The Chapters

When Mary woke it was because the train had begun to slow and there was a grinding of brakes that jolted her from sleep. She opened her eyes to find the carriage quite still and Mrs. Medlock gathering up her things with brisk, purposeful movements. Through the window Mary could see a platform and a station building, and the gray light of late afternoon or early evening. The rain had stopped, but everything looked wet and cold.

"Come along," said Mrs. Medlock. "We've not got all day. He'll be waiting."

Mary was startled. "Mr. Craven?"

"Of course, Mr. Craven," said Mrs. Medlock, as if the idea that it might be anyone else was ridiculous. Mary had half-expected him not to come himself—Mrs. Medlock had made it sound as though he never did anything that required him to leave his West Wing. But here she was being told that he was waiting, and she felt a small, uncomfortable sensation that she might have called nervousness if she had been a girl who admitted to such things.

She gathered her own things and followed Mrs. Medlock from the carriage, stepping onto the platform with her head held stiffly up, as if she did not care whether he was there or not.

And there he was.

He stood some distance away, a tall man with a noticeable peculiarity in his bearing that Mary understood at once must be the crooked back Basil had spoken of with such scorn. He was dressed entirely in dark clothes and his face was thin and stern. He was looking at Mary, but his expression did not change, and he did not smile. For a moment the two of them regarded each other across the platform—the small, plain, yellow-faced girl and the man who was her guardian.

"You are Mary," he said. It was not a question, merely a statement.

"Yes, sir," said Mary.

He did not ask her how her journey had been, or whether she was tired, or offer her any greeting beyond this bare acknowledgment of her existence. Instead, he turned to Mrs. Medlock.

"The carriage is waiting," he said. "It is a long drive."

"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Medlock, and she bustled about with the trunks and bags, directing a porter with the sharp efficiency of a woman who was used to managing things.

Mr. Craven did not offer Mary his hand, nor did he walk with her to the carriage. He kept apart from her as if he had business of his own, and Mary was left to follow where she would. It was precisely the sort of treatment that should have made her angry, and yet there was something in the manner of it that intrigued her. Nobody had ever been indifferent to her in quite this way. Even her parents had at least noticed her enough to have her removed from their presence. But Mr. Archibald Craven seemed scarcely to notice her at all.

The carriage was an old-fashioned one, drawn by two dark horses. Mr. Craven sat opposite Mary and Mrs. Medlock, and he had brought a book with him, which he read with great absorption during the first part of the journey. He did not speak, and neither Mary nor Mrs. Medlock ventured to break the silence, although Mrs. Medlock glanced at him rather nervously from time to time. Mary, for her part, watched the landscape passing outside the window. The country was becoming wilder and more open. The fields gave way to moorland, and the moorland stretched away in all directions, rolling and empty and vast. The sky was darkening as the sun descended, and the light took on a peculiar quality that made everything look both more real and more like something from a dream.

The carriage had been traveling for perhaps an hour when suddenly it lurched and slowed. There was a grinding of brakes and the sound of Mr. Craven calling up to the driver in a sharp voice.

"What is it? Why have we stopped?"

Mary felt the carriage come to a complete halt. Mrs. Medlock leaned forward, frowning.

"There's something in the road, sir," called the driver. "I can't make it out clearly—there's not light enough. I daren't drive on without knowing what it is."

Mr. Craven set down his book with an irritated movement and got out of the carriage. After a moment, Mrs. Medlock followed him. Mary sat alone in the interior, watching the shadows deepen. She could hear voices outside, but could not make out what they were saying. Then, almost without knowing why she did so, she opened the carriage door and got out.

The moor opened around her, vast and wild and indifferent. It was not quite dark, but the light was failing rapidly, and in the half-darkness the moorland looked enormous and strange. The wind was blowing across it—a cold wind that carried no smell of trees or flowers, but only of space and distance. Mary stood on the hard road and felt the wind on her face and on her thin little black-gloved hands. It was unlike anything she had ever felt in India. It was cold and clean and it made her feel, for just a moment, as if she might be the only person left alive in all the world.

"There's nothing we can do for it," Mr. Craven was saying to the driver. "It's got itself stuck in the rut. We'll have to go around."

It was then that Mr. Craven saw Mary standing there on the road. His expression did not change, but he looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, "Get back in the carriage. You will catch cold."

His voice was not kind, but it was not unkind either. It was simply indifferent, as if whether she caught cold or not was a matter of complete indifference to him. Mary returned to the carriage without speaking, and the carriage began to move again, going carefully around the obstruction in the road. Through the window, as they passed it, Mary could see that it was a sheep, apparently quite dead or dying, that had gotten itself caught in a drainage ditch.

The rest of the journey passed in darkness. Mary could see nothing of the landscape now, only the occasional glimmer of the carriage lanterns on the darkness ahead. She found herself drowsy, though not quite asleep, and when the carriage finally slowed and began to turn, she was not certain whether she had been conscious the whole time or had drifted off.

The carriage came to a stop. Through the window, Mary could make out a vast dark shape that she understood must be the house. It rose up against the night sky like something out of one of the stories she had read—a great stone structure with many windows, most of them dark. The wind was still blowing, and somewhere in the darkness a door banged, as if in response to it.

Mr. Craven got out without waiting for Mrs. Medlock or Mary. A servant appeared with a lantern, and there was a brief exchange of words before he disappeared into the house. Mrs. Medlock helped Mary from the carriage.

"Come along," said Mrs. Medlock. "You'll be shown to your room. Your supper is being brought up."

They entered the house through a high doorway into a large hall that seemed to stretch upward into darkness. A narrow staircase led upward, and Mrs. Medlock took Mary up it, through a corridor, and into a small bedroom. A fire had been lit in the grate, and the room was cold but not unbearably so. Mary's trunk had somehow arrived already and was standing at the foot of the bed. Mrs. Medlock showed her where the water pitcher was, the chamber-pot, the towels.

"I'll leave you to settle yourself," said Mrs. Medlock. "Your supper will be brought up presently. There's a bell by the bed if you need anything. Mind you, you're not to go wandering about the house. Mr. Craven won't have it. There are certain rooms you can use, and you'll be told about those in the morning. For now, you stay in this room or in the schoolroom, which is just down the corridor on the left."

And with that she left Mary alone.

Mary looked about the room. It was furnished in an old-fashioned way, with heavy pieces of dark wood. There was a window, but the curtains were drawn. After a few moments of standing still, she sat down on the edge of the bed. She had expected to feel something—sadness, perhaps, or anger, or fear. But she felt only a kind of dull curiosity. This was where she was going to live, then. This cold room in this large, strange house on the edge of the moor.

Presently there came a knock at the door. Before Mary could answer, a man entered—a young man in a servant's livery, carrying a tray with her supper. He set it down on a small table near the fire.

"Nay, you'll want summat warm on a neet like this," he said, and his accent was so thick and his words so alien that Mary had scarcely any idea what he had said. He gestured toward a plate of soup that steamed on the tray. "Best get that down thee while it's hot."

Mary stared at him. "I don't understand you," she said.

He looked rather surprised. "Eh?" he said. "Not understand? I'm speakin' plain Yorkshire, I am. That's how we talk hereabouts. You'll get used to it, like enough."

"I cannot understand a word you are saying," said Mary coldly.

"Well, there's a to-do," he said, and he seemed to find it rather amusing. He pointed to the tray. "Supper," he said, slowly and distinctly, as if speaking to someone very stupid. "You eat. Warm. Hot. Understand?"

Mary understood that much, at least. She nodded curtly, and the young man left, and she heard him laughing in the corridor outside.

She ate some of the soup, which was hot and rather good, though thicker than anything she had eaten in India. There was bread and cheese and an apple as well. She ate mechanically, her mind elsewhere. After she had finished, she lay down on the bed, still in her black dress, and waited for sleep.

But sleep did not come easily. The house was full of sounds—small creaks and groans, the wind rattling the windows, the distant sound of something that might have been a door slamming or might have been something else entirely. She lay in the darkness and listened to these sounds, and they seemed to her to be the sounds of something alive, something that was aware of her presence.

Then, distinctly, she heard a sound that was different from the others. It was a low, wailing sound, sad and strange, that seemed to come from somewhere above her in the house. It lasted only a moment, and then it was gone.

Mary's eyes opened in the darkness. She lay still, listening intently, but the sound did not come again.

There were footsteps in the corridor, and then Mrs. Medlock's voice: "You needn't mind about that. It's only the wind."

Only the wind. But Mary did not think it sounded like the wind. It had sounded almost like—but she could not think what it had sounded like. She lay in the darkness for a long time, listening, waiting to see if the sound would come again. But it did not.

Mary lay on her back and stared at the invisible ceiling. She had come to Misselthwaite Manor on a dark October evening with nothing but the clothes she was wearing and a trunk full of black dresses. She had been left alone in an enormous house full of locked doors. Her guardian had barely spoken to her. The servants spoke a language she could not understand. And now, lying in her narrow bed in the cold and the dark, she had heard a sound that Mrs. Medlock insisted was the wind, though it had not sounded like any wind at all.

She did not know why, but she meant to find out what it was.

The morning following this uncomfortable conference, Mr Shepherd made his appearance at Kellynch Hall with the manner of a professional man who had given the matter his deliberate consideration. Sir Walter, whose temper had not been improved by a night's reflection, received him with a coldness that might have discouraged a less determined advisor.

"I have given this business considerable thought," Mr Shepherd began, taking a seat at the edge of a chair with the deference befitting his position. "The difficulties we face are not, I confess, of an insurmountable nature, but they require decisive action."

"Pray, proceed," said Sir Walter, though his tone suggested he was in no mood to receive unwelcome counsel.

"I would propose, sir, that you might dispose of the London house for the present season. A considerable saving might be achieved, as your expenses there are not insubstantial, and such an economy would scarcely be remarked upon. Many gentlemen of considerable rank maintain their London residences only seasonally."

Sir Walter's countenance grew dark. "Dispose of my London house? And what would people say? That Sir Walter Elliot had suffered such reverses as to require—" He paused, collecting himself. "No, Mr Shepherd. No such thing can be contemplated."

Mr Shepherd, emboldened by the practice of many years in delivering unpalatable truths, pressed onward. "Then perhaps, sir, a reduction in your establishment at Kellynch itself. A smaller household, fewer servants—"

"My household," said Sir Walter, with finality, "is maintained at precisely the level required by my station. I will not have the neighbourhood remark upon diminishments in my domestic arrangements. Any such change would be construed as a want of means, which is not the case. Whatever temporary embarrassments may present themselves, they do not represent any real necessity for such measures."

Mr Shepherd rose, understanding that the wall of Sir Walter's vanity could not be breached by reason. "I shall give the matter further consideration, sir," said he, and withdrew, leaving behind an impression of professional competence encountering an immovable object.

By the afternoon, Lady Russell had come, as was her custom, to take tea. She had clearly prepared herself with considered counsel of her own, and upon Elizabeth's withdrawal—which Anne perceived to be a deliberate contrivance—Lady Russell began to speak with that steady composure which was always her strength.

"I have been reflecting upon your present circumstances, Sir Walter," said she, "and I believe I have perceived a method by which your expenses might be reduced without any diminishment of your proper consequence."

Sir Walter looked up from his newspaper with a mixture of hope and apprehension.

