEN. HE WROTE FIVE THOUSAND DOLLAR CHECK DAY OF DEATH. FIRST NATIONAL ASSISTANT CASHIER MORROW SAYS CHECK NOT PRESENTED OR CERTIFIED. NO PAYEE ON STUB. WIDOW SAYS UNKNOWN CALLER DIRECTED HER TO HURRICANE STREET THAT NIGHT. SHE DID NOT FIND DONALD. MAX THALER SENT WORD TO SEE THAT CHECK. WILL CONTINUE."

The operator counted the words and gave me the charge. I paid it. The wire went.

I walked back to the hotel through streets that were beginning to go dark. The town was quieter than it had been in the afternoon. A streetcar scraped around the corner. Somewhere a piano played three bars of a tune and stopped. I had no appetite for supper, so I went upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed.

The check had been written. It had not been presented. The widow had gone to Hurricane Street because somebody told her to. Thaler knew I was asking about it. None of that told me where the check had gone.

I took the card out of my pocket and laid it beside the telegram receipt. Then I put both in the drawer, turned out the light, and sat alone in my room while the dark filled it.

Madame Ratignolle leaned heavily upon Robert as they walked back along the sandy path. Her stiffness seemed to increase with every step, and once or twice she paused to rest beneath the thin shade of the trees. The children ran ahead, filling the path with their voices. The nurse-maids followed at a distance, one with a child clinging to her skirts.

Robert made no effort to hurry them. He listened to Madame Ratignolle’s complaints about the cramp in her limbs, and gave her arm the support she needed. When the children’s noise had carried them beyond hearing, he said, “Mrs. Pontellier is like one who is not at home, even when she is sitting in her own house.”

Madame Ratignolle turned her face toward him. “You have been observing her.”

“I think I have. She looks as if she hears something that no one else can hear.”

“Perhaps she does,” said Madame Ratignolle.

They walked on without speaking. At the cottage, Robert helped her up the steps and left her to the care of her children. Then he returned toward the main house.

Edna remained with the children on the beach for a while. They had grown tired of watching the young lovers and were now busily filling a tin pail with sand. Raoul insisted that he was building a house, while his brother declared that it was a fort. Edna made no attempt to settle the dispute. She sat near them and watched the water beyond the awning, where the wind kept the waves in motion.

A boy from the main house came down the path and handed her a telegram. The paper was thin and warm from his pocket. Edna opened it and read Léonce’s message.

“Business detained. Shall not come out Saturday.”

She folded the paper once and slipped it into the pocket of her dress. The words had no particular meaning at first. Léonce often went and came according to the demands of his business, and she had never made a habit of counting the days until his return. Still, she looked again toward the sea, as if the message had taken something from the afternoon.

The boy waited, perhaps expecting an answer. Edna told him there was none. He returned toward the house, and she watched him go until the path hid him.

When the children had tired of their game, the nurse-maid carried the younger one back to the cottage. Edna walked with the other, listening to his talk of sand houses and the ladies in the tent. The telegram lay against her hip. She felt it there as one feels a small stone in a shoe, not painful, but impossible to forget.

The heat increased during the afternoon. The guests withdrew into their rooms or sat beneath the galleries, and the beach grew quiet. Edna found herself alone for a time in the cottage. She went to the window and looked out upon the glittering water. It seemed near enough to touch, though the sandy path lay between.

A little later she took the key to the bath-house. She did not say where she was going. The nurse-maid was occupied with the children, and no one asked her to remain. She walked down the path alone, keeping to the edge of the shade until the last trees gave way to open sand.

The beach lay empty at that hour. Farther out, the water was roughened by the wind, but near the shore it rose and fell in small, broken waves. Edna stopped where the damp sand met the dry. She had watched people enter the sea many times, and had often wondered at their easy confidence. Now she stood with the key in her hand and felt an old reluctance stir in her.

She went into the bath-house, changed her dress, and came out again. The first touch of the water at her ankles made her draw back. It was cooler than the air and seemed to hold her feet fast. She waited until a wave passed, then stepped forward.

