The Chapters

Outside, the weather had improved in the sense that it had stopped raining, but the sky still wore the expression of a man who has remembered an unpleasant engagement and may at any moment begin to grumble again. Eve descended the stairs and stood for a moment on the pavement, the umbrella tucked under her arm.

She looked at it.

It was a handsome umbrella. It had a silver handle, a silk tassel, and an air of being accustomed to the company of people who gave tips in guineas. Eve felt that to carry it about London without making some effort to restore it to its owner would be a breach of the elementary rules of civilization.

She crossed the road and entered the gloomy building opposite.

The porter was sitting behind a desk in the entrance hall, reading a sporting paper with the absorbed melancholy of a man whose horse had finished fourth. He looked up as Eve approached.

"Could you tell me, please, who owns this umbrella?"

The porter examined it.

"Belongs to the Honourable Mr. Walderwick, miss."

"I am afraid I can't wait to see him. I should like you to return it to him."

"Yes, miss."

"And will you give him this?"

She took a visiting-card from her bag, turned it over, and wrote on the back:

"Thank you very much for the loan of the umbrella. I am returning it to the porter.

"E. H."

She handed it to him.

"Very good, miss."

Eve went out. The porter watched her through the glass doors until she had disappeared round the corner. Then he put the umbrella behind him and returned to his paper.

It was not until half an hour later that Psmith came back to the club.

He had been lunching at a restaurant in Piccadilly, where he had eaten very little and thought a great deal. This was unusual. As a rule Psmith ate a great deal and thought very little, for he considered that the two occupations interfered with one another. But the girl under the awning had made an impression on him. Her manner had been odd, her hat had been magnificent, and there had been something in her face which caused him to feel that the weather had behaved badly in choosing her for its victim.

He had also begun to wonder whether the umbrella had reached its owner.

As he entered the hall, the porter rose.

"The Honourable Mr. Walderwick has been looking for you, sir."

"Ah!" said Psmith. "I have been looking for him, too. We are quits."

"He is in the smoking-room, sir."

"Then we will both be gratified."

Psmith went upstairs.

Walderwick was standing by the fireplace, holding a newspaper. He was a small, round man with a reddish face and an expression which suggested that life had been one long attempt on the part of his fellow creatures to borrow things and forget to return them.

"Psmith," he said, "where is my umbrella?"

"That," said Psmith, "is a question which has exercised my mind throughout the morning. It has now been answered. Your umbrella is in the hall."

"I know that. I have just been told. But how did it get there?"

"It walked."

"Don't be an ass."

"I am endeavouring to avoid it."

Walderwick came nearer.

"You took that umbrella from the rack this morning."

"I did."

"You took it without asking me."

"I should be sorry to contradict you."

"And then you gave it to a girl in the street."

"I did."

"You gave it to a girl in the street?"

"That is the general idea."

"Why?"

Psmith considered him with the grave attention which he gave to all human beings who had failed to grasp a point which appeared to him simple.

"There was a shower."

"I know there was a shower. I was in it. I was at my office, with the water dripping off my nose. But what possessed you to take my umbrella?"

"I wanted an umbrella."

"Then you might have taken one of your own."

"I have none."

"Buy one."

"I have bought one."

"Where is it?"

"I have not yet selected the model."

"Then why don't you return mine?"

"Because I like it."

Walderwick stared at him.

Psmith sat down in an armchair and crossed his legs.

"It is a very beautiful umbrella," he said. "A noble umbrella. It has character. It has dignity. It is practically a member of the family. I am strongly attracted to it."

"I am not selling it."

"I do not wish to put pressure on you."

"You have already put pressure on me. You took it without permission."

"I am not sure that I would call it pressure. I should describe it as a preliminary to negotiation."

"What negotiation?"

"I should like to buy the umbrella."

"You have just said that I am not selling it."

"Yes. But that was before I made an offer."

Walderwick turned away.

"How much?"

"I was thinking of fifty guineas."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Very well. Seventy-five."

"It's worth two pounds ten."

"I am not buying it for its market value. I am buying it because it has become associated with a very pleasing incident."

"What incident?"

"I should prefer not to say."

"You have no right to refuse to say."

"I have every right. It is one of the minor privileges of the Englishman. We may refuse to explain ourselves at any time, and on most occasions it is considered bad manners to press us."

"I want to know what happened to my umbrella."

"It went out in the rain and came back again. It has had a perfectly satisfactory morning."

"You are a lunatic."

"A hundred guineas," said Psmith.

Walderwick stopped.

Psmith took out his cheque-book.

There are moments when the best of men show a regrettable weakness. Walderwick had been brought up to believe that an umbrella was worth, at the outside, thirty shillings. He also believed that a cheque for a hundred guineas was worth, at the inside, a hundred guineas. The two beliefs met in his mind and fought briefly. The cheque won.

"You can't be serious."

"I am never more serious than when I am buying umbrellas."

"Do you really mean a hundred guineas?"

"That was my opening bid. If you wish to bargain, I shall raise it to a hundred and ten."

"Give me the cheque."

Psmith wrote it out.

Walderwick took it, looked at the signature, and put it carefully into his pocket.

"The umbrella is yours."

"Thank you."

"You might tell me what you wanted it for."

"I might," said Psmith, "but I shall not."

Walderwick gave him a long look.

"I hope it was worth it."

"I am beginning to think so."

When Walderwick had gone, Psmith went downstairs and collected the umbrella. The porter handed him the card which Eve had left.

"A young lady brought this back, sir."

"Ah!"

"She said she had borrowed the umbrella from you."

"I am not sure that I should use the word 'borrowed.'"

"She said she was much obliged, sir."

"Did she?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did she mention her name?"

The porter shook his head.

"Only put E. H. on the card."

Psmith examined the writing. It was small and firm and had been done with a pencil which was not quite sharp enough.

"Miss E. H.," he said. "A mysterious person."

"Very mysterious, sir."

Psmith slipped the card into his pocket.

"It is a good thing that you have no detective agency, Parker. You would ruin the profession."

He carried the umbrella into the smoking-room and placed it beside his chair.

The afternoon was still young, and Psmith had nothing to do. He disliked having nothing to do, though he was one of the few men in England who could make it look like an occupation. He sat by the window and watched the traffic moving along Dover Street. The rain had left the pavements shining, and the people went past with the hurried, suspicious air of pedestrians who fear that the sky may have another attack at any moment.

After a while he rose and went out.

He told himself that he was going for a walk. This was not true. He was going because the Drones had begun to seem empty, and because London contained, among its other attractions, one young woman in a black dress and a remarkable hat.

He had reached Piccadilly when he saw her.

She was standing outside a florist's, looking at a card which she had taken from her bag. The hat was the same. The shoes were the same. There was no umbrella in her hand.

Psmith stopped.

The sensible thing would have been to pass on. The sensible thing was rarely the thing which happened when Psmith was present.

He crossed the pavement.

"Good afternoon," he said.

Eve looked up.

"Good afternoon."

She studied him for a moment. Psmith, observing the process, came to the conclusion that she was comparing him with a memory and finding the comparison unsatisfactory.

"I think I have seen you before," she said.

"It is possible. I have a face which is constantly turning up in unexpected places."

"Were you in the Drones Club this morning?"

"I have been in the Drones Club this morning."

"And did you lend me an umbrella?"

Psmith looked pained.

"My dear young lady, I have never lent anybody an umbrella in my life."

"You were very tall and very thin."

"That is a common complaint."

"You wore a monocle."

"So do several other people."

"You had a grave expression."

"That narrows it down considerably."

"And you gave me an umbrella when I was standing under the awning opposite the club."

"You have been misinformed."

Eve laughed.

"I am sure it was you."

"There is a dangerous habit of jumping to conclusions. I have known it to lead to the most painful results."

"But if it wasn't you, why do you say so?"

"I am not saying it wasn't me. I am saying that I have never lent anybody an umbrella. There is a distinction."

"What distinction?"

"It is one of those distinctions which become clear after a little thought."

"Well, I wanted to thank you."

"I am sorry."

"You are sorry?"

"Yes. If you wish to thank the gentleman who gave you the umbrella, you must find him. I fear I cannot help you."