"The Kellynch estate," continued Lady Russell, "is, perhaps, larger than necessary for a gentleman and his unmarried daughter. You might let one wing—I speak of a respectable arrangement, not a shutting of rooms, which gives an appearance of diminishment. One wing might be occupied by a respectable family of moderate means, the rooms would be kept in proper use, and to the world it would appear merely that you had chosen to extend the hospitality of your house to neighbouring acquaintances."

Sir Walter listened with increasing displeasure. "You suggest, Lady Russell, that I convert my ancestral seat into lodgings? I confess I am surprised. I had expected better counsel from you."

"I mean no offence, sir," said Lady Russell quietly. "I merely propose what has been done in other great houses—a practical accommodation that preserves rather than compromises dignity."

"It compromises it entirely," returned Sir Walter firmly. "Kellynch Hall is not an inn, Lady Russell, nor shall it become one whilst I have any say in its management. I appreciate your concern, but this scheme is quite impossible."

Lady Russell did not press the matter further. She returned to her tea with composed countenance, though Anne, who loved her, perceived the disappointment she bore with graceful resignation.

It was during dinner that evening that the conversation turned again to the family's difficulties. Elizabeth had arranged an informal meal for their most intimate friends—Lady Russell, and several other ladies of the neighbourhood. Sir Walter had determined they should dine as a party of ladies, which he affected to regard as no hardship given the pleasure afforded by his own society.

As the covers were being removed, Elizabeth, in that careful manner she employed when venturing upon delicate matters, raised the subject anew. "Father, I have been considering the proposals put before you this day. Neither Mr Shepherd's suggestion nor Lady Russell's has found favour with you, and yet something must be done. I have been thinking further upon what retrenchments might be possible."

Sir Walter set down his wine. "And what have you concluded, my dear?"

"That we must be more severe in our economies than either has yet proposed," said Elizabeth. "Perhaps if we were to—"

But Anne, who had been sitting quietly and observing, found herself impelled to speak. It was rare for her voice to make itself heard in such gatherings, rarer still for her to propose anything in contradiction to her father and sister. Yet the weight of the situation pressed upon her conscience with such force that silence became impossible.

"If I may venture to speak, sir," said Anne, her voice steady though her cheeks flushed with the effort of asserting herself, "I believe the matter admits of a clear solution. We might close the London house entirely—not let it, but simply close it. The annual expense of its maintenance must be considerable. We might reduce the household staff to the minimum required for the proper maintenance of Kellynch. We might curtail our expenditure upon entertainments, and defer any improvements to the house and grounds which are not essential to its preservation. We might cease our annual visit to Bath, and remain at Kellynch through the autumn. These measures, combined, would constitute a saving of perhaps three or four hundred pounds annually, which, though perhaps not the whole of what is required, would represent a significant beginning."

The room fell silent. Sir Walter stared at his youngest daughter as though she had spoken in a foreign tongue. Elizabeth's expression shifted through surprise, calculation, and finally—unmistakably—assent.

"Anne is quite right," said Elizabeth slowly. "Indeed, my thoughts were moving in a similar direction, though I did not perceive it so clearly. If we are to economise at all, we should do it thoroughly. A closed London house occasions less remark than a reduced household there. The deferral of improvements is sensible. And as for Bath—" she paused, and Anne saw that her sister was acknowledging an uncomfortable truth. "As for Bath, we might spend the season here instead."

"Elizabeth!" said Sir Walter, alarm entering his voice. "You cannot seriously suggest—"

"I suggest only, father," said Elizabeth, with a firmness that surprised everyone assembled, "that if measures must be taken, they should be measures which accomplish something. Trifling economies will answer nothing. Anne has put the matter with admirable clarity."

Lady Russell, observing the exchange with evident satisfaction, ventured to remark: "Your daughter speaks with good sense, Sir Walter. There is no shame in a temporary retrenchment undertaken for reasons of prudent management. Indeed, the world regards such actions as evidence of good judgement."

But Sir Walter was not to be reconciled by appeals to prudent management or the world's regard. He rose from the table. "You propose, in effect, that I should retire into obscurity—that the house which has been the seat of my family for generations should become the prison of my economies. It is intolerable. I will not have the matter spoken of further this evening."

He withdrew to his study, and the ladies endeavoured to restore the conversation to lighter subjects, though the ease of the gathering had been entirely destroyed.

It was some time later that Mr Shepherd appeared, having been waiting in the hall on business of some urgency. He looked discomposed as he was shown into the drawing room.

"Mr Shepherd," said Elizabeth, "I was not aware you had come this evening."

"I have received a communication," said Mr Shepherd carefully, "which I thought your father should hear at once. There is a gentleman, a man of considerable fortune in this county, who has made certain enquiries. His agent has suggested—that is to say, he has expressed an interest in—" Mr Shepherd hesitated, choosing his words with evident care, "—in a temporary arrangement regarding Kellynch Hall."

"What manner of arrangement?" asked Elizabeth.

"He has indicated, ma'am, a willingness to lease the house. For a period of time. A respectable gentleman of unexceptionable character and considerable means—"

"You mean to let Kellynch Hall to a tenant?" said Elizabeth.

At this moment, Sir Walter emerged from his study, having heard the fatal word. His expression was terrible in its anger.

"I heard you, Mr Shepherd," said he, his voice cold and cutting. "That word—the word you have just uttered—is never again to be spoken in my presence. Never. Do you understand me? Not here, not in your office, not in any communication between us. The Kellynch estate is not, under any circumstance whatsoever, to be let to any person. That word is forbidden you in my presence. Forbidden entirely. Now, you will abandon this subject and leave it."

Mr Shepherd bowed and departed, bearing with him the weight of a rebuke that would not soon be forgotten. Sir Walter returned to his study and closed the door with sufficient force to silence all further conversation.

The evening concluded without any animation. The guests took their leave, Elizabeth retired to her chamber, and Anne found herself alone in the small sitting room which had become her own. The business of the day had quite exhausted her; she had spoken where she rarely spoke, had seen her words accepted and immediately made a source of contention, and had witnessed her father's refusal to contemplate anything that might ameliorate their circumstances.

Her thoughts turned to Mary. A letter had arrived by the afternoon post, and Anne had not yet read it, though she knew its tenor well enough before breaking the seal. Mary was not one to endure discomfort without making her situation known to all who might remedy it. The letter spoke of settled pain, of headaches she could not shake off, of the rigours of managing the household at Uppercross being beyond her present strength. "I know that Anne alone understands what is required," wrote Mary in her injured manner, "and I should be greatly relieved to have you with me for a time. Surely your father can spare you, for I am certain that Elizabeth and he can contrive without you very well."

Anne folded the letter slowly, and her resolution, which had been wavering throughout the day, crystallized into certainty. She would go to Uppercross. Whatever embarrassments must be faced at Kellynch, whatever means might be found to address the family's difficulties, she could be of service to Mary. The events of this evening—when she had spoken her mind only to have her words accepted and immediately made a source of contention—had created in her a strong inclination to remove herself from Kellynch for a time.

She sat in the quiet room as the evening deepened into night, the question of her family's financial difficulties still entirely unsettled, her own heart filled with the determination to go to Mary.

"Help me up, boy, help me up!" says I, though there was not much boyishness left about Mr. Franklin Blake at five-and-twenty, I can assure you. He pulled me on to my legs with a strength that surprised me—there being considerable weight to an old man of my years, who has spent the better part of seventy years getting comfortable with the sand beneath him—and then fell to laughing at the difficulty of the operation.

"Four hours before we were expected, sir!" I said, brushing the sand from my waistcoat with what dignity I could manage. "You must have had good reason for pushing yourself along at such a rate, and by what looks like an express train at that."

His face grew serious all of a sudden, which was not at all his usual manner. Mr. Franklin is generally a gay young gentleman, full of foreign notions and Continental ease; but at that moment, I saw something in his expression that reminded me he was, after all, of the Verinder blood, and therefore capable of looking grave when the occasion required it.

"The best of reasons, old Betteredge," says he. "I had a letter that reached me in London yesterday—a letter that sent me posting down here by the earliest train. Come along, and I'll show it to you on the way back to the house. We have a good deal to talk of, and precious little time to talk it in."

We made our way back through the plantation, taking the path we had come by, and I confess I was consumed with a curiosity such as I had not felt in many years. The tone of Mr. Franklin's voice told me it was no ordinary matter that had brought him down to Yorkshire with such haste. My mind, trained by long years of service, began to construct theories about what this mysterious letter might contain. But I kept my thoughts to myself, knowing that Mr. Franklin would explain when the time came.

When we reached the house, he took me into the little room behind the hall—a small study where my lady sometimes sat to write her letters, and where we could be private from the curious ears of the servants. He closed the door carefully behind us, and then drew from his coat pocket a letter, which he handed to me with a serious expression that I did not like to see on the face of a young gentleman.

"Read that, Betteredge," says he. "It came to my lodgings in town three days ago. I don't know the hand, but the postmark is Yorkshire, and the matter of it—well, the matter of it made me abandon all my engagements and come straight down."

I took the letter from him, and my old eyes read it thus:

*London. May 25th.*

*Sir,*

*You will not know me, nor am I at liberty to make myself known. But I have had the good fortune to be made aware of certain circumstances which, if they should come to pass at the house in Yorkshire, would prove a source of great danger and distress to your aunt and her family. It is essential that you should return home as soon as possible—if possible, without waiting for the day appointed. The matters which concern us cannot be discussed by post, but I assure you, on my honour, that I am one whose warning you may safely regard. Come as quickly as you can. Precautions must be taken, and there is no time to be lost.*

*Your obedient servant,*

*J. BRUFF*

*Attorney-at-Law*

When I had finished reading, I gave the letter back to Mr. Franklin with considerable agitation in my mind. You will understand, I think, that an attorney-at-law is not a man to send off letters on a whim or a fancy. Mr. Bruff was a most respectable man of business, known to my lady these thirty years, and a cautious correspondent if ever there was one. But what these "certain circumstances" might be, and what "danger and distress" could threaten my lady and Miss Rachel, was more than I could make out, however hard I applied myself to the problem.

"This is a serious business, sir," I said. "Has Mr. Bruff given you any indication of what he means by these guarded phrases?"

"Not a word," says Mr. Franklin, folding the letter back into his pocket with a frown. "That's what troubled me so. The man clearly thought his letter might be intercepted, so he wrote in this careful fashion. But mark this, Betteredge—*I* understand what he's warning me about. And you, I think, from the questions I asked you this afternoon about the Indians and their tricks."

"The Moonstone, sir?" I ventured, lowering my voice as if the very walls might be listening.

"Precisely," says he. "Though we must not speak of it too openly, and you must be on your guard about it in this house, for reasons I shall explain presently. My uncle Herncastle made very many enemies when he took that diamond from India, and some of those enemies have long memories. Bruff's letter tells me that certain persons—certain *foreign* persons, if you take my meaning—have been making inquiries in London. Whether they mean to come here themselves, or whether they mean something else entirely, we cannot yet know. But Bruff clearly thinks that precautions of some sort are necessary."

Here Mr. Franklin drew something from an inner pocket—a small packet, sealed securely with wax, done up very neatly and tightly. It was not more than four inches in length and perhaps two inches in breadth, and I could not make the least guess at what might be inside it, though my curiosity was naturally aroused to the highest pitch.

"I want you to do something for me, Betteredge," says he, and his voice had taken on a note of seriousness that I had not heard in it before, "and I want you to do it without asking questions—any questions at all, mind you. This packet must be locked away tonight, safely out of sight, in the plate-room. I will give you the key myself, and you are to let no one—*no one at all*, not even my aunt if she should ask for it—have access to it. Can I trust you to do this?"