The water climbed to her knees. She turned toward the shore, then away again. There was nothing in the open reach before her to measure distance or promise safety. For a moment she wished someone were near, but she could think of no one she wanted beside her. She lifted her arms and tried to imitate the motion she had seen in others.

Her first strokes were awkward. The water pressed against her chest and caught at her skirts. She lost her balance, found it again, and struck out a second time. Then, for a few moments, her body moved through the water with a strange and sudden ease. She went several strokes from the shore before fear returned and she turned back. The sand rose beneath her feet. She stood still, breathing hard, and looked behind her.

No one had seen.

She went into the bath-house and dressed. When she came out, the beach was still empty. The walk back seemed longer than before, and she carried with her a quiet satisfaction which she could not have explained. She said nothing of it when she returned to the cottage. She did not even look for the nurse-maid’s face to see if it had noticed her absence.

The lady in black sat on the porch of a neighboring bath-house, her prayer-book closed in her lap. Edna had passed her there before without speaking. As she drew near, the lady raised her eyes.

“Mrs. Pontellier, is it not?”

Edna stopped. “Yes.”

“I have seen you with Madame Ratignolle. She is very kind.”

“She is,” said Edna.

The lady rested one hand upon the closed book. Her black dress seemed heavier in the heat than any of the light cottons worn by the other women. “I have sat here for many summers,” she said. “The sea makes the hours seem longer.”

Edna looked toward the water. “I had not thought of it in that way.”

The lady gave a small nod, as if Edna had answered more than she intended. She opened her book again, and their brief conversation was ended. Edna walked on without turning back.

She found the children with their nurse, safe and occupied. The afternoon passed in the usual small demands. Raoul wanted water, then refused it. His brother had lost a toy and accused everyone in the cottage of hiding it. Edna attended to them, but her thoughts wandered from one thing to another. Once, she looked toward the beach from the gallery, and felt again the motion of her arms cutting through the water.

She kept the secret to herself.

Madame Ratignolle came to the cottage before supper. She had rested and seemed less troubled by her limbs. Edna was sitting by an open window while the children played on the floor. Adèle spoke of the heat, of the stiff breeze, and of the ladies who had walked along the beach. Then she said, “Robert made a remark about you on the way home.”

Edna turned from the window. “What was it?”

“He said you are like one who is not at home, even when you are sitting in your own house. Then he said you look as if you hear something no one else can hear.”

Edna let her eyes rest on Adèle’s face. She was not displeased by the words, but they disturbed her in a way she could not name.

“Did he say that?”

“He did. I thought it an odd thing to say.”

Edna made no answer. Adèle went on to tell her of one of the children’s small mishaps, and the talk returned to ordinary matters. When she had gone, Edna stood for a moment by the window. The sea was no longer visible from there. Only the dark line of the path showed between the cottages.

The telegram remained in her pocket until she changed for supper. She laid it on the table beside her comb, then left it there. She ate with the others and listened while the children chattered. Robert was present, speaking to the guests about the morning’s walk and the force of the wind. He did not repeat his words about her. Edna did not ask him to.

Later, the nurse-maid settled the boys in their beds. Their voices dwindled to murmurs, then to silence. Edna went in to see them. She stood beside Raoul’s bed until his breathing grew even, then crossed to the other and drew the coverlet back over his shoulder. The small rooms smelled of warm linen and the sea air that entered through the open shutters.

When she had finished, she left them in the care of the nurse and went alone to the gallery. Night had fallen. The cottages were quiet, though now and then a voice rose from the main house and was lost in the dark. Edna sat in a low chair, her hands lying still in her lap.

The sea could not be seen from the gallery, but she heard it beyond the trees. She recalled the coldness of the water against her skin, then the few strokes that had carried her away from shore. She had gone back without help. No one knew.

The thought pleased her. It belonged to her alone, as the message from Léonce belonged to him, and the remark from Robert seemed to belong to neither of them. She turned it over in her mind.

You are like one who is not at home, even when you are sitting in your own house.

The children slept behind her, and the night air stirred the loose folds of her dress. Edna remained on the gallery, listening to the sea and to the words Adèle had carried to her.