Eve regarded him with amusement.

"Then you refuse to admit it?"

"I should not put it so strongly. I should say that I decline to admit anything which might subsequently be used against me."

She folded the card and put it back in her bag.

"You are a very odd man."

"I have been told that before. Usually by people who wanted to know more about me."

"And do you think I want to know more about you?"

"I have not yet made up my mind."

"Well, you need not trouble. I am in a hurry."

"Ah, the modern world. Everybody is in a hurry. It is one of the things which make London so restful."

She smiled again, in spite of herself.

"I have an appointment."

"Of course you have."

"At the Grand Babylon Hotel."

Psmith bowed.

"A very good place for an appointment. One can be interviewed there with every comfort."

"I am going to be interviewed."

"That is less agreeable."

"It is about a post."

"Then I wish you every success."

"Thank you."

"Though I cannot see why they should want to interview you. From your appearance, you ought to be interviewing them."

"I wish you would stop talking nonsense."

"I should be glad to do so, but I am afraid it would alter my whole character."

A taxi crawled past them, offering itself as a sacrifice to the traffic. Eve glanced at the hotel clock across the road.

"I really must go."

"Then I will not detain you."

She moved away, then turned.

"If you happen to meet that other man, tell him I am much obliged to him."

"I shall do so."

"And tell him I returned the umbrella."

"I shall do so."

"And tell him that I hope he hasn't been caught in the rain."

"That will be more difficult."

"Why?"

"Because he appears to have vanished."

Eve shook her head and went towards the hotel.

Psmith watched her enter. Then he resumed his walk.

At the Grand Babylon Hotel, Eve was shown into a small sitting-room on the first floor. A large, untidy man was standing by the window, examining the traffic through a pair of pince-nez which seemed to have been put on in a hurry.

"Miss Halliday?" he said.

"Yes."

"Ah, yes. Miss Halliday. How do you do?"

"How do you do?"

He shook her hand and released it at once, as if he had forgotten why he had taken it.

"I am Lord Emsworth."

Eve murmured something polite.

"Yes," said Lord Emsworth. "Quite so. Please sit down."

She sat down. Lord Emsworth sat down opposite her, then rose again and looked under the chair.

"I beg your pardon," said Eve.

"I thought I had dropped something."

"What was it?"

"I don't know."

He resumed his seat.

"I understand that you have had experience of cataloguing."

"Not in a public library, but I have helped my father with papers and books, and I am fond of books."

"Yes, yes. Very good. Are you fond of pigs?"

Eve blinked.

"I have never had much opportunity of finding out."

"Quite so. That is not important."

He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and stared at it. The writing had been blurred by the rain.

"Can you arrange books alphabetically?"

"Yes."

"Can you arrange them chronologically?"

"Yes."

"Can you arrange them in a way which would make them easy to find?"

"I should hope so."

"Very good. That is the main thing."

He nodded with satisfaction and folded the paper.

"I have a very fine library at Blandings. A splendid collection. My father began it. My grandfather added to it. I myself have done a little."

"I should like to see it."

"Yes. You would see it. That is what you would do."

He looked at her hat.

"That is a very large hat."

"I am sorry."

"Why?"

"I thought perhaps you disliked it."

"I don't dislike it. It reminds me of the flower-beds at Blandings."

This seemed to embarrass him, and he turned to the window.

"There are certain points which I ought to mention. The work would be quiet. There would be no noise. My sister, Lady Constance, is a lady of very strong character."

"I am sure I should get on with her."

"She has a very strong character," repeated Lord Emsworth.

"Yes."

"And my secretary, Mr. Baxter, is a very capable man."

"That sounds useful."

"He is sometimes too capable. Still, he is useful."

There was a knock at the door. A page entered.

"Lord Emsworth, Mr. Baxter wishes to speak to you at once."

"Tell him I am engaged."

"He says it is important, my lord."

Lord Emsworth looked troubled.

"Tell him I shall come in a moment."

The page went out.

Lord Emsworth took up the blurred paper again.

"Where were we?"

"You were saying that the work would be quiet."

"Yes. Quiet. Very quiet."

The door opened once more. This time Rupert Baxter entered without waiting to be announced. He was carrying a leather case and wore the expression of a man who had spent the day preventing other people from losing things.

"Your lordship, I have just received a telegram which requires your attention."

"Cannot it wait?"

"No, my lord."

Lord Emsworth looked at Eve.

"I am afraid I shall have to go."

"Of course."

"But we have not finished."

"No."

"I am not turning you down."

"I am glad to hear it."

"Not at all. I am not turning you down. You may consider the post practically yours."

Baxter glanced at him.

"Your lordship, you have not asked Miss Halliday when she can start."

"Ah, yes. When can you start?"

"Tomorrow, if you like."

"Tomorrow," said Lord Emsworth. "Excellent. You will go down to Blandings tomorrow."

He rose and looked at Baxter.

"Will you see that Miss Halliday is given all the information?"

"I will, my lord."

"Good. Then that is settled."

He hurried out after the page.

Baxter remained.

"I fear his lordship has not conducted the interview quite as he intended," he said.

"I gathered that."

"Nevertheless, the post is yours, if you are willing to accept it."

"I am willing."

"You will receive a formal letter tonight."

"Thank you."

"Can you really begin tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Then I shall send the particulars to your London address."

He paused.

"His lordship was right about one thing. The library is a very fine one."

"I am looking forward to seeing it."

"I hope you will not be put off by his manner. He is absent-minded."

"I have noticed that."

Baxter inclined his head.

"I will not detain you."

Eve left the room with the feeling that she had been accepted for a post by accident, in a conversation which had somehow taken place around her rather than with her. At the foot of the stairs she stopped to look at the hotel directory.

The man who had lent her the umbrella was standing across the street.

Or, rather, a man who looked exactly like him.

She hurried out through the revolving doors, but the pavement was empty. The traffic flowed between her and the far side of the road, and no tall, thin figure appeared among the people passing.

Back at the Drones, Psmith was sitting alone in the smoking-room.

The Honourable Mr. Walderwick's umbrella stood beside him, its silver handle catching the last of the daylight. Psmith had been looking at it for some time when the porter came in with a message.

"That young lady who brought back the umbrella this morning has just been here again, sir."

"Indeed?"

"She asked if you had received her message."

"I have received it."

"She said her name was Miss Halliday."

Psmith turned his monocle towards him.

"Miss Halliday?"

"Yes, sir. Miss Eve Halliday."

"Thank you, Parker."

The porter withdrew.

Psmith sat very still, gazing at the umbrella.

"Eve Halliday," he said.

Then he picked up the umbrella, opened it, and inspected the silk lining with thoughtful approval.

When she awoke the train was standing still and Mrs. Medlock was looking at her.

"Wake up," she said sharply. "We are there."

Mary sat up and stared out of the window. The rain had stopped, but the sky was dark and the station was dimly lighted. A few people were moving about on the platform, and a porter was lifting Mary's trunk from the luggage van.

"Is this Yorkshire?" Mary asked.

"Ay, it is," answered Mrs. Medlock. "And there is Mr. Craven waiting for us."

Mary looked where she pointed. A tall, dark man stood a little apart from the others. He wore a long travelling coat and held his hat in his hand. He had a thin, strange face, and his shoulders were bent as if he had grown tired of holding himself upright. One of his hands rested on the top of a walking-stick.

He did not look like any one Mary had ever seen before. He looked as lonely as the great moorland she could see beyond the station.

"Is he the hunchback?" she whispered.

"Don't use that word," said Mrs. Medlock in a low, angry voice. "And don't whisper about him when he can hear you."

But Mr. Craven did not seem to have heard. He turned as the carriage door was opened and came toward them. He looked at Mary for a few seconds, not as if he were glad to see her, but as if he were trying to remember who she was.

"This is the child?" he asked.

"Yes, Mr. Craven," said Mrs. Medlock. "This is Miss Mary Lennox."

"She has had a long journey."

"Yes, Mr. Craven."

He looked again at Mary's plain little face and then glanced away.

"Take her to the house," he said. "I have some business here."