"You can trust me with your life, sir," says I, taking the packet from him and feeling the weight of it in my palm. It was surprisingly heavy for its size, though whether that was because of what was inside it or merely the nature of the wrapping, I could not say. "And I'll lock it away as safely as if it were the Crown Jewels themselves—indeed, sir, I'll be more careful with it than I would be with the Crown Jewels, seeing as you have put your trust in me."

I will not pretend to you, reader, that my curiosity was not wonderfully stirred by this mysterious packet. All the novel-reading habits of my seventy years, all the hours spent with Robinson Crusoe and his extraordinary adventures, had given me something of a turn for mystery and intrigue. I could not help but speculate on what might be contained within that sealed envelope—was it money? Was it documents? Was it something else entirely? But Mr. Franklin had asked me not to ask questions, and his tone made it clear that this was a matter of some importance and delicacy. A man who has served in a household for forty-odd years learns the value of discretion, or he learns nothing at all.

We were still in this private room, Mr. Franklin explaining further some of the precautions we should take, when there came a knock upon the door. I knew by the particular character of that knock that it was my daughter Penelope. She has a way of knocking, you see, that tells you what she is thinking about before she even opens her mouth.

"Father?" came her voice from beyond the door. "Are you there?"

"Come in, Penny," says I.

She entered, and I saw at once from her face that something had occurred to disturb her. When a young woman's complexion loses its cheerfulness, and her eyes show signs of concern, there is generally a reason for it.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's Rosanna, Father," says Penelope, with a look of genuine worry on her young face. "She's not come back to the house. Nancy says she went out this morning as usual, but she's not been seen since you went to fetch her from the beach. I've looked everywhere—in the servants' hall, in the wash-house, in the still-room, even in the linen closet where she sometimes goes to be alone. She's not come back."

Mr. Franklin was by my side at once, his expression growing more serious still. "When was she last seen?" he asked.

"On the beach, sir, this afternoon," says Penelope. "My father found her there—she left soon after he did. But it's been hours now, and dinner was called ever so long ago. I'm afraid something's happened to her, Father. What if she's taken ill again? What if she's fallen on the beach somewhere?"

My mind flew back to that conversation on the sands, to Rosanna's strange talk of graves waiting for her and spells that the Shivering Sand had laid upon her. But I kept these darker thoughts to myself, for there was no use in alarming Penelope further. I spoke to her with more cheerfulness than I felt in my heart.

"She's most likely gone to Cobb's Hole, my dear," I said. "You know how she takes these turns, poor soul. She probably felt the need for her friend's company and didn't think to tell anyone. She'll come back when she's had her time to herself."

"But Father," says Penelope, "it's growing dark. Surely she wouldn't stay out after dark?"

"Have you told your mistress?" I asked.

"Not yet, Father. I thought I'd tell you first, and see what you thought we ought to do."

"Then leave it for now," says I. "The young lady is not to be troubled with trifles, and trifles are what we have here—most likely, at any rate. If Rosanna hasn't come back by supper-time, or if she's not back by the time the house settles for the night, then we'll send to Cobb's Hole after her. But there's no use in raising an alarm when there's most likely a simple explanation. Go along now, Penny, and say nothing to the other servants. You know how gossip runs through this house like water through a sieve."

When my daughter had left us, Mr. Franklin turned to me with a question in his eyes, and I could see that he was troubled by what he had heard. But before he could speak, there came a knock at the outer door—a knock that spoke of formal business and proper conduct—and I understood that my lady was ready to receive her nephew.

"You go, sir," says I. "And mind you—not a word about the packet to anyone, under any circumstances."

Mr. Franklin nodded, and straightened his jacket, and went out to greet his aunt. I made my way to the plate-room with the sealed packet in my hand, and there, in the locked drawer where we keep the silver candlesticks and the best forks and all the valuables of the household, I secured the mystery away, turning the key and putting it in my pocket, where it seemed to weigh as heavy as a stone.

I learned later from Penelope—who has a way of learning things that would surprise most people, and who can pick up the details of what passes in my lady's sitting-room from the servants who come and go—that when Mr. Franklin came into his aunt's presence, my lady greeted him with great affection, as was only natural, she being fond of the young man and not having seen him for some months. But she also spoke to him very seriously about a certain matter, and made him promise, on his word as a gentleman, that while he was in her house, he would not pursue or discuss—the very words Penelope reported—"any inquiries or conversations concerning *certain unfortunate circumstances* that have brought you home in haste." To this Mr. Franklin agreed, and promised faithfully to respect his aunt's wishes on the matter.

I confess I was relieved to hear this arrangement, for there was safety in it for all of us. My lady had clearly guessed something of what was troubling her nephew, or had been told by Mr. Bruff himself, and she had taken the proper precautions to keep the subject from the ears of the servants and from disturbing the peace of the household.

Well, the evening came on, as evening does, with the darkness gathering in at the windows and the servants bringing up the lamps. I took my place in my beehive chair by the kitchen fire—for the nights, even in May, had a chill to them that made the warmth welcome—and I settled myself with Robinson Crusoe, a book that has been my companion these forty years and more, and a better friend no man ever had in all his life. The servants had finished their supper, and the house had fallen into that quiet state that comes after the day's work is done and the people in it have dispersed to their own rooms and their own thoughts.

But I could not quite settle my mind to my reading, if you will believe me. My thoughts kept wandering from the adventures of that admirable man on his island, and returning again and again to Rosanna Spearman—poor, lonely, troubled Rosanna—out somewhere in the darkness, either at Cobb's Hole with her friend or wandering heaven knows where along the Yorkshire coast. I kept thinking of her words on the sands—"I think my grave is waiting for me here." I kept thinking of that strange, unaccountable blush when she saw Mr. Franklin coming toward us, and the way she had fled from us into the sandhills without a word or a curtsey.

It was past ten o'clock when I heard the servants begin to come up from wherever they had been spending their evening. But Rosanna was not among them. Penelope came to me again, worried and pale, and asked if I thought we ought to send to Cobb's Hole tonight, or wait until morning. But it was late, and the night was dark, and there was nothing to be done until morning—or so I told myself, though I was not as confident as my words.

"She'll come back, my dear," I said to Penelope, though I was not as certain as my tone suggested. "Poor soul, she'll come back when she's ready."

But as I sat there in my beehive chair, with Robinson Crusoe unopened on my lap, and the sealed packet locked away in the plate-room upstairs with its key heavy in my pocket, I could not entirely shake off a feeling of foreboding. The day had brought mysteries enough—Mr. Franklin's early arrival, the guarded letter from Mr. Bruff, the sealed packet with its unknown contents, and my lady's forbidding any discussion of "certain unfortunate circumstances." And now Rosanna Spearman had vanished into the night, and the house felt uneasy, as if waiting for something to happen.

What that something might be, I could not say. But I knew in my old bones that the events which my lady and Mr. Bruff feared had already begun to unfold, and that the calm of the Yorkshire coast, and the peace of our household, were about to be broken by troubles such as we had never known before.

The walk back from the beach was conducted in easy silence, for the most part, though the younger children chattered and laughed, and the Pontellier boys made what noise and commotion children will make in their endless, purposeless activity. Robert carried the littlest of Madame Ratignolle's offspring, a girl of perhaps three years, whose small arms wound trustingly about his neck. The nurses followed, their resignation to the demands of the young having ripened into indifference. Mrs. Pontellier walked some distance behind, one hand held by her younger boy, her thoughts—insofar as one could discern from her air—still partly occupied by the sight of the water and the sea-breeze that had so agreeably disheveled her person.

Madame Ratignolle, though she leaned upon Robert's other arm with expressions of weariness that gradually subsided into something more like contentment, found herself disposed to conversation. There was in the young man an easy gallantry which, though it sometimes approached the border of flirtation, was so habitually extended to the ladies of Grand Isle that it provoked neither particular interest nor alarm. Yet on this occasion, as they fell a little behind the slower progress of the children, Madame Ratignolle ventured a remark.

"Mrs. Pontellier seemed very much absorbed this morning," said she, glancing back as though to verify her observation.

"Did she?" replied Robert, without particular emphasis. "I confess I was so occupied with the necessity of extricating myself from the children that I scarcely observed anything."

"Well, she was absorbed. Almost dreamy, I should say. She told me things—" Madame Ratignolle paused, as if considering how much was proper to reveal, "—things about her past that she has never before mentioned, I should think. There is something different about her this summer."

"Different in what way?" asked Robert, though his tone suggested the question was asked chiefly to be courteous.

"I cannot precisely say. More alive, perhaps. Less constrained. As though she were—" Madame Ratignolle struggled for the word, "—awakening."

Robert did not respond immediately. They walked a few paces further, the sound of the children's voices drifting back to them on the warm air. "Mrs. Pontellier is a woman of considerable depths," he said at last, in a tone which, had one been listening carefully, might have suggested that he had thought rather more about the matter than his previous answers would have implied. "The summer has been good for her."

It was a remark of no great consequence in itself, but it would return to Edna in the course of the afternoon through her friend's innocent repetition of it, and it would strike her with a force altogether disproportionate to its words, for it seemed to contain an observation that touched upon something she herself had not yet dared to name—something that was stirring, half-formed, within the depths of her consciousness.

Mrs. Pontellier spent the hour after luncheon in her chamber, ostensibly resting, though in fact she was engaged in a state of unusual agitation. A telegram had been received that morning—brought by the messenger boy to Madame Lebrun's desk, thence dispatched to Edna with a sympathetic expression that suggested the older woman understood its probable contents. Edna's husband would not, after all, arrive on Saturday as he had promised. Business demanded his presence in New Orleans; he could not forsake his obligations, though he trusted she was well and happy, and was gratified to think of her enjoying the society of their friends in this healthful retreat.

Edna read the telegram a third time, sitting upon the edge of her bed, and she found herself surprised by the absence of the disappointment she might have expected to feel. A weekend confined to Léonce's exacting presence, to his habits, his requirements, his occasional criticisms of her dress or her manner—a weekend of conforming, of diminishing herself to fit the contours of his expectations—was transformed by his absence into a space of freedom. The guilt attendant upon this realization was brief and not altogether genuine; it flickered and died like a candle flame in the draft from the open window. She set the telegram aside upon her dressing-table, noting with a kind of detached curiosity how little distressed she was by what should have constituted a disappointment.

It was close to three o'clock when, leaving word with the quadroon that she was going to take a turn on the beach, Edna made her way down the path. The day was still warm, though the edge of the midday heat had somewhat lessened. The beach at this hour was nearly deserted, which suited her purpose perfectly. She could see the lady in black at her customary distance, seated upon the porch of a bathhouse, reading as always that book of devotions which seemed never to require turning of pages; that figure of duty and resignation which embodied, to Edna's mind, all that was most oppressive in the conventionality which hemmed in her sex.

The intention which had been forming in Edna's mind, which she had scarcely admitted even to herself, now pressed upon her with a kind of imperative. The night before, in a fit of daring that still seemed to her somewhat unaccountable, she had ventured into the water up to her waist; not true swimming, but wading, with the firm sand beneath her feet and the security of knowing she could return to the shore in a moment. Today, in her solitude, she meant to proceed further. It was reckless, perhaps; it was certainly unconventional. But as she stood regarding the pale green line of the surf, the word that Madame Ratignolle had reported—"awakening"—seemed to echo in her mind, and she felt a resolve form within her that bore little resemblance to her customary, habitual acceptance of limitation.