*Dr. Seward’s Diary.*

*(Kept in phonograph.)*

*28 May.*—Yesterday morning I went to Renfield’s room before leaving for Quincey’s dinner. He had arranged the crumbs from his breakfast in a neat row on the window ledge, and was watching them as if they required his whole attention. I asked him what he expected to learn from them. He answered that he did not expect to learn anything, but wished to see whether they would be moved.

Then, without any question from me, he said, “Have you seen Miss Lucy Westenra lately, Doctor?”

I asked him why he wished to know. He considered this for a moment, then said, “I was curious,” and turned again to the window. There was nothing in his manner to suggest that the matter had any weight for him. I could not recall having spoken of Miss Westenra in his presence. Her name may have been heard in the hall or read in a newspaper. I did not pursue the subject.

Last night’s dinner was an excellent affair, and Quincey had taken pains to make it so. He had flowers on the table, and a very good claret, which he said he had been keeping for a proper occasion. Arthur was late, and came in with a face that told us all the news before he spoke. He shook hands with Quincey and me, and then said that Lucy had promised to be his wife.

Quincey sprang up and seized him by both shoulders. “Art, old man,” he cried, “you’ve made the happiest bargain in the world, and I’m glad of it with all my heart.”

I think I was the first to speak plainly. I said that I hoped they would be happy, and meant it. I have seldom found it easy to say a thing of that kind when it touches a sore place; but I was glad to find the words come without effort. Arthur looked at me with a gratitude that made me ashamed of my own small sadness. I had nothing to do with the happiness that was now his, and no right to grudge him any part of it.

We sat long over the wine, and Quincey told us a story of a winter journey on the plains, where a broken wheel had kept him and his companions awake till morning. Arthur was in the highest spirits, and made us laugh with an account of how his mother had tried to draw from him the reason for his good humour. He had been careful not to tell her until he could tell her all.

Quincey made a toast to Lucy, and I followed him. Arthur’s glass shook a little as he drank it. He tried to hide that, but Quincey saw it, and presently the three of us were talking of other things. We parted late, with a promise to meet again before long. I came away with a lighter heart than I had expected.

*Journal of Miss Mina Murray.*

*31 May.*—To-day a letter reached me from Bistritz, addressed in a hand I do not know. It was written on the 3rd of May, and the postmark is so blurred that I can scarcely read it. The writer, Herr Franz Koller, says he is a clerk at the Golden Krone. I have never seen him. He tells me he knew Jonathan only during the short time he stayed there, and that he is writing because Jonathan gave him my address. I include the letter in full.

*Letter from Herr Franz Koller to Miss Mina Murray.*

“*Bistritz, 3 May.*

“Madam,—

“Mr. Jonathan Harker has given me your address, and asked me to send you word if any delay should arise in his journey. I trust you will pardon a stranger for writing to you.

“The public carriage which was to take Mr. Harker onward did not arrive at its proper hour. He has therefore been obliged to put off his departure until this evening. He tells me that this will cause him to lose several days before he can reach the next town, and may delay his return to England. He is in good health, and bears the inconvenience with patience.

“I have taken the liberty of writing because he seemed anxious that you should know of the delay. I hope you will receive this before it gives you any concern. If there is further news of his journey, I shall send it to you.

“I remain, Madam, your obedient servant,

“FRANZ KOLLER.”

The letter has taken so long to reach me that Jonathan’s own few lines from Transylvania came first. Still, I am glad to have it. I can picture him waiting with his papers and taking the delay calmly, as he does most things. I have put Herr Koller’s letter away with Jonathan’s. It is a small thing to possess, but I was glad to see his name written by another hand.

*Letter from Miss Lucy Westenra to Miss Mina Murray.*

“*17, Chatham Street.*

“*2 June.*

“My dearest Mina,—

“Arthur came home last night from Mr. Morris’s dinner in such high spirits that I think he had told the story of our engagement to every one in the room. I am very glad he did. It seems to me a happiness too large to be kept to oneself.

“He told me how kindly Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris received the news. I was touched by it, and I hope they will both come to see us soon. Mr. Morris, with his brave way of taking things, is still the best of friends; and Dr. Seward, though he may not say much, has a great deal of feeling. I think Arthur is proud to have such friends.