Mary waited for him to say something more. Perhaps he would tell her that Misselthwaite was her home, or that he was glad she had come, or that she need not be afraid. But he only turned from her and walked toward the station door.

She watched him go.

"He didn't even speak to me properly," she said.

"He is not a man who speaks properly to people," replied Mrs. Medlock. "You must not expect it. Come along."

The carriage which was to take them was a closed one, with a lantern swinging at each side. A man in a heavy coat stood by the horses. He put Mary's trunk in the back and opened the door. Mary climbed in first, and Mrs. Medlock followed.

The train moved away behind them. For a moment Mary could hear the wheels growing fainter, and then there was nothing but the sound of the horses' feet upon the wet road.

They went through a little town, past rows of dark houses and shops with their shutters closed. Then the houses grew fewer. There were only fields, and after the fields came stretches of rough brown ground and low bushes which seemed to have no end.

"What is that?" Mary asked after a time.

"The moor," said Mrs. Medlock.

Mary pressed her face toward the window. The moon was not shining, and there was no light except from the carriage lanterns and a few stars which appeared and disappeared between the clouds. The land rose and fell in long, dark waves. Here and there something pale showed among the heather, but Mary could not tell whether it was a stone, a sheep, or a patch of mist.

"It is not like India," she said.

"I should think not," answered Mrs. Medlock. "You have never seen anything like it there."

"Is it the sea?"

"No. It is the moor. It goes on for miles and miles, and there is very little growing on it except heather and gorse."

Mary sat back in her corner. The darkness outside seemed to press against the glass. She had never before travelled through a place where there were no lamps, no houses, no people, and no sound of voices. She did not like it. It made her think of the servants' quarters after the cholera had come, when there had been no one anywhere.

Presently the carriage stopped so suddenly that Mary was thrown forward.

"What is it?" she cried.

The horses stamped and shook their harness. The driver climbed down and went to the front of the carriage. Mrs. Medlock opened the door and looked out.

"What has happened?" Mary asked.

"There is something in the road," Mrs. Medlock answered. "Stay where you are."

But Mary had already put one foot upon the step. She could see a large, dark shape standing between the lanterns. It had a shaggy back and a narrow head, and it would not move when the driver called to it.

"It is a pony," Mary said.

"A moor pony," said Mrs. Medlock. "Come back in."

The animal turned its head and looked toward the carriage. Its eyes shone in the lantern light. It stood so quietly that it seemed to be watching them.

Mary did not go back in. She stepped down from the carriage and stood beside the road.

"Miss Mary!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock. "What are you doing?"

Mary scarcely heard her. The air outside was cold and damp, and it touched her face with a clean, sharp feeling. She had never felt such air before. The moor stretched away on both sides, and the heather came almost to the wheels of the carriage. When she took another step she was standing upon it.

The ground was soft under her shoes. It bent and sprang back, and wet leaves brushed against her ankles. The darkness seemed much larger than it had looked through the carriage window. It was not the darkness of a room or a passage. It was a darkness which had open space inside it.

For one short moment Mary forgot that she was cold.

Then the pony moved. It lifted one hoof, snorted, and walked slowly off the road. The driver seized its bridle and drew it farther away.

"Get in, Miss," he called. "Tha' munnot be wanderin' i' t'dark."

Mary did not understand the words, but she understood his angry voice. Mrs. Medlock caught her arm and pulled her back into the carriage.

"You are a tiresome, reckless little thing," she said. "What would Mr. Craven say if you fell into a ditch? There are holes on the moor deep enough to swallow you."

"I only wanted to see."

"You see too much for a child. Sit still."

The carriage went on. Mary looked back through the glass, but the pony had vanished into the dark.

After that no one spoke for some time. The road became rougher. It climbed slowly, and the carriage rocked from side to side. At last Mary saw something rising before them. It was not a hill. It was a mass of stone with many windows, and a great number of chimneys and pointed roofs stood black against the sky.

"That is Misselthwaite Manor," said Mrs. Medlock.

Mary leaned forward.

The house was so large that she could not see all of it at once. One part stood higher than another, and towers and dark windows rose out of the shadows. It looked less like a place where people lived than a place which had been left behind by people who had gone away long ago.

"Does Mr. Craven live there alone?" she asked.

"No. There are servants. And you will have your own room. But you are not to leave it after you have been put to bed unless some one comes for you."

"Why?"

"Because I say so. That is enough."

The carriage passed through a high entrance and stopped before a wide stone step. A man opened the great front door from within. He wore a dark coat and stood very straight. The hall behind him was large and dim, with a floor that shone like black water and a staircase which went upward into the darkness.

Mary climbed out.

The man who had opened the door took her hand-bag, but he did not speak. Mrs. Medlock led the way. Mary followed, looking from side to side. There were old pictures upon the walls, and the faces in them seemed to watch her as she passed. A great clock ticked in one corner. The sound was so loud that it made the hall feel even emptier.

"Where is Mr. Craven?" she asked.

"He has gone to the West Wing," said Mrs. Medlock. "You are not to ask questions about it."

"Why?"

"Because you are not to ask questions about it."

Mary drew her mouth into a hard line. She had been told not to ask questions so often that she had learned to ask more of them in her thoughts.

They went up two flights of stairs and along a passage. It was not like the passages at the clergyman's house. Those had been narrow and noisy, with the children running through them. This one was wide and covered with a long carpet. There were doors on either side, but they were all closed.

At last Mrs. Medlock stopped before one of them and unlocked it.

"This is your room," she said. "You will sleep here and play here. You can have books brought to you if you want them. There is a fire laid, but it is not cold enough to light it yet."

Mary entered. The room was larger than the nursery she had occupied in India. It had a high bed with four posts, a tall wardrobe, a washstand, and a dressing-table with a looking-glass. The curtains were of a dull red colour, and the fire-place was black and empty.

"You will have supper here," said Mrs. Medlock. "Mr. Craven does not dine with you."

"I do not want to dine with him," said Mary.

"Then you are suited already. Take off your hat."

Mary threw it upon a chair.

Mrs. Medlock looked at her.

"You must remember that you are in an orderly house now. You are not in India, and there will be nobody running when you ring a bell. You must speak civilly to the servants and do as you are told."

"I always did as I was told in India," said Mary.

"Then you will find it easy here."

"I did not. I told other people what to do."

"You will not do that here," answered Mrs. Medlock.

Mary turned away. She did not like the look on the housekeeper's face. It was the same look the children at the clergyman's house had worn when they sang about Mistress Mary Quite Contrary.

A little later there was a knock at the door.

Mary expected to see a maid, but it was a man who entered carrying a tray. He was young, with a broad face and reddish hair, and his black coat was brushed until it shone. He put the tray upon the table and stood looking at her.

"Tha' mun eat a bit, miss," he said. "Mester says tha' mun ha' a good supper."

Mary stared at him.

"What did you say?"

He scratched his head.

"Tha' mun eat," he repeated. "There be broth, an' bread, an' a bit o' chicken. Mester says tha' mun get summat inside thee."

"I do not understand you," said Mary.

The man blinked.

"Tha' doesn't understand me?"

"No. I cannot understand what you are saying."

He looked toward the door, as if he thought some one else might be able to explain him.

"Her'll understand," he muttered. "Mrs. Medlock will tell thee."

"I do not want her to tell me. I want you to speak so that I can understand."

The man made an effort.

"You must eat your supper, miss."

"That is better," said Mary.

He looked relieved.

"It'll be warm, then. An' I shall come back for t'tray."

"Who are you?"

"John, miss."

"Are you a footman?"

"Ay."

"Do you always talk like that?"

John gave her a slow look.

"Like what?"

"Like a person who has something in his mouth."

His face became red, but he did not answer. He only bowed and went out.

Mary ate the broth because she was hungry. The chicken was better than anything Mrs. Crawford had given her, and there was bread with it which was still warm. She did not enjoy the meal, however, because the room seemed too large and silent. Every little noise came clearly through the walls. Once she heard a door shut somewhere below. Once there was a sound of feet moving quickly and then stopping.

When Mrs. Medlock returned, she found the tray nearly empty.