She went into the bathhouse and, with a kind of furtive haste that would have seemed absurd to her had she stopped to examine it, exchanged her street dress for the swimming costume she kept there. The garment, which she had brought from the city at some dim prompting of purpose she had not understood, now seemed to her a kind of key. She returned to the water's edge, her heart beating with an irregularity that was both fear and excitement.

The water received her. She waded in slowly, feeling the warm gulf against her limbs, feeling the subtle resistance of the current as it pressed against her body. And then, with a sensation that was neither wholly fear nor wholly exhilaration, but rather a compound of both, she pushed off from the sand. She did not swim well—her strokes were irregular, imperfect, the progress uncertain—but she moved through the water with her own effort and her own will. For several minutes, she remained in that suspended state, neither touching the bottom nor sinking, the water bearing her up as she propelled herself forward. It was a sensation unlike anything she had known; the solitude, the effort, the small success of this private accomplishment filled her with a kind of triumph that was almost fierce in its intensity.

When she returned to the shore, breathless and faintly frightened by her own daring, her hair loosened and her limbs trembling, she saw that the lady in black had closed her book and was watching her with an expression of mild interest. That steady, observant gaze had turned toward her, and for the first time since their introduction at the beginning of the season, the woman in black addressed her directly.

"You are braver than most of the ladies at the resort, Mrs. Pontellier," said she, her voice quiet and measured. It was impossible to determine whether her observation contained approval or reproach, or merely the statement of a fact. "I have often thought that the ladies here are insufficiently courageous in the water. They seem to regard it with a species of anxiety that is quite out of proportion to any actual danger."

Edna, still somewhat breathless from her exertion, was surprised both by the address and by the apparent absence of censure in it. She made an effort to compose herself, drawing her shawl more closely about her shoulders. "I have been timid myself," she replied. "Perhaps I have been so for some time without admitting it. But I find the water less fearful than I had supposed."

"Indeed," said the lady in black. "That is often the case when one attempts the thing one fears. The first time is always the most difficult. After that—" she paused, as if considering some memory of her own, "—after that, one becomes accustomed, and finds that one has been foolish in one's trepidations."

Edna made no extended reply, unsure how to respond to this candid assessment. She offered thanks briefly and withdrew to the bathhouse to change her garments, conscious of a strange mixture of emotions—the exultation of her small achievement and a kind of bewilderment at the lady's words, which seemed to contain some reference to experiences beyond the mere swimming in the gulf.

That evening, after the children had been put to bed and the household had settled into the calm of sleep, Edna found herself alone on the gallery of the cottage. The night was warm and still, with the faint sound of the sea reaching up through the darkness, a distant murmur like the memory of something once heard in a dream. She sat in a wicker chair, her hands folded in her lap, her mind turning over the events of the day with a kind of wonder. The telegram from Léonce, the water that had held her up and borne her forward, the lady in black's unexpected words—all of these circled through her thoughts, weaving themselves together into a pattern that she could not quite comprehend.

But it was Robert's remark, as Madame Ratignolle had finally mentioned it over their afternoon coffee, that persisted most particularly, that returned to her with a kind of haunting quality. "Mrs. Pontellier is a woman of considerable depths. The summer has been good for her."

Depths. The word seemed to contain something both flattering and unsettling, something that implied her own nature was not as transparent, not as easily defined, as she had always supposed it to be. She had not known that Robert observed her so closely, or that he had thought to name in her something that she herself had only this day begun to recognize—that slow, irresistible emergence of herself from beneath the calm, conforming surface of her life. She sat in the darkness, turning the words over in her mind like a polished stone, wondering at their origin and their truth, conscious of a kind of trembling that was not induced by any coolness in the air.

I cannot now recall with any precision at what hour I retired that night, so full was my mind of pleasant speculation regarding the phenomena we had witnessed and Ogilvy's reasonable doubts as to their import. My wife, too, seemed in that contented frame of mind which follows upon a satisfactory evening, and we conversed little as we made our way upstairs. I remember remarking to her that the night had been remarkably fine for the season, and she had agreed, adding some trivial observation about the flowers in the garden that I fear I did not adequately attend to.

I had perhaps been asleep for some hours—I should judge around two o'clock in the morning—when I was awakened by a sensation difficult to describe. It was not a sound precisely, though there was a quality to it that suggested a distant roaring, as though the heavens themselves were trembling. My first thought was of thunder, but the night was clear and the air peculiarly still. I rose and went to the window, drawing back the curtains to peer out into the darkness.

What I saw in that moment I have relived in my memory perhaps a thousand times, and yet it retains still the quality of a dream, of something witnessed at the edge of consciousness. A streak of brilliant light, brighter than any star, descended through the black vault of the sky with a velocity that seemed almost to freeze the faculties of comprehension. It was not a slow, graceful arc, as I have since read meteorites sometimes describe, but rather a violent, angry trajectory, leaving behind it a wake of luminescence that hung in the air like the trail of an invisible hand drawn through phosphorescence. The colour was predominantly green, with streaks of burning red at its core, and the whole phenomenon occupied perhaps three seconds of time, though those seconds seemed to stretch indefinitely beneath the weight of significance I somehow sensed.

In that moment, an extraordinary conviction seized me—a knowledge that this was no mere astronomical curiosity, no wandering stone from the vacant spaces between the worlds. This was, in some inexplicable manner, a consequence of those mysterious jets of incandescent gas we had observed through Ogilvy's telescope. I cannot now explain the manner in which this certainty came to possess me. It was as though some dormant faculty, some primitive sense that civilised men have largely lost, had awakened and perceived a truth that my rational mind could not yet articulate.

The streak vanished, and with it went the force of my conviction. I stood alone in the darkness of my bedchamber, uncertain whether I had witnessed a natural phenomenon or been the victim of some trick of my fatigued imagination. Yet I did not return to bed. Instead, I sat in the window seat for the remainder of the night, watching the stars, though I saw nothing more of note before the grey light of dawn began to steal across the eastern sky.

My wife stirred only briefly when I came down to breakfast, and made no remark upon my evident lack of sleep. I was restless throughout the morning, unable to settle to any useful occupation. Around nine o'clock, an impulse came to me to walk toward the river, toward the low grounds between Ottershaw and the next village. I cannot fully justify this inclination—it seemed to come from some source beneath rational thought—but I found myself, within half an hour, having made my excuses and ventured out into the crystalline morning air.

The ground was cool and fresh, and the autumn dew still lay thick upon the grass. I had walked perhaps a mile when I first observed the crowd—or rather, the curious assembly of figures gathered upon the bank of the old flooded gravel pit. There were perhaps a dozen people there, some pointing, others standing in clusters and speaking in low voices. The water of the pit, usually dark and still, was disturbed and churning, and from its surface rose a column of steam that drifted lazily into the morning air.

As I approached, the reality of what I was seeing seemed to crystallise before me. There, lying in the shallow water at the pit's edge, partially submerged and still wreathed in that peculiar steam, was an object of quite extraordinary character. It appeared to be roughly cylindrical, perhaps thirty feet in length, though the water obscured its true dimensions. Its surface was dark, almost black, and seemed to possess a texture that was neither stone nor metal, but something partaking of both qualities. Around its visible portions the water was visibly warm, small ripples radiating from it in concentric circles, and the steam continued to rise steadily, carrying with it a faint, acrid smell that I did not recognise.

I stood transfixed, my earlier conviction returning with redoubled force. The crowd had noticed my approach and parted somewhat to allow me access to the nearer bank. It was at this moment that Ogilvy himself appeared, having been, as I later learned, summoned by telegram from one of the local inhabitants who recognised his standing in astronomical circles.

His face, when he perceived me, registered a mixture of relief and something that might have been exasperation. "I thought I might find you here," he called out, somewhat breathlessly, as he hastened down the slope. "What a remarkable business! The whole countryside is beginning to stir. I should not wonder if the newspapers don't have word of it by this afternoon."

"It is one of them," I said, nodding toward the object in the water. "One of the things they fired at us. From Mars."

Ogilvy's expression shifted entirely. For a moment he stared at me as though I had uttered some manifest absurdity. Then he began to laugh—not unkindly, but with the tone of a man who believes himself to be addressing someone who has entertained a particularly foolish notion.

"My dear fellow," said he, "you have allowed yourself to be carried away by precisely that species of unfounded speculation that I sought to guard against last night. What you are looking at is, unquestionably, a meteorite of unusual size—I grant you that—but nothing more. A meteorite! And from the state of the surroundings, I should judge it to have fallen sometime in the early hours of this morning."

"A meteorite does not appear to maintain such heat," I replied, gesturing toward the steam that continued to rise from the object. "And that is no mere meteorite, Ogilvy. It is far too regular in its form, too deliberate in its construction. Such precision cannot be the work of natural forces alone."

"The heat is merely the consequence of its violent passage through our atmosphere," he rejoined, with an air of patient instruction. "Any meteorite of sufficient size would retain considerable thermal energy from that encounter. As for the form—well, you are seeing what you wish to see in it, I think. The human mind is remarkably adept at finding patterns and signs of intention in the merely random. I have observed this in my own work dozens of times." He had drawn a notebook from his pocket and was sketching the object with quick, practised strokes. "It is profoundly unusual, I grant you, but unusual in the realm of geology and astronomy, not in that of... of extraterrestrial warfare, if you will forgive the expression."

I was about to respond when a commotion arose from among the crowd. Several of the onlookers had begun to gather more closely at the water's edge, pointing at various features of the object that were becoming more visible as the steam somewhat cleared. Among them was a young man, apparently a farm labourer by his appearance, who had begun examining the object with animated gestures. As I turned to observe what had occasioned this new excitement, I saw him raise his hand and reach toward the dark surface.

"Don't touch it!" I cried out, though I could not have given any rational reason for the urgency that seized me.

But I was too late. His hand had already made contact with the surface. For a fraction of a second nothing whatever occurred—and then the poor fellow gave a cry of considerable distress and withdrew his hand with a sharp convulsion. Even from some distance away, I could see that his palm was severely reddened, as though burned by flame.

"Good Lord," breathed Ogilvy, his notebook forgotten. The young man's cries had attracted the attention of an older woman from among the crowd—his mother, perhaps, or some relation—who rushed to his side and began examining his injured hand with evident alarm.

"See here," I said to Ogilvy, quietly enough that our conversation might remain between us. "Your meteorite does not scald those who touch it."

He did not immediately respond, his earlier certainty evidently somewhat shaken by the spectacle. Yet when he did speak, his tone remained defensive. "The phenomenon is extraordinary, certainly. But it scarcely constitutes proof of anything beyond the range of natural science. No doubt there are thermal properties we do not yet fully understand."

It was at this moment that I perceived my wife making her way down the slope toward us, having apparently observed the gathering from some vantage point and, in her concern for my safety, ventured to seek me out. Her face was flushed with exertion, and I could see the worry in her expression as she took in the scene before her—the crowd, the injured youth, and that impossible object half-submerged in the water.

The gathering had grown considerably in the half-hour that I had been at the site. What had been a dozen curious locals had become perhaps fifty or more. Word was spreading, clearly, through the countryside with remarkable speed. The injured labourer was being led away by his companion, and several people had begun attempting to erect a kind of rough barricade at a distance from the object, as though moved by some inarticulate sense that proximity to it posed a danger.

"You must come home," my wife said, taking my arm. She was endeavouring to maintain her composure, but I could perceive the strain beneath her words. "This is no place for you to linger. Whatever this thing is, it is not safe."