“We have spoken a little of the wedding, but no day is fixed. Arthur says we must first learn when you and Jonathan can come to us. I wish we could all be together for it. You must tell Jonathan that I shall expect him to stand beside Arthur, and that he is to bring you straight to us when he reaches England.

“Your letter about his journey made me think how long even a few days can seem when one is waiting. I hope the roads have been kinder to him since then. He will come home soon, I am sure, and then you can tell me all that you have both been doing.

“Ever your loving,

“LUCY.”

*Dr. Seward’s Diary.*

*(Kept in phonograph.)*

*6 June.*—Renfield has been quieter to-day. He spent an hour arranging his papers and asked for a new notebook. I gave him one, and he thanked me with great politeness. While I stood by his chair he looked up and said, “Does Miss Westenra sing at the concert next week?”

I had not mentioned her, nor had I been speaking of concerts. I answered that I did not know whether she would sing. He said, “I thought perhaps she might,” and resumed his writing.

The question was so ordinary that I have no reason to make anything of it. Her name may have been in the paper. I have heard the concert discussed in the house, and he has a quick ear for anything said near his door. He showed no further interest when I did not answer him.

*Letter from Miss Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra.*

“*Exeter.*

“*14 June.*

“My dearest Lucy,—

“I am glad that you and Arthur have begun to speak of the wedding. I should like to be there more than I can say, and Jonathan will be glad too. His last note told me he was well and hoped to return soon. Since then I have heard nothing, but I will not let silence make me anxious. His work may take him farther than he expected, and the post from those parts is slow.

“The letter from Herr Koller reached me at last, though it was written on the very day Jonathan left Bistritz. He says the carriage was late and that Jonathan had to wait until evening. It is curious to receive such news after Jonathan’s own lines, but I am glad the stranger took the trouble to write. He seemed a careful man, and I think he wished to spare me a needless worry.

“I keep up with my shorthand each day. It pleases me to think that I may use it for Jonathan when he is home. He has always been patient while I practise, though I am not yet quick enough to take down more than a few sentences at a time. I shall be better by the time he returns.

“Do not set your wedding day by me, dear. We shall come when Jonathan is able, and I shall not forgive myself if you wait for us too long.

“Your loving,

“MINA.”

*Letter from Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.*

“*18 June.*

“My dear Art,—

“I keep thinking about our dinner and the look on your face when you told us your good news. A fellow does not get many evenings like that, and I count myself lucky to have been there.

“You know I meant what I said. Lucy is a fine girl, and you will do your best by her. I can ask no more of any man, least of all a friend. I will be in town through the month, so give me a call if there is anything you want done. I can carry a message, find a house, or keep your mother from asking questions before you are ready to answer them.

“Tell Lucy that I send her my good wishes. She will know what I mean, and I hope she will take them in the spirit in which I send them.

“Yours, as always,

“QUINCEY.”

*Journal of Miss Mina Murray.*

*28 June.*—Mr. Hawkins wrote to-day to say that he has heard nothing further from Jonathan since his brief note. He thinks the journey may have been delayed by business, and begs me not to worry. I shall try to follow his advice. I have kept Jonathan’s little letter beside my work, where I can see his handwriting when I look up from the page. It is a comfort to remember that he expected to be home soon.

*Telegram from Peter Hawkins to Miss Mina Murray.*

*29 June.*

“Harker’s letter dated nineteenth says he left Bistritz. We expect him in London to-morrow. Hawkins.”

A few nights after that walk with my wife, I saw the first of the falling stars. I had been sitting in the little room at the back of our house, with the window open to the warmth, and had risen to draw the curtain against a moth that beat itself upon the lamp. In doing so I looked out over the dark garden and saw a greenish streak descend across the sky. It was brighter than any meteor I had ever seen, and travelled with such speed that the eye could scarcely follow it. For an instant the trees and the tiled roofs stood clear in its light; then it vanished beyond the low ridge towards Chertsey.

I called to my wife, who was in the next room. She came to the window, but saw only the darkness and the stars. We waited a little, and then went out into the garden. The night was very still. There was no sound of an explosion, nor any other sign that the thing had struck the earth. I remember thinking that it had probably burned itself away, as so many meteors do, and that the light had seemed more impressive because I had seen it against the black outline of the ridge.