"You have done better than I expected," she said. "You will be taken down to breakfast in the morning."

"Where is Mr. Craven now?"

"In the West Wing."

"What is he doing?"

"Thinking, perhaps. Or walking. It is no concern of yours."

"Does he always stay there?"

"He stays where he chooses. That is another thing which is no concern of yours."

Mary sat upon the edge of the bed.

"I want to know what I may do."

"You may go into the rooms I show you. You may walk where you are told. You may not go into the West Wing, and you may not open closed doors. You are to keep away from Mr. Craven when he is here. He has enough upon his mind without being bothered by a disagreeable child."

Mary's eyes flashed.

"I am not disagreeable."

Mrs. Medlock gave a short laugh.

"Most children who are disagreeable say that. Now take off your clothes."

Mary undressed without help. She had always been dressed and undressed by servants, and it seemed strange to put on her own nightgown. Mrs. Medlock pulled back the bedclothes and turned down the lamp.

"You may leave the door open," Mary said.

"It shall stay shut. There are passages enough in this house for you to lose yourself in if you begin wandering."

"I do not want to wander."

"I hope you don't."

Mrs. Medlock went out. The door closed behind her.

Mary lay down. The bed was soft, but she did not feel sleepy. The room was not quite dark because a little light came through the curtains from the window. She could see the tall wardrobe and the chair where her dress lay in a heap. The house made small noises around her. Wood creaked. The clock in the hall struck once, though she did not know what hour it was.

Then a sound came from somewhere beyond the room.

It was not loud. At first it seemed like a long rubbing noise, as if something heavy were being dragged along a floor. It stopped, and after a moment there came a low, uneven sound which rose and fell and ended in a dull knock.

Mary sat up in bed.

She listened.

The sound came again. It was farther away this time, and it seemed to travel through the house. There was another knock, then silence.

Mary jumped out of bed and ran to the door. She had just put her hand upon the handle when Mrs. Medlock opened it from the other side.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"What was that sound?"

"Sound? What sound?"

"The one in the house. It was like some one dragging something."

Mrs. Medlock's face changed for an instant, but she turned away so quickly that Mary could not be sure.

"It is the wind," she said.

"The wind does not drag things."

"It is the wind in the passages and behind the doors. This is an old house. It makes noises."

"It knocked."

"Wind can knock."

Mary looked past her into the passage. It was empty. The lamp at the far end burned with a small, steady flame.

"I heard it twice."

"You have been travelling all day and your head is full of foolish notions. Get back into bed."

"What made the sound?"

"I told you, the wind."

Mrs. Medlock tucked the clothes around Mary's shoulders with more force than was necessary.

"If I hear it again, I shall call you."

"You will do nothing of the sort. You will lie still and go to sleep."

She put the lamp on the table and left the room. This time she did not close the door quite as hard.

Mary remained sitting up. She was not afraid. She was angry because Mrs. Medlock had answered her as if she were a baby, and because her answer did not make sense. She had heard the sound. It had come from inside the house. It had not sounded like the wind outside.

For a long time nothing happened. Then, far away, something moved across the floor again.

Mary slipped beneath the bedclothes and lay very still, listening to the dark house.

She had been told not to wander. She had been told not to ask questions. She had been told that the sound was the wind.

But nobody could make her believe what she did not believe.

Before she closed her eyes, Mary decided that she would find out for herself what the sound was.

The conference took place on the following morning, in the library at Kellynch Hall, where Sir Walter had ordered a fire to be lighted, although the day was warm, because he disliked sitting in a room which was not prepared for company.

Lady Russell and Mr Shepherd arrived within a few minutes of each other. Lady Russell came from the village in her own carriage, with a small portfolio under her arm; Mr Shepherd had walked from the market town, and brought with him several papers, a pencil, and an expression of concern which he hoped would be mistaken for confidence. Elizabeth was already seated beside her father. Anne, who had been summoned by Lady Russell, occupied a chair near the window, and was employed in hemming a piece of linen which had been lying unfinished for nearly three weeks.

Sir Walter looked round upon them with an air of injured dignity.

“I am very glad to see you all,” he said, “because I believe there is no person in this room who can be indifferent to the interests of Kellynch. I trust, however, that nothing will be proposed which may have the effect of degrading the family, or disturbing the habits of life to which we have been accustomed.”

Lady Russell bowed.

“No one, Sir Walter, can have a deeper regard for the honour of your name than myself. It is for that very reason that I have been anxious to speak plainly. Your present expenditure is greater than your income, and the difference has been supplied by borrowing. Unless some change is made, the difficulty must increase.”

Sir Walter turned towards the fire.

“I am aware that there have been some irregularities in the accounts. Mr Shepherd has mentioned them more than once. But the word difficulty is used rather too readily. Every man of property has obligations. The tradespeople are paid in their season, and no doubt will continue to be paid.”

“They are paid, Sir Walter, by means of bills which bear interest,” said Mr Shepherd.

Sir Walter glanced at him with displeasure.

“Interest is the natural consequence of money being advanced. I do not see that it reflects any discredit on the person who receives the accommodation.”

Lady Russell opened her portfolio.

“My plan is very moderate. It would not require any sudden alteration in the appearance of the family. The second carriage might be dismissed, and the number of horses reduced. The household could be brought to the size which Lady Elliot maintained, without inconvenience to any one. The table might be less frequently opened to large parties, and the annual visit to London shortened. No new furniture should be ordered, and no considerable purchase made without a previous examination of the account. If these rules were observed for two years, the greater part of the present burden might be removed.”

Sir Walter stared at her.

“Shortened? You would have me shorten my time in London?”

“It is a considerable expense, Sir Walter.”

“It is the expense which my station requires. A baronet cannot be expected to live in town as if he were a country attorney. The family must be seen. Elizabeth must be seen. I should be very sorry to think that any saving could be purchased at the cost of our proper consequence.”

“I do not propose that you should be hidden from the world,” said Lady Russell. “Only that your time and money should be used with greater caution.”

“Caution is very well in its place. But it must not become meanness. The second carriage is necessary. The horses are not excessive. The house cannot be kept up without servants, and the servants cannot be retained if their wages are to be questioned every quarter. As for receiving company, I should be sorry to be thought less hospitable than my neighbours.”

Elizabeth looked at her father with some anxiety.

“Lady Russell has not suggested that we should become mean, papa. She only wishes us to be more careful.”

“I know what the world calls careful,” replied Sir Walter. “It calls a family careful when the family has ceased to live as it ought.”

Lady Russell closed her portfolio. She had expected resistance, but not such a complete refusal to understand the matter before them. Her own plan had been framed with a regard to his feelings which had cost her more thought than the figures themselves. She had omitted every measure which might appear harsh, and had left untouched several comforts which she believed to be unnecessary. Yet he had rejected it as if she had asked him to surrender his name.

Mr Shepherd now advanced his papers.

“If I may be allowed, Sir Walter, to state my view, I would not advise a sudden change in the domestic arrangements. But I do think that something more decisive than my lady’s plan will be required. The most pressing bills must be settled first. To accomplish this, the stable expenses should be reduced at once, three servants might be discharged, and no entertainments given for the remainder of the year. The household accounts should be kept weekly, and no tradesman employed unless his bill can be paid within the quarter. If these rules are followed, a fixed sum might be applied every year to the debt.”

“Three servants!” cried Sir Walter. “Which three?”

“I have not named them, Sir Walter.”

“Because you know that no such reduction can be made without injury. The house requires its servants. The stables require their attendants. The hall porter cannot also wait at table, and the footman cannot be expected to clean the silver.”

“The silver might be used less frequently,” said Anne, without raising her eyes from her work.

Sir Walter looked at her.

“I do not think we have asked for your opinion, Anne.”

“No, papa.”

Mr Shepherd hastened to continue.

“I should also recommend that the yearly presents to relations and acquaintances should be discontinued for a time. They are not large individually, but the whole amount is considerable. The gardeners’ wages might be examined, and the repairs to the outbuildings postponed where it is safe to do so.”

“The gardeners are not overpaid,” said Sir Walter. “They are a respectable set of men, and it would be unjust to reduce them because some other persons have failed in economy.”