I did not attempt to argue. There was wisdom in her words, and I had no desire to occasion her further anxiety. Yet as I turned to depart with her, I found myself reluctant to leave the site. The object in the water exerted a fascination upon me that I could not entirely explain or resist.

"Go," I said to my wife finally, after we had walked some distance from the crowd. "Return home. I shall follow shortly."

She regarded me with an expression of mingled exasperation and worry, but she knew my temperament well enough to recognise that further protest would be futile. With a parting injunction that I not remain overlong, she turned and made her way back up the slope toward the village. I watched her depart with a twinge of something—regret, perhaps, or a dim awareness of consequences not yet perceived—before turning back toward the site.

The time was now approaching noon. The crowd had swollen further, drawn by some invisible network of communication that passed through the villages of the district with remarkable speed. I should not be surprised if by evening there were several hundred people gathered in this place. For now, though, the assembly remained manageable, though the air among them had grown tense with speculation and a certain fearful curiosity.

I remained, observing and considering, my eyes returning again and again to the object in the water, still wreathed in its column of steam, still radiating that inexplicable heat. Ogilvy had withdrawn somewhat, consulting with several of the more educated members of the crowd, apparently endeavouring to establish a preliminary catalogue of its dimensions and properties. Whatever doubts might have assailed him, his scientific interest had evidently overcome his initial scepticism.

As I stood there, conscious of the growing crowd behind me and the implications of what lay before us all, I could not escape the conviction that the world as I had known it had irrevocably altered. Those comfortable certainties of the previous night—the serene assumption of humanity's safe dominion, the notion that the cosmos held no threat to our small sphere—all seemed suddenly to have become the fading dreams of another age entirely.

I left Styles Court by the front entrance shortly before six-thirty in the morning. The July heat was already making itself felt, though it was early, and the air carried that peculiar heaviness which presages a coming storm. The drive lay empty before me, bordered by the shrubbery that gave the manor its privacy, and I set out at a brisk pace toward the village. My mind, as I walked, was in considerable turmoil. The events of the night had shaken me profoundly, and I confess that I had scarcely slept at all. The image of poor Mrs. Inglethorp in the throes of those terrible convulsions remained before my eyes, and added to this was the puzzle of Alfred Inglethorp's mysterious absence.

The path to the village was one I had come to know well during my stay at Styles. It took me through the village proper, past the post office and the small general store, and finally to the modest cottage in which Poirot had been lodged by Mrs. Inglethorp's charity among the Belgian refugees. I confess I was fully expecting to have to rouse him from his bed, and I had prepared in my mind some explanation for the unseemly earliness of my call.

I was therefore astonished to find him already awake and dressed, sitting in his small parlour with a cup of what he termed "tisane"—some herbal infusion of his own devising that he perpetually favored, insisting that it was far superior to the ordinary tea or coffee of England.

"Ah, mon ami Hastings!" he exclaimed upon seeing me, setting down his cup with deliberation. "I perceive that you come to me with news of a most distressing character. It is written upon your face as clearly as upon a page of the printed book—the pallor, the tension about the mouth, the urgency of your step. But come, sit down, I beg you. Your agitation, it is evident even to one as unobservant as myself."

"Poirot," I said, hardly able to contain my astonishment, "you already know? But how—how could you possibly—"

"The good Dr. Bauerstein," said Poirot, resuming his seat with that curious precision of movement that was so characteristic of him. "He came to me not two hours ago, in some considerable state of mind, I may add. It appears he had been abroad in the early morning, taking his constitutional—he is a man of regular habits, you understand—when he encountered one of the servants from the manor. This servant had been sent to the village on an errand by Mr. Cavendish, and in the natural course of conversation, informed the doctor of the tragic events of the night. Finding himself in the village at that very moment, and knowing that I am, as he was pleased to term it, a man of certain particular expertise, he took it upon himself to call upon me and to acquaint me with the circumstances."

So it had been Bauerstein who had brought the news! Of course—the man was a specialist in poisons, a London doctor of some renown. It was entirely in keeping with his character that he should have thought to consult Poirot, a man whose reputation for solving intricate cases must have preceded him even to a small village in Essex.

"Then you know that we suspect—" I began.

"Suspect?" Poirot interrupted gently. "No, my dear Hastings, the good doctor does not suspect. He is convinced. He has given me his professional opinion, which is that the symptoms observed by those who witnessed the attack are entirely consistent with strychnine poisoning. But this, you understand, is not a matter to be discussed openly. The post-mortem examination will confirm or refute this hypothesis. For now, we must proceed with the utmost discretion."

I felt a chill run through me at his words. Strychnine! The very poison I had read about in the medical book. And Poirot seemed already to have accepted the likelihood of it as fact.

"We must return to Styles at once," said Poirot, rising from his chair. "Time, my dear friend, is of the essence in these matters. Come."

He retrieved his hat and coat, and within a quarter of an hour we had secured a motor-taxi from the garage in the village. The drive back to Styles Court seemed interminable, though it can have lasted no more than twenty minutes. Poirot sat in silence, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his eyes half-closed, as if he were already conducting some internal examination of the facts as he knew them.

Upon our arrival at Styles Court, we were met with a scene of considerable activity in the hall. John Cavendish was there, his face grave and composed, speaking with Lawrence in low tones. And beside them—to my profound astonishment—stood Alfred Inglethorp himself.

He had returned!

He was attired in the same clothes in which he had left the house the previous evening, though they bore unmistakable marks of travel and discomfort. His hair was somewhat disordered, and his black beard, dark as it naturally was, seemed to stand out in harsh relief against the pallor of his features. His manner was tense, oscillating between defiance and something that might almost have been fear.

"Mr. Hastings!" he exclaimed upon catching sight of me. "You see that I have returned. I was away from the house for the night, as I believe you may be aware. I have only just learned of the terrible tragedy that has befallen my poor wife. I came back as soon as—as soon as I understood what had happened."

John's expression remained composed, though I observed that his jaw tightened perceptibly at these words.

"Mr. Inglethorp," said Poirot, stepping forward with that grave courtesy that he reserved for moments of importance, "I am Hercule Poirot. I have been engaged by Mr. Cavendish to investigate the circumstances of Mrs. Inglethorp's death. Perhaps you would be good enough to furnish us with an account of your movements during the course of the night?"

Alfred drew himself up, and I saw a flash of resentment cross his features at Poirot's formal tone.

"I fail to see what concern my private affairs are to anyone," he said coldly. "However, I have nothing to hide. I walked with Dr. Bauerstein to the village, as the household is aware. It was a warm evening, and I did not immediately return. I spent some time with a friend—a gentleman of my acquaintance—and we dined together at the inn. Afterward, I found myself somewhat fatigued, and I remained in the parlor of the inn, where I lay down and slept. I did not wake until this morning, when I learned of my wife's condition."

"You remained at the inn throughout the night?" enquired Poirot, his tone studiously neutral.

"I did," said Alfred firmly.

It was at this precise moment that Dorcas, the parlourmaid, who had been standing near the staircase, stepped forward. She carried a small piece of paper in her hand, and it was clear that something in Alfred's account had stirred her to action.

"Begging your pardon, sir," she said, addressing herself to John rather than to Alfred, "but when the master did not return by one o'clock, I took the liberty of being concerned for his welfare. I sent young Thomas down to the inn to inquire after him, thinking perhaps he had taken ill. Mrs. Phillips, who keeps the inn, sent back word by the boy that no one of Mr. Inglethorp's description had come in last night at all. She was most particular about it, sir, said she'd have remembered if he had."

The silence that followed this statement was absolute and profoundly uncomfortable. Alfred's face flushed a deep crimson, and he began to speak, his voice rising in pitch.

"The woman must be either lying or mistaken," he said hotly. "I assure you upon my honor that I spent the night at the inn. She must have been asleep, or—or perhaps the boy misunderstood—"

"The boy is reliable," said John quietly, "and Mrs. Phillips is not a woman given to such errors. I think we must accept her word."

"We shall certainly ascertain the truth of the matter," said Poirot calmly, in a manner that seemed to dismiss the subject entirely, though I could not but notice that his keen eyes remained fixed upon Alfred's face. "For now, however, I think we must attend to the matter which is most pressing. Mr. Cavendish, I should like permission to examine your mother's room. The room in which Mrs. Inglethorp spent her final hours."

John hesitated only briefly before nodding his assent. The keys were produced—the same keys which Dr. Bauerstein had left in John's custody—and we made our way upstairs. I noticed that Poirot took careful note of the layout of the corridor and of the doors leading to the various chambers.

Upon entering the locked room, Poirot conducted his examination with meticulous care and precision. He moved slowly and deliberately about the space, his eyes taking in every detail—the bed, the small tables, the mantelpiece with its row of prim ornaments, the grate where the ashes of last night's fire still lay. Nothing, it seemed, escaped his attention.

It was when he bent to examine the small table beside the bed—the very table that Mrs. Inglethorp had apparently overturned during the violence of her convulsions—that his movements became particularly deliberate and focused. The top of the table had been cleared, presumably by one of the servants, but Poirot's attention was drawn to the floor beneath and around it.

He moved the table aside with surprising strength for a man of his apparent frailty, and from the floor near its leg, partially concealed by the edge of the carpet, he withdrew something small and held it up between his fingers.

For a moment I could not discern what it was. In the dimmer light of the room—for the curtains had not been fully drawn—it appeared to be nothing more than a small fragment of something, perhaps the size of a thumbnail. It had the appearance of a fragment of red sealing wax, or perhaps of some kind of gum or resinous substance.

"Ah," murmured Poirot, with evident satisfaction, turning the object this way and that between his fingers. "Most instructive. Most instructive indeed."

He turned to me, and without a word, he held the small object before my eyes, allowing me to examine it more closely. My heart began to race. Surely this was evidence of some kind, some trace left behind by the person who had—but what could it signify? What was its meaning in the context of this tragedy?

Poirot seemed to divine my thoughts, for he smiled that infuriating smile of his and slowly closed his fingers around the object, withdrawing his hand.

"You must have patience, mon ami," said he. "This is not the moment for explanation. There is much yet that we must ascertain, and there are questions which must be posed. Come, there is one more inquiry to make before we are done."

We descended the stairs and made our way to the drawing room, where we found Cynthia Murdoch seated in a chair by the window, with Mary Cavendish beside her, providing what comfort she could. The girl looked exhausted, her ordinarily pretty face drawn with distress and lack of sleep. Her hands fidgeted constantly, and she had the appearance of one who had been through some profound ordeal.

"Miss Murdoch," said Poirot, approaching her with that grave courtesy of manner which he reserved for the young and for those whom he deemed to be innocent of wrongdoing, "I am Hercule Poirot, the detective who has been engaged to investigate the tragic circumstances of last night. I have one question only for you at the present moment. It is of a nature most simple, and requires only a straightforward answer."

Cynthia straightened in her chair, her eyes widening as she regarded Poirot with what appeared to be a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

"Your chamber," continued Poirot, "connects, I believe, with that of Mrs. Inglethorp. The door between them—you have stated that it was bolted on your side?"

"Yes," said Cynthia, her voice barely audible. "Yes, it was. I remember because it was a particularly warm night, and I had a moment of thinking that I might unbolt it to allow some air to pass through, but then I decided against it. The bolt is stiff—it has not been used for a very long time—and I did not wish to disturb anyone."

"And the bolt remained secured throughout the night? You did not unbolt it at any time, nor did anyone attempt to do so from the other side?"