Before we went to bed, however, I heard a distant report. It was no more than a low, heavy thud, so faint that I might have mistaken it for a door closing somewhere in the village. My wife heard it too. We looked at one another, and she asked whether the meteor had fallen. I said that it was more likely some cart or other night traffic on the road, and we let the matter pass.

In the morning a boy came to our door with the news that something had fallen into the old flooded clay-pit between Ottershaw and Chertsey. He had been out early with his father and had seen steam rising from the water. The story had already passed from house to house, growing in size as it went. The object was a stone, the boy said, as large as a cottage; and the water in the pit was boiling.

I went at once to find Ogilvy. He was already away from home, having heard the same report from one of his servants, and I had to make my way towards the pit without him. My wife insisted on coming with me. She had been as curious as I was about the light of the night before, and when I reminded her of the thud she was ready to believe the rumours. We walked by the road, and as we left the village we met several people hurrying in the same direction.

The pit lay in a hollow among fields, not far from the lane. It had long been abandoned, and the rain-water that gathered in it was dark and still beneath the banks of clay. A crowd had formed along the rim. Some stood upon the slope, others at a distance among the grasses, and a few had come down to the water’s edge. A white vapour rose from the pool, drifting low over the reeds. It had a sharp, metallic smell that I could not then explain.

At the far side of the pit, half submerged in the water, lay a great dark body. Its upper part showed above the surface like the rounded back of some monstrous animal. Mud and water clung to it, and here and there its skin shone through in patches. The pool around it hissed and stirred. From the part that rose above the water a steady steam curled into the air.

Ogilvy was standing near the edge, looking down at it with his hands thrust into his pockets. He greeted me with a nod, but did not take his eyes from the object.

“It is a meteorite,” he said. “A very large one, I grant you. But there can be no doubt what it is.”

“Did you see it fall?” I asked.

“No. The light last night was seen by half the county. That tells us nothing of its nature. The heat is just what we should expect. A body entering the atmosphere at such a speed would be heated to incandescence, and the water has not yet cooled it.”

I pointed to the curve that showed above the pool. It was too regular, I thought, for a rock that had been torn from the heavens. The visible part seemed smooth, and the line of its sides ran without a break down into the water. I could see no jagged projections or broken edges.

“That is the effect of fusion,” Ogilvy replied. “The outer crust melts and flows over the surface. You cannot judge its shape while it is half buried in mud.”

“But it seems to have a definite form.”

“You have seen a few feet of it through steam, from this distance. That is not a basis for a theory.”

I could not deny the truth of that. Still, there was something in the object that held my attention and troubled me. It was not merely its size. The shape was so simple, so complete, that I found it difficult to think of it as a rough mass of stone. I said as much to Ogilvy. He laughed, though without any unkindness.

“My dear fellow, a meteorite does not consult us about its appearance. We are looking at a mass of matter that has come across the gulf of space, struck the earth, and fallen into a pond. That is an explanation enough.”

My wife had come down the bank while we talked. She stood beside me, a little pale in the vapour, and watched the dark body in the water. She asked whether it had made the noise we heard in the night.

“Very likely,” Ogilvy said. “The report would travel far in this still air.”

“And the water?” she asked.

“The heat has raised the steam. It will cool in time.”

He spoke with the calm assurance of a man who had spent his life studying the movements of distant worlds. I found that assurance catching at my own doubts. Around us the people were beginning to talk in low voices, and the simplest explanation seemed, in the daylight, the one most easily accepted. A few had already gone back towards the lane to fetch others.

A labourer in a brown jersey came down to the water’s edge. He was a broad, red-faced man, and he carried a short stick which he used to test the mud. One of the men behind him called out that the thing must be cool by now. The labourer leaned forward and put his bare hand against the dark surface.

He snatched it away with a cry. For a moment he stared at his palm, then shook his hand violently, as if to fling off the pain. The skin was reddened where he had touched the object, and a blister was already rising. Two men caught him by the arms and pulled him back from the water. He was not seriously hurt, but his sudden cry startled the crowd, and several people hurried up the bank.