“The repairs,” said Elizabeth, “cannot all be postponed. The south terrace wants attention.”

“The south terrace has wanted attention for six years, and has not fallen into the shrubbery yet. I do not understand why every trifling defect is suddenly to be treated as an emergency.”

Mr Shepherd folded one paper over another.

“There is also the question of dress, Sir Walter. Miss Elliot’s wardrobe, though very properly maintained, may be supplied at less expense if orders are given with more regularity.”

Elizabeth coloured.

“I do not think my clothes have been extravagant.”

“I have not said that they have,” returned Mr Shepherd. “Only that an account of them might be useful.”

“An account of my clothes!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “I should be sorry to live in a house where such a thing was necessary.”

“And I should be sorry to live in a house where it was impossible,” said Anne.

The words were spoken quietly, but they produced a silence more complete than any which had followed the other proposals. Anne had not intended to speak again. She had been accustomed to seeing her father’s wishes treated as the only wishes which had any right to be expressed, and she knew that her own judgment was seldom welcome. But the plans of Lady Russell and Mr Shepherd had been offered and rejected, and the conversation appeared likely to end in nothing but wounded feelings and fresh postponement.

Lady Russell turned towards her.

“What is your opinion, Anne?”

Sir Walter gave a faint sigh.

“I am afraid Anne’s opinion will be found to be of a nature rather too severe for practical life.”

Anne laid aside her work.

“If we are all agreed that the expenditure exceeds the income, and if we are also agreed that the debt must be paid, then I cannot see why we should continue to discuss which comfort may be spared without first considering what is necessary. We must spend less than we receive. There is no other plan.”

“Very true,” said Mr Shepherd, with a readiness which suggested that he had wished to say the same thing himself.

Anne continued.

“The house may be maintained, and the family may live with propriety, on less than has been spent since Lady Elliot died. One carriage is sufficient. The horses which are not required for it should be sold. The number of servants should be reduced to what the work demands, rather than what the appearance of the household has demanded. There should be no large dinners, no new furniture, no yearly presents, and no purchase made merely because it has always been made. The time in London should be given up until the most urgent debts are paid. Every account should be written down, and every quarter should begin with a fixed sum which cannot be exceeded. Whatever remains of the income should be sent directly to the creditors.”

Sir Walter raised both hands.

“Give up London!”

“If the debt requires it,” said Anne. “And if the debt is not paid by these means, then the plan must be made stricter still.”

Elizabeth had been listening with increasing attention. Her face showed alarm, but not anger.

“I agree with Anne,” she said.

Sir Walter turned to her as if he had misheard.

“You agree with Anne?”

“Yes, papa. I do.”

Lady Russell looked at Elizabeth with a mixture of surprise and approval. Mr Shepherd made a small movement towards his papers, as if Anne’s speech had supplied the conclusion he had been unable to reach.

Elizabeth went on.

“We have been speaking of the carriage, and the servants, and the dinners, as if the house could not continue without them. But it is the debts which are making us uncomfortable. I would rather have fewer horses than hear again that the tradespeople are waiting. I would rather stay in the country than be unable to appear in London with the consequence you expect. Anne is right. We have been considering our comforts before our obligations.”

Sir Walter looked from one daughter to the other.

“I cannot imagine what has come over you both. Elizabeth, you have always understood what belongs to your situation.”

“I understand it now better than I did yesterday.”

“Yesterday you were proposing to give up nothing but a few charities and the new furnishing of the drawing-room.”

“Yesterday I had not heard the whole of the case.”

Sir Walter rose and walked to the window. The garden, seen through the glass, was in full summer beauty. The lawns were smooth, the shrubs well cut, and the long gravel walk showed no trace of the anxieties which occupied the library within. He stood looking at it with the mournful attention of a man who believed that the world had conspired to make him sacrifice his property for the sake of figures on paper.

“No,” he said at last. “I will not consent to any plan which makes Kellynch appear reduced. The family must preserve its proper style. If certain payments have been delayed, they can be arranged. I will not have the house turned into a place of pinching and calculation.”

“The house is already a place of calculation,” said Anne, “only the calculation is made by persons to whom we owe money.”

“Anne!”

He resumed his seat and took up the Baronetage, which had been lying beside him.

Mr Shepherd had been silent for some moments. He now looked at Lady Russell, then at Elizabeth, and finally at Sir Walter.

“There is one expedient, Sir Walter, which I have not yet ventured to mention.”

“I hope it is one which does not concern my daughters’ wardrobes.”

“It concerns the house itself.”

Sir Walter closed the Baronetage.

“The house?”

“If Kellynch Hall were occupied by a tenant for a term of years, the expense of maintaining the establishment might be removed, and the income of the estate applied more directly to the debt. A family of suitable fortune might be found, and the arrangement need not be made public in any manner that would injure your dignity.”

“Stop.”

Mr Shepherd stopped.

“I beg your pardon, Sir Walter.”

“You have used a word which I will not hear again.”

Mr Shepherd’s face became more anxious.

“I intended only to propose that the house might be placed in the hands of another family.”

“You intended to propose a tenant.”

“I did, Sir Walter.”

“The word tenant shall never be spoken in my presence again.”

Lady Russell leaned forward.

“Sir Walter, Mr Shepherd means only to show that the property has resources which are not being used.”

“The property is being used exactly as it ought to be used. Kellynch Hall is my house. It was my father’s house, and his father’s before him. I will not have it occupied by persons who have no right to be there, while I am driven away like a man who cannot maintain his own name.”

“No one has suggested that you should be driven away,” said Elizabeth.

“The suggestion is contained in the word.”

Mr Shepherd attempted to recover his composure.

“It was not meant as a personal affront.”

“It is a personal affront. It is an affront to the family. The house is not an inn, to be given to the first person who can pay for a room. I will hear no more of it.”

“And if the debts cannot be discharged by the present means?” asked Lady Russell.

“They will be discharged.”

“By what means, Sir Walter?”

Sir Walter looked at her with offended astonishment.

“By the ordinary means. By attention to business. By the proper management of the estate. By not being harassed into making disgraceful sacrifices.”

There was nothing more to be said. Lady Russell could not persuade him to live within his income, Mr Shepherd could not persuade him to examine the accounts, and Anne’s plan, though supported by Elizabeth, had only given him another cause for resentment. The papers remained upon the table. The Baronetage lay open beside them. The debt was as large as before, and the means of paying it had become less clear.

The party separated before dinner. Lady Russell invited Anne to call on her that evening, but Anne, seeing that her father was still displeased with her, declined the invitation. Mr Shepherd returned to the town with his papers under his arm, having gained no promise except one which he did not venture to record, that the word tenant should not again be used.

Elizabeth remained with Sir Walter in the library. She spoke to him for some time in a tone which Anne could not hear, and once or twice Sir Walter answered with unusual sharpness. At dinner, however, no disagreement was visible. He remarked upon the excellent appearance of the soup, complained that the summer was making every one look older, and asked Elizabeth whether her new dress had been ordered from the same person as Lady Russell’s.

Anne was beginning to think that the whole morning might pass away without any event less familiar than her father’s complaints, when a letter was brought in from Uppercross.

It was addressed to herself, in Mary’s hand.

“From Mary,” said Elizabeth. “I hope nothing is the matter with Charles.”

Anne opened the letter. It was dated that morning.

“My dear Anne,

“I have been very unwell since breakfast, and am now obliged to remain upon the sofa. I assure you I have never felt such weakness in my life, and my head is in a state that makes it impossible for me to attend to any thing. Charles says I shall be better after a little rest, but Charles always thinks every thing will be better without considering what I suffer.

“I wish you would come to me as soon as you can. I am sure that you could be of great use, and I cannot depend upon any one else to understand how my room should be arranged, or what I ought to take. I have tried to send for Mrs Musgrove, but she is engaged, and I do not feel equal to seeing the children for another hour. If you could come tomorrow, I should be very thankful. Pray do not let papa or Elizabeth prevent you, for they can do without you more easily than I can.

“Your affectionate sister,

“Mary Musgrove.”

Elizabeth listened to the letter with a look of concern which increased as Anne read.