"No. No, I'm quite certain of that. I would have heard if anyone had tried."

"When did you retire to your chamber, Miss Murdoch?"

"Shortly before midnight, I think. I had been with Mrs. Cavendish—we talked for a little while—and then I went to bed."

"And you slept well? You were not disturbed during the night?"

Cynthia glanced toward Mary Cavendish, and I observed a slight hesitation before she replied.

"I slept very soundly, I'm afraid. I remember nothing until Mrs. Cavendish came and woke me. I'm ashamed to say that even the commotion downstairs did not waken me. She had to shake me quite roughly."

Poirot nodded slowly, and with a polite inclination of his head, he stepped back.

"Thank you, Miss Murdoch. You have been most helpful."

He then turned to John, who had remained standing near the door.

"John," said he, "I must now return to your mother's room and continue my examination. I must ask that I do so alone, with only Mr. Hastings in attendance. No one else is to enter. I have locked the door—you have the key?"

"Yes," said John, producing the second key from his pocket. "But Poirot, I confess I don't understand what you hope to find. Surely the post-mortem will—"

"The post-mortem will tell us many things," agreed Poirot, "but there are certain matters which are best examined while they remain undisturbed. I ask for your trust, and your discretion. We must not allow the servants to gossip, nor must word of my investigation reach beyond the walls of this house. Do you understand?"

"Very well," said John, though I could see that he was far from satisfied. "I will ensure that no one disturbs you."

We made our way back upstairs, and Poirot secured the door behind us once we had entered the locked chamber. The morning light now streamed more brightly through the windows, and in that clearer illumination, the room took on an aspect at once more ordinary and more terrible. The bed, the furniture, all remained as they had been when poor Mrs. Inglethorp had breathed her last.

Poirot crossed to the window and drew the curtains partially closed, softening the glare of the sun. Then, from his pocket, he withdrew the small object which he had discovered, and held it up once more to the light, examining it with that peculiar intensity which I had come to recognize as the sign that his mind was working upon some problem of considerable complexity.

I moved closer, craning my neck in an attempt to discern what the object could possibly be, but Poirot turned slightly away, as if deliberately preventing me from gaining a clearer view.

"Hastings," said he softly, "what do you observe about the arrangement of this room? The position of the furniture, the manner in which certain objects are disposed?"

"The arrangement?" I echoed, looking about me in some bewilderment. "I confess I do not perceive anything that seems unusual. The room appears to be arranged in the ordinary manner."

"Precisely," he said, turning to regard me with that peculiar smile which so often preceded some revelation that I could not yet grasp. "You do not observe. But you will learn, mon ami. For now, answer me this question: what is that which moves beneath the fingernail?"

I stared at him in utter confusion.

"But Poirot," I said, "there is nothing—I don't understand your question at all."

"Non, non," he murmured, turning back to gaze out at the grounds beyond the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "The significance does not lie in that which is visible to the eye, but rather in that which is conspicuous by its absence."

I remained in silent bewilderment, unable to make any sense whatsoever of his cryptic utterance, and I stood watching as Poirot continued to survey the room with those keen, penetrating eyes of his, as if he were reading in its very atmosphere and arrangement some message which was entirely hidden from my ordinary perception.

The decision to return the umbrella to the Drones Club presented itself to Eve's mind as she emerged from Miss Clarkson's office with the collected force of an obligation that could not reasonably be postponed. It would be absurd, she reflected, to keep a thing that did not belong to her. Moreover, there was a certain curiosity to be satisfied. The mysterious young man with the monocle had shown such a perfect combination of courtliness and eccentricity that she was genuinely anxious to know who he was. The umbrella, at any rate, would provide an excuse for inquiry.

Accordingly, having dismissed any lingering thought of attempting to trace the Drones Club through directories and telephone exchanges—for what was she to say when she got there?—Eve made her way back towards Dover Street with the umbrella, which had proven itself an admirable shelter during her interview with Miss Clarkson, still tucked beneath her arm.

It was perhaps two o'clock in the afternoon when she arrived at the imposing entrance of the club. The porter, a man of the sort who has spent so many years at the threshold of exclusive establishments that he has acquired something of the manner of a Roman senator, received her with a measured courtesy.

"I should like to return this umbrella," Eve said, producing it with a smile that suggested she had not often made such an errand. "It was lent to me this morning by a gentleman who came out of the club."

The porter's expression did not change.

"I'll see it is returned to its owner, miss," he said gravely.

"I don't know his name," Eve admitted. "He was a rather tall young man with a monocle. Very well-dressed. He looked quite unlike anyone I've ever met before."

A faint flicker crossed the porter's face—not quite amusement, but perhaps the reminiscence of amusement.

"Might be Mr. Smith, miss," he suggested. "Came in this morning and took an umbrella from the rack."

Eve seized upon this crumb of information with perhaps more enthusiasm than was strictly warranted.

"Oh, is his name Smith? Would you mind telling him—oh, I've written a note." She had, indeed, taken her pencil and a small card from her bag during this exchange, and now scribbled hastily: "Thank you very much for the umbrella. I have returned it safely. E.H." "Would you be so kind as to see he gets this?"

The porter accepted both umbrella and card with the sort of grave nod that suggested he undertook responsibility for the Crown Jewels.

"I'll attend to it personally, miss," he said.

Thus satisfied, Eve turned and departed, very little knowing that the umbrella was at that very moment the subject of considerable interest to a great many people who had not, in fact, asked for it at all.

* * * * *

The Hon. Mr. Walderwick was not, by any fair assessment, a man of remarkable distinction. He was the sort of fellow who, attending a gathering of his peers, would be noticed chiefly by the excellence of his tailoring and his absolute inability to recall anyone's name after the first introduction. He had expensive tastes, a moderate income, and a tendency to assume that his property would remain his property unless he personally watched it at all times. This last conviction had been somewhat undermined when he discovered his umbrella missing from the Drones' cloak-room some two hours earlier.

The theft would have gone unresolved had not Walderwick, in the midst of his indignation, mentioned the matter to another member of the club who had, it transpired, observed Psmith withdrawing an umbrella from the rack.

"Smith took it," this gentleman had said casually. "Saw him do it myself. Don't know what he wanted with it."

Walderwick, armed with this intelligence, set out immediately to find Psmith, whom he discovered in the reading-room looking over the Morning Post with an air of serene indifference to the world's troubles.

"I say, Smith," Walderwick began, without preamble, "did you take my umbrella?"

Psmith lowered his newspaper with deliberate slowness and regarded his accuser through his monocle with an expression of grave sorrow.

"My dear Walderwick," he said, "I should be the last man to stand between a fellow and his umbrella."

"Then you did take it?"

"I took an umbrella," Psmith corrected, "but whether it was yours or merely an umbrella of exceptional merit is now, I fear, a matter of some academic uncertainty."

"Well, it was mine," Walderwick said, with the reasonableness of a man stating an indisputable fact.

Psmith rose to his feet with the air of a man coming to an important decision.

"My dear fellow," he said, "let us not quarrel over what may be described as an umbrella. Your umbrella is lost. That is a tragedy. But consider the larger perspective. You possess two legs, sound health, and, from what I have observed, an adequate income. Come now—what value would you place upon that umbrella?"

"Well, I don't know. Five shillings?"

"I'll give you ten pounds for it," Psmith said.

Walderwick blinked as though a small explosive device had been detonated in his immediate vicinity.

"For the umbrella?" he repeated, as though this figure had descended from an unknown dimension.

"For the umbrella," Psmith confirmed. "As a gesture of goodwill and a small acknowledgment of your loss."

"But that's perfectly mad," Walderwick protested, though not with any great conviction.

"Precisely," said Psmith. "It is mad. But consider the anecdote you shall have to tell at dinner. 'Smith,' you will say, 'absolute lunatic. Gave me ten quid for an umbrella.' Capital stuff. The sort of thing that improves greatly with repetition and a cigar or two."

Walderwick, whose sense of value had not been developed to the point of resisting such an argument, accepted a ten-pound note before he had fully grasped what had happened.

"Absolutely ripping of you, Smith," he mumbled.

"Not at all," said Psmith. "We all must play our part in life's drama. You have played yours with grace. Do go home and buy yourself a superior umbrella. This one was hardly worth the fuss."

* * * * *

At three o'clock on that same afternoon, Eve found herself standing on the steps of a rather imposing townhouse in Grosvenor Square, clutching a small leather portfolio containing samples of her handwriting and a letter of introduction from Miss Clarkson to her prospective employer, a man named Aston who acted as Lord Emsworth's London agent.

She had not yet entered when a tall, thin young man with a monocle emerged from a nearby shop. He carried an umbrella—a rather superior specimen of the umbrella-maker's art—and had only gone a few paces when he seemed to notice her. There was a moment—just a moment—in which his solemn face registered something that might have been recognition, or surprise, or merely the passing thought of some privately amusing thing.

"Miss Halliday?" he said, coming to a halt.

Eve turned to him with some curiosity.

"Yes?" she said.

"I beg your pardon," Psmith said, with his customary courtesy, "but have we met? I feel certain we must have done. There is something infinitely familiar about you."

Eve considered this for a moment, trying to recall any previous encounter. She could not.

"I don't think so," she said. "Though I daresay London is full of faces that look as though they ought to be familiar."

"How very true," Psmith agreed. "How, if I may ask, do you come to know your own name?"

"Through a combination of parental choice and long habit," Eve replied. "How do you come to know it?"

"I overheard it mentioned in conversation," Psmith said, which was quite true—he had heard a member of the club mention "that Halliday girl" in connection with cataloguing work at Blandings. "And what brings you to this particular corner of London on this rather damp afternoon?"

"An appointment," Eve said, gesturing toward the house. "Nothing very exciting."

"Few appointments are," Psmith observed, "though I have always held that the prospect of a catastrophe is more entertaining than the catastrophe itself. I shall not keep you further. The best of luck with your appointment, Miss Halliday."

"Thank you," Eve said, somewhat puzzled by this encounter but not displeased. "Though I'm afraid it's merely a job interview."

"Then the catastrophe is already guaranteed," Psmith said with grave cheerfulness, and proceeded on his way.

Eve watched him go with a frown of moderate bewilderment, then turned and mounted the steps to meet Mr. Aston.

* * * * *

Mr. Aston was a small, nervous man of perhaps fifty, with the harried appearance of someone who had just survived a railway accident and was not entirely convinced it would not happen again. He received Eve in an office lined with papers, a fact which would have been pleasing had not those papers appeared to be in such a state of disorder as to suggest that Mr. Aston's filing system consisted primarily of placing documents on flat surfaces and trusting to fate.

"Miss Halliday?" he said, rising from behind his desk with such haste that he knocked over a cup of tea—fortunately empty, though the stain suggested it had not been so some considerable time previously. "Yes, yes. Miss Clarkson mentioned you. Cataloguing the library at Blandings, is it?"

"That's correct," Eve said, settling into the chair he indicated with some concern for the structural soundness of its legs.

"Splendid, splendid," Mr. Aston said, seating himself again and looking at her with the expression of a man who has mislaid his spectacles. "Now, I must be frank with you, Miss Halliday. I have been rather hoping to find someone to undertake this task, but there are certain—ah—complications."

"Complications?" Eve repeated, with what she hoped was an encouraging expression.

"Yes. You see, the Earl is of the opinion that the library should be organized according to his own system, which is to say, no system at all, or alternatively, a system known only to himself. Meanwhile, his sister, Lady Constance, believes that the volumes should be arranged in a manner befitting a gentleman's library of the first order—alphabetically by author, you understand."