Ogilvy took the man’s hand and examined it. “You should have known better,” he said. “The thing is still hot enough to burn you.”

The labourer swore and held his injured hand against his coat. Some offered him water, and one of the men went off to find a doctor. The crowd pressed back a little, though no one went very far. The incident seemed to give the object a new importance. More people arrived from the lanes and the scattered houses, and the talk grew louder. A farmer declared that no ordinary stone could remain so hot; a woman beside him insisted that she had seen a fire in the sky with a tail like a comet. Ogilvy answered several questions, always returning to the same point: it was a meteorite, and the heat was natural.

By half-past ten a number of boys had climbed the opposite bank for a better view. Some men were trying to make a path down through the reeds, but Ogilvy warned them away from the edge. The steam continued to rise, though less heavily than before. Now and then the water gave a small, sharp hiss where it lapped against the hot surface. The object itself did not move. It lay there, dark and silent, with the pool closing round it.

My wife had said little since the labourer burned his hand. She stood with her parasol held close against her shoulder, watching the men gather at the rim and the boys scramble over the banks. The day had grown warm, and the vapour made the air close. When I asked her if she wished to return, she said that she would wait a little longer. I knew that she was reluctant to leave me, but I was uneasy at the crowd’s growing press and at the heedless curiosity of those who came nearer each minute.

As the sun climbed towards noon, the road from Ottershaw brought a fresh stream of people. Some came in carts, and others on foot, calling to their friends as they approached. Ogilvy had moved to a higher part of the bank, where he could keep the crowd back and answer those who asked him what had happened. He still spoke of a meteorite. I had begun to think that there was more in his explanation than I had allowed, but the strange regularity of the thing remained in my mind.

I turned to my wife and told her that she ought to go home. She looked at me with a frown.

“You have been here all morning,” she said. “Why should I go?”

“Because this crowd is growing, and the heat is not gone. There is nothing more for us to learn by standing here.”

She glanced towards the pool. The people on the bank had edged closer again, though Ogilvy was warning them away. I told her that I would follow before long. At last she yielded, and we walked together up the slope to the lane. She went on towards Ottershaw, looking back once before the bend hid her from me.

I stayed where I was, above the rim of the pit, among the restless crowd. The sun stood high over the fields, and the steam lifted in a thinner veil from the dark body in the water.

For some moments after Mr. Franklin Blake had plumped down beside me, I was too much put about by the suddenness of his arrival to remember that I had come out to fetch Rosanna. When a young gentleman gives you a hug that squeezes the breath out of your body, and then asks whether you know him, you are apt to forget other matters, even if they happen to be matters of life and death. I got up at last, with his help, and looked after the grey cloak among the sandhills.

“She is gone,” I said.

“Who is gone?”

“Rosanna, sir. The girl who was sitting here with me.”

“I saw her go,” says Mr. Franklin. “I hope I did not frighten her.”

It was an odd question, and one which I might have thought twice about, if I had not been taken up at the moment with my own legs, which were not at all pleased with the business of getting me upright on the beach. I answered that I had no reason to suppose he had frightened her, and then recollected that I had been sent out to bring the poor girl in to dinner.

“I must go after her,” I said.

“Pray don’t,” says Mr. Franklin. “You shall have me instead. And, as I owe you seven-and-sixpence, you may charge my dinner against the debt.”

I had to laugh at that. He had not changed, in the least, since the last time he had visited us. The way in which he took hold of people, and the way in which people let him take hold of them, were both the same. As for Rosanna, she was out of our thoughts again as completely as if the sea had carried her off. My dear reader, you will find that people can be very careless of a poor woman’s feelings, without meaning to be unkind. Mr. Franklin and I were both careless in that way, and both had a good deal to learn.

We set off towards the house. He walked beside me with his hands in his pockets, looking about him at the familiar place as if he had not seen it for years. I asked him how he had got on with his journey, and he said, “Very well, Betteredge, very well.” Then, after walking a little farther, he turned to me and said:

“You will be wondering why I have come four hours before I was expected.”