“Mary ought not to be left in that state,” she said. “You must go.”

“I mean to go.”

Sir Walter laid down his knife.

“Go where?”

“To Uppercross, papa. Mary is ill and has asked for me.”

“Mary is always ill when she wishes to have some one near her. I do not see why you should be sent for at every inconvenience in another household.”

“She says she is very weak.”

“She has said the same thing before, and was perfectly well when she came here the next day. I do not like the habit of making oneself necessary by continual complaints.”

Elizabeth folded the letter.

“You must go, Anne. It will be better for every one. There is no reason why your absence should inconvenience us.”

Sir Walter looked at her in displeasure.

“I cannot think that you have considered what you are saying. This house has just been subjected to a proposal for reducing every comfort, and now Anne is to leave us whenever her sister writes a foolish letter.”

“It is not a foolish letter,” said Elizabeth. “Mary may be unreasonable, but she may also be ill.”

Lady Russell, who had returned to speak with Elizabeth and was present when the letter arrived, agreed that Anne should go. She offered to send a carriage for her as far as the road permitted, but Anne declined the offer, remembering the discussion of the morning.

“I can make my way without increasing the expense,” she said. “It is not far.”

Sir Walter made no answer. He took up the Baronetage and turned the leaves with a care which showed that he was not reading. Elizabeth left the room soon afterwards, carrying Mary’s letter with her, and Lady Russell followed.

Anne remained for a little while beside the window. The events of the day had left her more troubled than surprised. She had not expected her father to receive any plan willingly, but Elizabeth’s support had seemed, for a moment, capable of giving them some authority. It had been the first time in many years that Elizabeth had appeared to see the danger as it was. Yet even that support had failed to move him. The plans were rejected, the house could not be mentioned, and the debts remained to be met by a future which no one had been able to describe.

In the evening Anne sat alone in her room, with Mary’s letter upon the table and a small travelling bag open beside it. She placed into it the few things which might be required for a short visit, then paused, and looked towards the door. No one had told her that she must remain. No one, except Mary, had any real claim on her presence. At Uppercross she might at least be useful.

She would go in the morning.

The question of the family’s debts was still entirely unsettled, and Anne had no expectation that the next day would bring a better answer. But Mary had asked for her, and that request, unreasonable as it might be, had given her one clear duty in a day of fruitless counsel.

Robert had remained silent for some time, while Madame Ratignolle leaned upon his arm and moved with the languid reluctance of one whose limbs had been overcome by the heat. The children ran before them, stopping now and then to gather shells or to dig their bare toes into the sand. Their voices came back in little gusts upon the wind.

Presently Robert said:

“Mrs. Pontellier is not like the others.”

Madame Ratignolle turned her head and looked at him with an amused smile.

“Not like whom?”

“Not like any woman I have ever known.”

“Is that because she does not carry a baby on her hip or a needlework in her pocket?”

He laughed.

“No. It is because she seems to be living in two worlds at once. She is here beside us, and yet she is always seeing something beyond what we see. Sometimes I speak to her and wonder if she has heard me.”

“Perhaps she is thinking of your long journey to Mexico,” said Madame Ratignolle, with a touch of raillery.

“I have not spoken of Mexico to her for days.”

“Then it cannot be that.”

“It is no matter what she thinks of. I only know that when she looks at the sea, or at a field, or at anything that pleases her, she looks as if she had just discovered it. I like that in her.”

They had reached the path where the camomile pressed close against their skirts. Madame Ratignolle lifted her dress a little, with the careful instinct of one who had a regard for her clothing even in the most insignificant matters.

“You like many things in her, I think,” she observed.

Robert made no answer. A child called to him from ahead, and he quickened his step to overtake them. Madame Ratignolle followed more slowly, smiling to herself, though whether at his silence or at some thought of her own it would have been difficult to say.

At the house the children were gathered up by their nurses and carried away to be washed and dressed for dinner. The baby of Madame Ratignolle had fallen asleep against a nurse’s shoulder, its little mouth open and its soft head rolling with every step. Adèle took it from the woman and carried it herself to her room.

Mrs. Pontellier remained in the passage, where the light fell in a pale square upon the floor. She had removed her hat, and her hair was loosened at the temples by the wind. Robert stood near one of the open doors, speaking to a group of boys who were clamoring for him to join them at the water.

“Are you not coming?” he asked Edna.

“Not now. I am going to rest.”

“You have had no rest since the day began.”

“That is why I require it.”

He stood looking at her a moment, then went off with the boys. She watched the brown mass of his hair as he passed beneath the trees and disappeared toward the beach. There was nothing remarkable in his going. There was nothing remarkable in his remaining. Yet she felt the absence of him with an impatience that surprised her.

After dinner, when the children had been sent to their naps, Madame Ratignolle came to the cottage and found Edna lying in the hammock with a book which she had not opened. Adèle sat down beside her and began to fan herself.

“You were very quiet at the table,” she said.

“I was hungry.”

“You ate very little.”

“I was not hungry, then.”

Madame Ratignolle smiled and examined the clasp of her bracelet.

“Robert said something about you while we were walking home.”

Edna lifted herself upon one elbow.

“About me?”

“He said you were not like any woman he had ever known.”

“Did he say that?”

“He said more than that. He said you seemed to live in two worlds at once, and that when you looked at the sea or at anything which pleased you, you looked as if you had just discovered it. He said he liked that in you.”

Edna let herself fall back into the hammock. The swinging motion had ceased, but she felt herself moving inwardly, as if rocked by some current too deep to be seen.

“He says such things to amuse himself,” she replied.

“I do not think so. Robert is not always amusing himself.”

“Then he must be amusing you.”

“He does that very well also.” Adèle picked up the fan and moved it slowly to and fro. “You should have heard him when the children were teasing him about the boat. He was quite serious.”

“What boat?”

“The little sailboat. They wanted him to take them out. He said the wind was too rough.”

Edna looked toward the window. Beyond it the sky was whitening in the declining light.

“He is always with the children,” she said.

“He is fond of them.”

“He is fond of everybody.”

Madame Ratignolle glanced at her companion and saw the faint color that had risen in her face. She did not speak of it. After a little while she began to discuss the difficulty of keeping white garments clean at the seaside, and Edna listened with an attention that was not altogether feigned.

It was near five o’clock when the telegraph messenger came. He found Mrs. Pontellier upon the front steps, where she had gone to watch the children in the yard. The boy handed her a yellow envelope and stood waiting.

She opened it with a finger that trembled only a little.

“Will not come out Saturday. Business requires me in city. Expect you and children Monday. Léonce.”

She read it twice. The message was brief and without tenderness, but it did not wound her. She had expected him to come, because he had said that he would. The fact that he would not come released her from a duty which she had not known she was carrying.

She gave the boy a coin and watched him go down the path. Then she folded the telegram and placed it in the pocket of her dress.

The children were quarreling over a spade. Raoul had seized it from his brother, who cried out and struck him upon the shoulder. The quadroon nurse hurried forward and separated them. Mrs. Pontellier saw the disturbance, heard the angry voices, and felt no impulse to interfere.

The sea was calling to her.

She went down alone, without telling any one where she was going. The afternoon had softened. The strong glare lay broken upon the water, and the wind came in long breaths that lifted the hair from her neck. She walked beyond the bath-houses and stood where the damp sand gave way beneath her feet.

A few people remained near the awning. Farther out, a man was rowing slowly toward the shore. The lady in black sat upon the porch of her bath-house with her hands folded over her book. She had removed her shoes, and her black stockings showed above the sand.

When Edna passed, the woman looked up.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pontellier.”

It was the first time she had ever spoken to her. Edna stopped.

“Good afternoon.”

“The water is deep beyond the bar,” said the lady in black.

“I know it.”

“And the wind turns quickly at this hour.”

“I know that, too.”

The lady in black lowered her eyes to the book.

“I thought perhaps you did not.”

There was no sharpness in her voice. It was merely the tone of one who believed that knowledge had been entrusted to her for the benefit of others. Edna smiled slightly and continued toward the water.