"Those are not necessarily incompatible," Eve ventured.

"Are they not?" Mr. Aston's expression suggested this had not occurred to him. "How very sensible. I shall make a note of that." He did make a note, in a manner suggesting he was jotting down something of considerable importance. "Now, the difficulty is that Lord Emsworth has mislaid his spectacles—again—and is inclined to regard the entire business with some suspicion. He suspects, in fact, that his sister wishes to catalogue the library in order to remove certain volumes of a peculiar nature to which he is attached. The history of this suspicion is lengthy and need not be entered into at present, but it does mean that any cataloguer engaged by the household must be prepared to encounter a certain amount of resistance."

Eve, who had been beginning to wonder how serious this appointment truly was, began to revise her estimates upward.

"I think," she said carefully, "that I could manage that. What was the salary?"

"Forty shillings a week," Mr. Aston said, "plus board, though I should warn you that the cook is unpredictable and the food is occasionally questionable."

Eve did a rapid calculation. Forty shillings was perhaps not a fortune, but it was substantially more than her annual income from her trust, and far more than she had any right to expect.

"I accept," she said.

Mr. Aston's face underwent a transformation. Whether this was relief or disappointment was difficult to determine.

"Excellent!" he cried. "When can you begin?"

"I should need a week to arrange my affairs in London," Eve said. "Perhaps on the fifteenth of July?"

"The fifteenth," Mr. Aston repeated, making a note on what appeared to be the only clean piece of paper on his desk. "Capital. I shall inform Lord Emsworth. He may wish to write to you with instructions, or he may simply appear without warning and begin moving books about. With the Earl, one never can predict. But I am convinced you shall manage admirably."

As Eve rose to depart, Mr. Aston walked her to the door with a manner that suggested he felt he had narrowly avoided some catastrophe, the exact nature of which remained obscure to him.

"Forty shillings a week," he repeated to himself, as though still astonished by his own generosity, "and board. She'll certainly earn it."

* * * * *

It was nearly half-past six when Psmith, having completed certain errands about the city and lingered over tea in a small shop in Piccadilly, returned to the Drones Club and made his way to the smoking-room. He carried the umbrella—Walderwick's umbrella, now purchased at such a prodigious expense—and bore it with the air of a man who has acquired some item of peculiar significance, or perhaps merely a man who has had to pay ten pounds for something he had expected to acquire for nothing and was not entirely recovered from the shock.

He had settled into a leather chair with a whisky-and-soda when Tuppy Glossop, a fellow of no great brain but of considerable information about the social life of London, approached with the eagerness of one who has acquired a piece of gossip of notable freshness.

"I say, Smith," Tuppy began, without preamble, "did you happen to hear about the Halliday girl?"

Psmith lowered his drink with careful deliberation.

"I have not had the pleasure of hearing about her," he said, "though I have had the distinct pleasure of meeting her some three hours ago in Grosvenor Square."

"Have you, by Jove?" said Tuppy, somewhat deflated by this revelation. "Well, the thing is, she's gone and taken a position cataloguing the library at Blandings Castle. Going to be staying there for months, I should think. Rather a downy bird, from what I gather. Hard as nails, keeps herself to herself, that sort of thing. Wouldn't give Freddie Threepwood a second look, though he was apparently always buzzing round her. The girl's got pluck, I'll give her that."

Psmith, who had not been particularly interested in Miss Halliday before this moment—or who at any rate had not supposed he would be—found his interest increasing at a rate that he could not have easily accounted for.

"Is that so?" he said mildly.

"Absolute fact," Tuppy confirmed. "My cousin knows the Clarkson woman who placed her. She's to start on the fifteenth of July. Blandings, no less. Old Emsworth's place."

After Tuppy had wandered away to bore someone else with this information, Psmith sat alone with his umbrella and his thoughts. The umbrella had been worth considerably more than ten pounds, he reflected. He had acquired it under circumstances that had required a certain audacity, paid an absurd price for it, and now discovered that its history was intertwined—however slightly—with that of a Miss Eve Halliday, who was going to Blandings on the fifteenth of July and who had seemed, when they had encountered each other earlier that afternoon in Grosvenor Square, to be laboring under the peculiar misapprehension that he was a stranger to her.

He folded the umbrella carefully and set it aside on the table beside him, then returned to his whisky-and-soda with the expression of a man who has just acquired something of considerable value and who intends to give the matter a very good deal of thought indeed.

The First National Bank occupied a granite block on Laurel Avenue, all columns and frosted glass doors set back from the sidewalk like a monument to caution. I went in around three and asked for whoever handled checking accounts. A young fellow with slicked-back hair and the sort of complexion that comes from worrying about his position for too long pointed me toward an older man named Everett.

Everett had the solid, unchanging build of a man who had been sitting in the same chair for thirty years and didn't plan to move. His suit was gray, his tie was neat, and his face had the expression of someone who had seen everything twice and found it disappointing both times.

"I'm trying to trace a check," I told him. "Drawn for five thousand dollars on this bank, drawn yesterday sometime before three o'clock. The drawer was Donald Willsson."

Everett's face didn't change, but something behind his eyes shifted, just slightly. He reached for a pad of paper and wrote something down with a fountain pen, taking his time.

"The check hasn't been presented," he said, without looking up. "I can tell you that much without looking. You'd have seen it in the ledger if it had been."

"You're certain? A check might sit in someone's pocket for a day."

"Sure. But a five-thousand-dollar check isn't the kind of thing that sits in anyone's pocket for long. Not in Personville. Not for that amount. And if it had been cashed at any other bank in this town, I'd know about it. I make it my business to know." He set down his pen. "When did you say it was drawn?"

"Yesterday. Before three o'clock."

"Then I can tell you it hasn't been cashed anywhere. Not in Personville. Not certified. Not presented to this bank. If someone tried to cash it, they haven't done it yet." He tapped his pencil against the pad with a methodical, patient sound. "You're a detective?"

"Continental. San Francisco branch."

"I thought so. You've got that look about you." He leaned back in his chair and studied me. "This have to do with Willsson's murder?"

"It might."

"Well, the check's in the wind then. That's all I can tell you. That, and that it's somewhere in this town, in someone's pocket or on someone's desk, and it hasn't moved."

I left him there and went back out into the street. The afternoon was still too warm for October, and the air still carried the dust from the mines, that fine silt that got into everything if you stayed in Personville long enough. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, watching the traffic, and tried to figure out where a five-thousand-dollar check goes when it doesn't go to a bank.

Back at the Great Western around four o'clock, I stopped at the desk and asked if there had been any messages. There hadn't been. The clerk was reading a magazine and didn't look up when I asked. I took the stairs to my room, changed into clean linen, and was mixing a drink from the bottle I'd bought when there was a knock on the door.

It was the widow.

She was dressed in black now, properly dressed for mourning, but it was the same blonde who had been anxious and alert in her husband's drawing room two nights before. The black made her look smaller than I remembered. Her face had taken on a waxy quality, and there were new hollows under her cheekbones, the kind that come from not eating or not sleeping or both.

"May I come in?" she asked. There was still that slight French accent, the way she handled her words like she was testing them first.

I opened the door wider and she came past me without meeting my eyes, her hands clasped together in front of her. I closed the door and waited for her to speak.

"You spoke to my father-in-law this morning," she said. It wasn't a question.

"I did."

"He told you I killed Donald." She turned to look out the window at the street below. Her voice was flat, almost mechanical. "That is what he believes. That is what everyone will believe."

"Your father-in-law has an opinion. That doesn't make it the truth."

"No?" She turned back to face me. "Then what will make it true? When the police arrest me? When they bring me to trial? When enough people have said it enough times that it becomes true simply because everyone believes it?" She moved closer to me, and I could smell her perfume, something expensive and foreign. "You will find, I think, that people believe what they want to believe. My father-in-law wants to believe I killed Donald because he has hated me since I came here. The police want to believe it because it is easier than finding the truth. And you—" She paused. "You want to believe it too, perhaps, but you will try to find out otherwise because that is your profession."

"What do you want from me, Mrs. Willsson?"

"I want you to find who killed him. Not to prove it was not me. Just to find who truly did it. I think you are the only one who will try."

"That's what I'm here for. That's what I'm getting paid to do."

She looked at me for a long moment, and I couldn't read anything in that face except exhaustion and something underneath it—fear, maybe, or the remnants of fear, as if she'd been afraid for so long that it had become her natural state.

"There was a woman," she said. "I think. Donald had been different for a month, perhaps longer. He would come home late. He would say it was business, but I didn't believe him. When I asked where he had been, he would change the subject. When I..." She swallowed. "When I asked him directly, he said it was nothing I needed to know."

"Do you have a name for this woman?"

"No. I never had a name. I only know she existed, or that something existed that he would not tell me about."

"Could it have been something else? Political trouble? Something with the papers?"

"Perhaps. But no." She moved back to the window and stood looking out. "A man does not hide politics from his wife in the way he hid this. Not the way Donald was hiding it. There was something else, something he was ashamed of or frightened of or—" She didn't finish.

I didn't tell her one way or another. I asked her what she had been doing when the shooting happened, and she gave me the same story she had given to everyone else—she had been home, she had heard nothing, she had been asleep. It might have been true. It might not have been true. It didn't matter much either way at this point.

She left a few minutes later, after asking me once more to find out who had killed her husband. I said I would. After she was gone, I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the door for a while, then stopped thinking about her and thought about the check instead.

At six-thirty, there was another knock.

A bellhop I didn't recognize handed me an envelope. The envelope was good stock, heavy paper, expensive. Inside was a single sheet, also expensive, typewritten:

"You're looking in the wrong places. The check never left Donald's office. The woman is either a ghost or she doesn't matter. What you should be asking yourself is who needed Donald dead enough to arrange it, and who had enough power in Personville to make sure nobody looked very hard at the right questions. You're wasting time and mine. Forget the widow. She's not worth your trouble."

There was no signature. There didn't need to be. The message was clear enough, and so was the hand behind it.

I put the note on the nightstand and sat down at the small desk in the corner of the room. I found the hotel's telegraph forms and began drafting:

"Donald Willsson's five thousand dollar check drawn yesterday afternoon three o'clock never presented or certified anywhere in Personville. Checked with First National. No record of check passing through any local bank. No cashing at any other institution. Check has vanished or remains in unrevealed location. Widow visited me this evening claiming innocence and insisting husband involved with unidentified woman past month. Received anonymous message same evening advising widow uninvolved and check never left dead man's office. First National employee Everett confirms check has not been presented locally. Situation more complex than Elihu Willsson's accusations suggest. Old man remains convinced of widow's guilt based principally on dislike. Thaler element central but motives and methods still obscure. Will continue methodical investigation and report further developments."

I read it through once, and the thing was solid. The Old Man could make what he wanted of it. I went down to the telegraph office on the ground floor.

The operator was a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses who didn't ask questions. I gave him the wire and the Old Man's address in San Francisco and paid him. He counted the words, gave me the total, and took my money.

When I came back up to my room it was nearly eight o'clock. Outside the window, the city was settling into darkness. Personville looked better in the dark—the scattered lights made it look less shabby than it did in daylight. I stood at the window for a moment, watching the street below, trying to figure out what the check meant and where it had gone and why someone had gone to the trouble of sending me a message to tell me I was wasting my time.