“I was wondering, sir,” I answered, “how you came to be here at all before the time appointed.”

“Here is the reason.”

He took a letter from his pocket and gave it to me. It was addressed to him, in a hand I knew. I asked if he would like me to read it, and he told me to do so. The letter ran as follows:

“Dear Mr. Blake,

“The small sealed packet which accompanies this letter has been placed in my hands by the solicitor of the late Mr. Herncastle. I am requested to put it into your keeping, and to ask that you lodge it tonight in the plate-room at Lady Verinder’s house, where Mr. Betteredge can lock it away until the morning. The solicitor has not informed me of its contents, and his instructions forbid the seal to be broken. He adds that the packet must reach its destination today. Since you wrote to say that you would be travelling to Yorkshire, I send it on to you by the bearer of this letter. The earlier train will serve your purpose, and I advise you to take it.

“Yours faithfully,

“Matthew Bruff.”

That was the letter. I read it twice, to make sure I had got its meaning; and then I gave it back to Mr. Franklin.

“You see, Betteredge,” he said, “I had to come early. The packet must be lodged tonight, and the letter came to me only this morning in London. I was to arrive at the usual hour, and I should have done so if there had been no packet to carry. I took the first train I could catch.”

“Have you any notion, sir, what is in it?”

“No more than you have. It was delivered to me sealed, and I have not touched the seal. The solicitor says nothing of its contents, and Bruff knows nothing. We shall do as we are told and lock it away.”

I looked at the packet. It was small enough to be put in a coat pocket, and it was sealed. That was all I saw, and all I knew about it. There are men who would have asked another question, and men who would have taken the thing in their hands and weighed it, as if a parcel could tell its own story by the balance. I am not one of those men. I was content to know what I had been asked to do.

Mr. Franklin put the packet away again.

“Is my aunt at home?” he asked.

“She is expected back shortly, sir. She and Miss Rachel have been out to lunch.”

We had reached the house by this time, and I led him into the hall. A footman took his hat and gloves. I offered to show him to his room, but he declined, saying he would wait for my lady. He seemed in a cheerful humour, and asked after the house, the servants, and the old garden, which were all familiar subjects to him. He spoke of Paris and Italy, and of the many places he had seen since his last visit, but I took little notice of what he said. I was still thinking of the packet and of the instruction that it must be locked away before night.

While we were speaking, Penelope came into the hall. She looked from me to Mr. Franklin, and made her curtsey.

“Have you seen Rosanna?” I asked her.

“No, father. She has not come back to the house.”

“Where did she go?”

“To Cobb’s Hole, I think. I saw her take the way there when she left the sands. She said she had business with the woman who lives by the harbour.”

This was the only friend Rosanna had in our neighbourhood, as I mentioned before. I asked Penelope whether she had seen the girl herself, and Penelope answered that she had. Rosanna had spoken to her for a moment, then turned towards Cobb’s Hole. I asked if she had appeared upset.

“She was quiet,” said Penelope. “She looked as she often looks.”

That answer did not give me much comfort. But there was nothing to be done except to wait, and there was no use troubling Mr. Franklin with the matter. I told Penelope to let me know the moment Rosanna returned. She promised to do so, and went away.

Mr. Franklin had heard what passed between us.

“Is the girl ill?” he asked.

“She has had fainting-fits now and then, sir. She went out to get some air, and I went to fetch her back. But she has gone to Cobb’s Hole instead.”

He said no more. I was glad of it. It is not for me to say that Mr. Franklin had forgotten Rosanna. I only know that he turned at once to a different subject, and asked me whether my lady had kept her old habit of sitting by the window when she worked. I told him that she had, and he asked after Miss Rachel. I said she was well, so far as I knew, and then stopped there. He had no need to ask where she was. She did not come down to see him, and I saw nothing of her.

My lady returned before long. She came into the hall and gave Mr. Franklin her hand. He kissed it, in his foreign manner, and she received him with a smile. She was glad to see him. I could tell that much without needing to be a close observer. But she had something on her mind, and I saw it in the way she looked at him before she spoke.

“Franklin,” she said, “you must promise me one thing before we go any farther. The Moonstone is not to be discussed under my roof.”