She had often looked at it with a vague desire, as one looks at a road leading into a country one has never visited. Now she stepped forward until the small waves broke about her ankles. The wet muslin clung to her limbs. She raised her skirts and went farther.

The bottom fell away almost imperceptibly. Water reached her knees, then her waist. She turned toward the shore, startled by the sight of how far she had come. For a moment a tremor passed through her body. The water pressed against her, cold and insistent.

She put out one arm, then the other.

The first movement was awkward. Her feet sought the sand and found nothing firm. She cried out softly, though no one heard her. Then she remembered Robert’s voice, patient and laughing, telling her to trust the water.

She struck out again.

One stroke carried her forward. Another followed. The effort made her heart beat violently, but it did not frighten her. She moved perhaps the length of her body, then touched the bottom and stood erect, breathing hard.

She tried once more.

This time she went farther. Her arms moved with uncertain strength, and her legs answered them. The waves lifted her and bore her lightly back. When she stood again, she was laughing.

The lady in black was watching from the porch. Edna saw her and turned away. She walked out until the water closed about her shoulders, then stopped. She had no wish to prove anything further. The few strokes were enough. They belonged to her, and she would keep them.

On the shore she wrung the water from her skirt and sat upon the sand until the damp cloth no longer chilled her. She looked at the sea with a strange, quiet triumph. It had given her something without asking her name or her reason for coming. No one knew. The thought pleased her.

She returned to the cottage as the light was failing. The children were awake and clamorous. One wanted water, the other wanted his mother, and the nurse was attempting to persuade them to dress for supper.

“Where have you been?” Raoul demanded.

“To the beach.”

“Did you bathe?”

“No.”

He looked at her suspiciously.

“Your dress is wet.”

“It is the spray.”

He accepted this explanation because a more interesting quarrel had arisen between his brother and the nurse. Mrs. Pontellier changed her clothing and helped them with their supper. She moved among them with a tenderness that came and went in sudden flashes. Once she drew Raoul close because his hair was damp against his forehead. A moment later she left them to the nurse and went to stand alone by the open window.

The telegram lay upon the table. She took it up, read it again, and put it away.

Later, Madame Ratignolle came to say good-night. She had been busy with her children and had not asked Edna about the beach. She spoke of the weather, of the rough water, and of a letter received from her mother.

Edna listened, thinking of what Robert had said.

“He sees too much,” she remarked.

“Robert?”

“Of other people.”

“Perhaps he sees only you.”

Adèle said it lightly, without any meaning that she wished to convey. She rose and smoothed the folds of her gown.

“I must go. My husband will wonder what has become of me.”

Edna accompanied her to the door. The two women exchanged no embrace. Adèle placed her hand for an instant upon Edna’s arm, then went away along the path.

The night gathered slowly about the cottages. Lamps shone through the open windows, and voices passed from one house to another. Somewhere a piano was being played, the notes uncertain and repeated. The children grew quiet at last. The nurse came to say that they were asleep.

Mrs. Pontellier entered the room and stood beside their beds. Their faces were flushed with sleep, their limbs thrown carelessly across the coverlets. She looked at them without moving. They seemed remote from her, although she could have touched them with her hand.

She went out upon the gallery and sat in the low chair near the steps. The sea could not be seen from there, but its voice reached her through the darkness. The telegram was folded in her pocket. The water still seemed to cling to her skin.

Robert had said that she was not like any woman he had ever known. He had said that she lived in two worlds at once. He had said that when she looked at the sea, she looked as if she had just discovered it, and that he liked that in her.

The words remained with her while the cottage grew still and the children slept behind her. She sat alone upon the gallery, listening to the long, unbroken sound of the water.

It seemed so safe and tranquil. We had scarcely reached the gate of our house when I saw a light fall across the sky.

It was not like the meteors I had seen before, those swift and delicate scratches of white that vanish almost before the eye has seized upon them. This was a broad and glowing streak, green at its heart and red about its edges, that descended obliquely behind the trees towards the south-east. For a second the whole road and the bare branches of the elms were lit with a pale, unearthly glare. Then there came a dull concussion, not loud enough to shake the houses, but sufficiently distinct to make the windows tremble in their frames.

My wife caught my arm.

“What was that?”

“A falling star,” I said. “A large one, evidently.”

We stood listening. From the direction of Chertsey there rose a faint rumble, as of a cart passing over a bridge, and then all was still again. The excursionists had gone on, their music diminished to a murmur and lost in the distance. The red and green railway signals shone steadily against the darkness.

I remember that I was more impressed by the silence that followed than by the meteor itself. There was something final in that silence, as though the night had closed over the incident and meant to conceal it. My wife, however, was excited, and asked me whether the thing had fallen near us.

“Somewhere in the neighbourhood,” I said. “There is no telling where. It may have gone miles beyond Chertsey.”

We went into the house, but for a long time neither of us slept. I found myself repeatedly going to the window and looking towards the south-east. The sky was clear, and the stars shone as brightly as before. Mars was low over the roofs, red and steady. I thought of the falling star, and wondered what mass of stone had entered our atmosphere and sunk into the earth.

I was still in bed when, shortly after six in the morning, a boy came running up the road shouting that a meteor had fallen into the old flooded clay-pit beyond the common. He had heard it from a milkman, who had heard it from a man returning from Chertsey. The boy had no more precise information, but he was in a state of such delight that I dressed at once.

My wife was already awake.

“You are not going without me,” she said.

“I am only going to look at a stone.”

“Then I can look at it too.”

I tried to dissuade her. The pit was a rough place, and the banks were steep and slippery after the rain of the previous week. But she was determined, and in the end we set out together, taking the narrow road that ran past the fields towards the old works. The morning was cool and grey, though the sun was beginning to show through the thin clouds. A number of people were moving in the same direction. Some came from Ottershaw, others from the Chertsey road, and all talked eagerly of the meteor.

As we approached the pit we heard a confused noise of voices. The old clay workings lay in a hollow surrounded by low mounds of earth and scrub. Rainwater had collected in the deepest part, forming a dark pool with reeds about its edge. The object had fallen there.

At first I could see only a column of white vapour rising above the bushes. It drifted slowly in the still air and had a sharp mineral smell, like steam escaping from a railway engine. Then, through a break in the crowd, I saw the thing itself.

It was a great cylindrical body, perhaps thirty yards in length, and rounded at either end. One half of it lay in the water, which hissed and trembled about its sides. The other half rested upon the muddy bank. Its surface was dark, almost black, but here and there it shone with a dull metallic lustre beneath the clinging mud. Steam rose from it in wavering sheets.

A dozen men were gathered about the edge of the pit. Others stood on the mounds above, craning their necks to see. One man had brought a ladder, and another was trying to make his way down the bank. There were already several policemen among them, but they seemed uncertain whether to restrain the crowd or take part in the inspection.

Ogilvy came towards us as soon as he saw me. He was without his hat, and his boots were covered with clay.

“You saw it fall?” he asked.

“I saw the light. My wife and I were coming home.”

“Then you saw the meteor itself.”

“I saw a light descend towards this place. I did not see the object after it entered the air.”

He turned towards the cylinder and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“It is an ordinary meteorite,” he said. “A very large one, certainly, but an ordinary meteorite.”

I looked at the thing steaming in the water.

“It does not look much like any meteorite I have ever heard of.”

“Appearance proves nothing. Its fall has heated it. The form is due to fusion and rotation in the atmosphere. The surface has cooled unevenly. The water accounts for the steam.”

“But it has a regular cylindrical form.”

“Meteorites assume extraordinary shapes. You know that as well as I do.”

“I know of no meteorite that has fallen in the form of a manufactured cylinder.”

Ogilvy laughed impatiently.

“You are allowing your imagination to run away with you. A cylinder! You see a dark mass partly hidden by mud and water. The eye supplies the rest.”

The object gave a sudden metallic click. It was a small sound, but the people nearest it fell back. A little cloud of vapour issued from a narrow line that ran around the nearer end.

“What was that?” my wife asked.

Ogilvy glanced at her, then back at the cylinder.

“The contraction of the metal,” he said. “Nothing more.”