I turned away from the window and sat down in the chair by the desk. The room was quiet. The city outside was quiet. Somewhere out there, someone had killed Donald Willsson, and they were probably sleeping fine tonight, confident that the police wouldn't dig too deep and that Elihu Willsson's hatred would do half their work for them.

The check was still missing. The widow had lied or told the truth or told some complicated version of both. Thaler had sent me a message, and I still didn't know what it meant or whether I was supposed to take it as advice or a threat or something else entirely.

I poured another drink and settled into the chair to wait for tomorrow.

*Letter from Herr Gottlieb Brinsdorf, Hotel Ritter, Vienna, to Miss Mina Murray.*

"Vienna, "3 June.

"Dear Madam,--

"You will perhaps wonder at receiving a communication from one unknown to you, but I feel myself obliged in justice to Mr. Jonathan Harker, your intended, and in consideration of your own peace of mind, to write to you upon a matter of some delicacy. I am the proprietor of the Hotel Ritter, and your fiancé has been my guest these past two days in circumstances most distressing.

"Mr. Harker arrived on the morning of 1 June in a condition which I can scarcely find words to describe. He appeared at my desk wan, trembling, and so exhausted that he could barely stand. His speech was disordered and hurried, his eyes held a look of such profound alarm that I immediately suspected some grave misfortune had befallen him. He begged for a room, and I took the liberty of summoning Dr. Krauss, the physician who attends my guests. He examined Mr. Harker and pronounced him to be in a state of nervous collapse, accompanied by a fever of considerable intensity, likely the result of severe shock and exhaustion.

"The good doctor has attended him daily, and I am pleased to report that Mr. Harker's condition has shown marked improvement. Mr. Harker himself, in a moment when his mind has grown clearer, asked me to write to you. He says his hands shake so greatly that he cannot hold a pen. He wishes you to know that he thinks constantly of you, and that the thought of your face is his greatest solace.

"Dr. Krauss believes that Mr. Harker requires a further week's rest before he can undertake the journey to England. I assure you that every comfort and every care shall be provided to him during this time. I shall write to you again within a few days to inform you of his progress.

"Your obedient and humble servant,

"GOTTLIEB BRINSDORF, "Proprietor, Hotel Ritter, Vienna."

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

"Exeter, "6 June.

"My dearest Lucy,--

"I have received the most alarming letter this morning, and I find I must confess my anxiety to you, for there is no one else in whom I can confide as I do in you. My dear Jonathan has been taken seriously ill whilst abroad. The account comes from a certain Herr Brinsdorf, who seems a most respectable and conscientious man, and in whose hands—God be praised—my poor Jonathan has fallen.

"The thought of my dear Jonathan lying ill in a foreign land, far from home and all who love him, weighs heavily upon my heart. I know I am foolish to distress myself, yet the uncertainty troubles me greatly. I have tried to occupy myself with my work, but my mind will keep returning to thoughts of him.

"You are always a comfort to me, dear. Tell me that you are well, and let me hear of your happiness. Your cheerful letters have always had a wonderful power to settle my spirits. I long to see you soon.

"Your most affectionate friend,

"MINA."

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

"London, "7 June.

"My dearest Mina,--

"Your letter has just reached me, and I am most distressed to hear of your dear Jonathan's illness. You must not imagine that you are foolish to be anxious—I should be mad with worry if my Arthur were similarly afflicted.

"Yet be assured, dear, that you have much to hope for. If this Herr Brinsdorf is as responsible a man as his letter suggests, then Jonathan is in good hands. Vienna is a civilized city, and surely the physicians there are capable and skilled. I have every confidence that your Jonathan will make a complete recovery.

"You must come to London as soon as you can, Mina. Arthur and I will not hear of you sitting alone in Exeter, prey to anxious fancies. You must come and stay with us, and we shall do everything in our power to distract you and demonstrate that such trials, though they weary us, are overcome by those whose hearts are true.

"I am writing to Arthur to expect you by the end of the week. Do not delay.

"Your loving friend,

"LUCY."

*Dr. Seward's Diary (Phonograph).*

"6 June, Morning.--A most extraordinary and disturbing incident occurred this morning in my visit to the wards. I was conducting my usual rounds when my patient Renfield addressed me before I could speak to him. His manner was urgent, his tone quite unlike his usual demeanor.

"'Dr. Seward,' said he, 'I have a question for you, and I require an answer. Is Miss Lucy Westenra quite well? Is she in good health? Is her disposition cheerful?'

"I confess I was utterly taken aback. The man has no possible connection with Miss Westenra. To my knowledge, he has received no visitors, no letters, no newspapers or any communication from the outside world. I could only stare at him in bewilderment.

"'How on earth do you know the name of Miss Westenra?' I demanded.

"He merely smiled—that curious, knowing smile of his—and replied: 'That, Doctor, is a matter which you need not trouble yourself to understand. I have my sources of information, as all men must. I ask only that you tell me whether the young lady is well. It is a matter of some importance to me.'

"I was unable to obtain any further information from him on this subject. I left his bedside with a most uneasy feeling, and have given strict instructions to the attendants to watch him closely and to report any correspondence he may attempt to send or receive.

"—

"6 June, Afternoon.--I have this day made preparations to receive Quincey Morris and Arthur Holmwood to dinner this evening. It seemed to me proper to gather these three old friends together, for we have shared much in the past weeks, and it would be well for us to confirm the bonds of our friendship. Moreover, I should like to mark Arthur's good fortune in a manner befitting the esteem in which I hold him.

"—

"6 June, Late Evening.--My guests have departed, and I find myself alone with my thoughts. The evening was, upon the whole, most pleasant. Quincey was in excellent humour, and his natural vivacity was much in evidence. He regaled us with several tales from his travels—stories of adventure told with that particular combination of the grave and the humorous which characterizes him.

"Arthur seemed much moved by Quincey's warmth and kindness. There was a moment of genuine emotion when Quincey proposed a toast to Arthur's engagement—Quincey spoke with evident sincerity of his friend's worthiness, and his manner was such as to banish any awkwardness that might have been feared.

"For my own part, I attempted to enter into the spirit of the evening, though my thoughts have been much occupied with the strange matter of Renfield. Yet the company of these two men was itself restorative. We conversed on many topics, and as the evening progressed, the conversation became more intimate and more real.

"Quincey spoke at some length upon the subject of friendship—how it is perhaps the truest bond between men; how it requires sacrifice and the relinquishment of personal hope. There was something noble in his bearing as he spoke thus, and I could not but respect the grace with which he has accepted disappointment.

"I found myself thinking that if a man must lose in matters of the heart, it is best to lose to one's friends. There is some solace in knowing that one's friend has chosen well and that happiness will result.

"When they had gone, I remained in my study for some time. I find that I am at peace—more at peace than I have been in recent times. There is something healing in the acknowledgment of what is, and in the acceptance that life does not always offer us what we might wish."

*Letter from Arthur Holmwood to his mother.*

"7 June.

"My Dearest Mother,--

"I write to you this morning to recount to you the events of yesterday evening. As you know from my recent letters, I have been in some perplexity regarding the best manner in which to conduct myself toward my two friends, Quincey Morris and Dr. John Seward, both of whom have recently experienced some disappointment in their respective regards toward Miss Westenra.

"Dr. Seward most kindly resolved this difficulty by inviting both Quincey and myself to dinner, with the express purpose of gathering three old friends together and confirming the bonds of our friendship. I am pleased to report that it was a success in every way.

"Quincey was in fine spirits and excellent humour. He recounted various tales of his travels in a manner most entertaining, and he raised a glass to my happiness in a manner so warm and genuine that any awkwardness was entirely dispelled.

"What impressed me most, however, was the observation that true friendship is capable of bearing trials that would be insupportable between ordinary acquaintances. I could not fail to notice that Quincey bore his disappointment with a grace and dignity that speaks well of his character.

"As I returned home last night, I reflected that I am a fortunate man—fortunate not only in my engagement to Miss Westenra, but also in the friendship of such men as these. I am determined to be a better friend to them both, and to show by my conduct that I value their esteem.

"I hope to see you soon and to bring Miss Westenra to meet you.

"Your affectionate son,

"ARTHUR."

*Telegram from Herr Gottlieb Brinsdorf to Miss Mina Murray.*

"Jonathan departed Vienna yesterday morning stop arrival Dover not reported stop most gravely concerned advise immediately stop"

"Where to?" I asked.

"The Quai de Bethune," Brett said. "The Isle Saint-Louis."

I told the driver and we went through the dark streets toward the river. Brett had her eyes closed. We crossed the Seine and drove through the narrow streets of the island. The taxi stopped.

"This is it," she said.

I paid the driver and we got out. The building was old, the stone worn from centuries. We went up the stairs. There was very little light. Brett had a key. Inside, the flat was cold and moonlit. You could see the river from the windows, the cathedral across the water. It was a good flat, expensive, with nothing of the occupant visible except the things he had paid for.

Brett went to the window.

"I came here with a man last week," she said. "He has money. American. His name is Cunningham."

"Cunningham?"

"You don't know him. He's pleasant enough. He wants to take me away."

"And you're considering it."

"I didn't say that."

"But you will."

"You don't know anything about it, Jake."

"I know you."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

We stood in the cold flat with the moonlight coming through. I could not be in that room any longer.

"I'm going back," I said.

"Back where?"

"To the dancing place. To the money I left."

"The girl is gone. She went off with one of those men."

"Probably."

"Then why go?"

"Because I left it."

"That's sentimental."

"Yes."

I went to the door. I did not want Brett to ask me to stay.

I went down the stairs into the street and found a taxi. I told the driver the address and we went back across the river. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east. The stars were fading. It was nearly five in the morning.

The bal musette was still open, but there were fewer people. The proprietor played the accordion softly. The patronne stood behind the bar. I went to her.

"The girl," I said. "The one I came with. Is she here?"

"She left an hour ago," the patronne said. "With the young man with the blond hair. She was happy. She was laughing."

"Which way did they go?"

"Toward the Pantheon. She was laughing very much."

The patronne reached under the bar and brought out my envelope. It was still sealed. She set it on the counter.

"I told her you left this," she said. "She said she didn't need it. The young man had money for her."

I took the envelope and put it in my pocket. Georgette was gone and she hadn't needed my money. She was happy and the matter was finished. That was fine. It was all past.

I left the bal and went into the street. The darkness was graying into morning. The buildings were beginning to show their details. I walked toward the river. There was a cold wind and I could smell the Seine. I crossed the Pont Saint-Michel and stood for a moment looking at the water. The water was gray and it was moving toward the sea, the way the river always moved.

I turned and walked back toward the island. The light was growing. I thought perhaps Brett would still be coming out of the building, or perhaps she was still there. But she was standing on the street wrapped in her coat. When she saw me she lifted her arm to hail a taxi. One came almost immediately.

"Get in," I said.

"Come with me," she said.

"No."

"Please, Jake."

"No."

She got into the taxi and I closed the door. "Where?" the driver asked. Brett gave an address and the taxi moved away down the street. I watched it go. Then I turned and walked along the quai, keeping close to the water. The sun was coming up now. The light was clear and gold. The river was beautiful in the early morning light. I walked along beside it, alone, watching the light on the water. Everything that had happened seemed to matter less now. It was done. It was past. I walked along the river and the city was waking around me, the streets beginning to fill with the early morning crowd. I felt better than I had felt all night. I did not think about Brett or Cunningham or any of it. I walked along the river toward my flat, and the sun got higher, and the day was beginning, and I was alone and that was good.