Mr. Franklin’s face changed. He looked at my lady, then at me.

“I promise,” he said.

“I am serious,” she went on. “I will not hear the subject mentioned in this house. I have had enough of it. You will understand me, and you will keep your word.”

“I will,” he answered. “You need not fear that I shall break it.”

She held his hand for a moment, and her manner softened. Then she told him that she hoped he had had a comfortable journey, and asked if he would like something to eat. He said he was hungry enough to eat anything set before him, and my lady gave orders for tea and a light meal to be brought upstairs.

I might have said something about the request to keep the subject from being discussed. I might have asked whether this had anything to do with the packet. But my lady had asked for a promise, and Mr. Franklin had given it. Besides, there are times when a steward’s wisdom consists in holding his tongue. I kept mine, and took the packet from Mr. Franklin when he gave it to me.

“Will you lock it away tonight?” he asked.

“Certainly, sir.”

“And keep the key yourself. I don’t want it disturbed.”

“I will see to it.”

I did not ask again what was in the packet. My lady did not ask either. Mr. Franklin had come four hours early to deliver it, and I had been told to lock it away overnight. That was the whole of my business with it. I took it to the plate-room and put it in a drawer, where it would be safe until morning. Then I locked the drawer and put the key in my pocket.

When I went back to the house, Mr. Franklin had gone up to his room to change. My lady was in her own sitting-room. She asked me if the packet had been secured, and I told her that it had. She said nothing more about it. She had given me her confidence, and I had been in her service too long to require every reason for every order.

Tea was served later. Mr. Franklin came down in a fresh coat, and my lady sat with him. I remained in attendance, as was my duty, and heard them speak of ordinary things. They spoke of his travels, of the weather, of a new book, and of people they both knew. My lady was quiet at first, but she grew more at ease as the evening went on. Once or twice Mr. Franklin seemed about to speak of something else, and then checked himself. My lady noticed it, and gave him a look. He smiled and turned the talk to another matter.

Miss Rachel did not come downstairs. I was told that she was resting, and I did not go to her room. That is all I can say of her at this part of my story. She was in the house, but not in the room with us.

At six o’clock I went to the plate-room and tried the lock. It held fast. The packet remained where I had put it. I took the key out of my pocket, tried it once more, and then put it back. There are some men who would have been uneasy with a sealed thing in their care. I confess I was not. My duty was to keep it safe until morning, and I could do that without making a mystery of it.

The hour after dinner was a quiet one. Mr. Franklin walked in the garden with my lady. I stayed in the house and went through the small matters which belong to a steward’s day. When I had finished, I looked out from the window towards the drive, thinking Rosanna might be coming back from Cobb’s Hole. I saw no one. Penelope came to me a little later and said that Rosanna had not returned. I told her to leave a light in the servants’ hall and to keep the door unlatched until the rest of the household had gone to bed.

“You think she will come back tonight?” Penelope asked.

“I hope so,” I said. “There’s no good in making trouble before we know there is trouble.”

Penelope was not satisfied with my answer, but she went about the business as I had ordered. I could see that she was worried for Rosanna, and I did not blame her. She had always been kind to the girl, in a quiet way of her own.

It was late when I went to my room. I had my beehive chair, and my book. No Englishman should be without Robinson Crusoe. He is company for the lonely, a comfort for the troubled, and a steady friend to an old man who has had enough of other people’s nonsense. I settled myself in my chair and opened the book where I had left it. The house was still. I could hear a clock ticking, and now and then the faint sound of a servant moving in the rooms below.

Before I began to read, I listened for the sound of Rosanna’s step. It did not come. I thought of the girl on the sands, and of the way she had spoken about the quicksand and the grave she fancied it was keeping for her. Then I thought of the packet locked in the plate-room, and of Mr. Franklin’s early arrival. I told myself that a sensible man ought not to make a mystery out of two common things, merely because they had happened on the same day.

So I turned to Robinson Crusoe. The packet was locked away, the key was in my pocket, and Rosanna had not come back to the house. I read a page, and then another, and after a while I forgot the day’s troubles, as I have often done before, in the company of that excellent man.