The line was so straight and clean that it seemed to have been drawn with a rule. It ran completely around the object, dividing the end from the longer portion. As we watched, the cylinder shifted slightly in the mud. The water splashed against it, and a fresh gush of steam rose into the air.

“There,” said Ogilvy. “The heat is escaping.”

“Then we should keep the people away from it,” I said.

He looked at me with an expression of annoyance.

“Certainly they should not touch it while it is hot. But there is no reason for this foolish panic. It is merely a meteorite. The sooner it cools, the sooner we can examine its composition.”

One of the men below, a broad fellow in a stained waistcoat, had been listening to us. He came forward with a grin.

“If it be a stone, sir, it cannot do much harm,” he said.

“It may be hot,” Ogilvy replied.

The man stepped down the bank and approached the cylinder. A policeman called to him to stop, but the man waved this aside. He went close to the exposed end and placed his hand upon the dark surface.

His cry was immediate and terrible. He leapt backward, clutching his hand against his breast, and fell against the muddy bank. The smell of burning flesh mingled with the steam. The crowd recoiled as one body, and for a few seconds there was no sound except the hissing of the water.

His fingers were reddened and blistered. A woman began to scream. The policeman nearest him pulled him up by the arm and helped him towards the top of the bank.

“I told you it was hot,” Ogilvy said, but his voice had lost its confidence.

The man’s companion wrapped a handkerchief about the injured hand. The fellow himself stared at the cylinder with a pale and astonished face.

“It burned me through the glove,” he muttered.

“You should not have touched it,” said Ogilvy.

“I thought you said it was only a stone.”

Ogilvy made no answer.

The people crowded closer again after the first alarm had passed. The incident had increased rather than diminished their curiosity. A boy began to creep down the bank, and two men pushed forward with poles. The policemen formed a loose line, but the line was constantly broken and re-formed.

My wife had remained beside me, her hand on my sleeve. She watched the cylinder with a fixed attention.

“Can it be hollow?” she asked.

“Most likely,” I said.

“Then what is inside it?”

“I do not know.”

Ogilvy turned sharply upon me.

“There is no reason to suppose it is hollow.”

“It has that joint.”

“Many natural bodies have cracks.”

“Not such a joint as that.”

He bent to pick up a fragment of clay and threw it against the cylinder. It struck with a hard ringing note and fell into the water.

“You see,” he said, “a metallic substance.”

“That does not make it ordinary.”

“I have said that its size is extraordinary. I did not say it was a common specimen.”

“You said it was an ordinary meteorite.”

“Ordinary in kind, extraordinary in scale.”

He spoke with the stubbornness of a man defending a conclusion that had become necessary to him. I understood his feeling. The alternative was too strange to be entertained before all these people. It would have required us to believe that an object had come from Mars, and that it had come with a purpose. Yet the things I had lately seen and remembered made the thought less absurd than it would have been a month before.

I looked up at the sky. The morning had brightened, and the last stars were fading. Mars was no longer visible. A lark rose from the field and climbed singing into the air, an absurd and cheerful sound above the steaming pit.

Several men now began to argue about removing the object. One proposed digging it out. Another thought a chain should be passed around it. A third, who said he had worked at the railway, declared that a crane could lift it clear in half an hour. The policemen ordered them back, but they took little notice.

“It ought to be reported to the authorities,” I said.

“It has been reported,” Ogilvy answered. “A messenger has gone to Chertsey.”

“And what do you suppose they will do?”

“Send someone from the railway, or from the county offices. There will be an examination.”

“By whom?”

He looked again at the cylinder.

“By men qualified to make one.”

A loud crack came from the object. This time the sound was accompanied by a slight movement. The nearer end turned perhaps an inch in the mud. The crowd cried out and surged backward up the bank. My wife seized my arm.

“There is something alive in it,” she said.

“Nothing of the sort,” Ogilvy replied, though he had stepped away from the edge. “The metal is cooling.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a long tremor passed through the cylinder. It was not violent, but it was deliberate, and so unlike the settling of a stone that even Ogilvy could not pretend not to notice it. A thin line of vapour escaped from the joint and drifted across the water.

No part of the object opened. Nothing emerged. It remained where it had fallen, half-submerged, dark and silent, while the steam curled upwards from its heated surface.

The crowd began to grow. Men came down the road in groups, some carrying bottles and sandwiches, as though they were bound for a fair. A cart stopped upon the rise, and people climbed upon it for a better view. A woman with two children pushed through the throng and asked whether the Martians had come. Her husband told her not to be foolish, but he himself kept looking at the cylinder with an anxious face.

My wife had become very pale.

“We must go home,” she said.

“You should go,” I answered. “I will remain a little longer.”

“I will not leave you here.”

“There is nothing dangerous, so far as we know. But the crowd is growing, and the bank is unsafe. You could do nothing here.”

“I came with you.”

“And I am asking you to return. I shall follow before long.”

She looked towards the cylinder, then at the injured man, who sat upon the grass with his hand wrapped in a bloody cloth. A fresh murmur moved through the crowd. Someone had found a length of rope, and the people nearest the pit were preparing to lower it down.

“You promise you will come home?”

“Before noon.”

It was nearly noon already. I knew that she saw the evasion, but she also understood that I would not leave while the object remained unexplained. At last she yielded.

“Do not go close to it,” she said.

“I shall not.”

“And do not let Ogilvy persuade you to touch it.”

“I have no wish to touch it.”

She gave me one last look, then began to make her way up the bank. I watched her pass through the people and take the road towards Ottershaw. Once she turned and waved. I raised my hand in answer. Then she was lost among the carts and the moving figures.

I remained beside the pit.

The steam still rose from the cylinder. The water about it had grown quiet, but now and then a faint metallic sound came from within, followed by a tremor that passed along its dark length. Ogilvy stood near me in silence. Around us the crowd pressed closer, and more people arrived from the direction of Chertsey. Their voices rose and fell in the warm midday air, full of conjecture, laughter, fear, and disbelief.

Above them all the lark continued to sing.

The First National Bank was on Main Street, in a stone building that had been designed to look more permanent than the town. Its doors were open, its marble floor was clean, and its employees had the guarded expressions of men who expected every customer to be trying something.

I asked for the cashier.

A clerk led me to a small room behind the cages. The cashier was a broad, gray-haired man with a bald head and pale lashes. He introduced himself as Mr. Larkin, and looked at my agency card without finding anything in it that improved his opinion of me.

“I want information about a check drawn by Donald Willsson,” I said.

“Are you representing the estate?”

“I’m representing myself. The information is for his murder.”

“That would make it police business.”

“Then you can tell the police when they come. I’m here first.”

He looked at me for a moment, then put out his hand.

“Check number?”

“I don’t know.”

“Amount?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

“Date?”

“Yesterday.”

“Payee?”

“I don’t know.”

He drew a book toward him, opened it, and ran a thick forefinger down a column of figures.

“There were no five-thousand-dollar checks paid out of Mr. Willsson’s account yesterday.”

“Was one presented?”

“No.”

“Certified?”

“No.”

“Could you be sure of that?”

“We don’t certify checks that aren’t presented.”

I leaned against the edge of his desk.

“His check book is at the Herald. The last stub is marked five thousand dollars. There’s no name on it and no explanation. He wrote the check yesterday afternoon, left the office with it, and was killed a few hours later. If it was presented here, it ought to be in your records.”

“It isn’t.”

“You’re certain?”

He closed the book.

“Mr. Larkin is certain.”

“Who keeps the record?”

“I do.”

“Who handles incoming checks?”

“The paying teller. But I see the daily sheets.”

“Then the check wasn’t used to pay anything through this bank.”

“It wasn’t used to draw money through this bank.”

“Could it have been cashed somewhere else?”

“Any check can be cashed somewhere else, if somebody is willing to take the risk. This one couldn’t have been certified somewhere else.”

“Could it have been certified here without being paid?”

“No.”

“Could Willsson have written a check and kept it?”

“He could have written ten checks and kept all of them.”

“Would the stub show whether he tore the check out?”

“It shows nothing but the amount, according to what you’ve told me.”

“Can you tell me the number of the last check he used?”

Mr. Larkin looked at the book again and gave it to me. The number was 1847.

“That’s the check before it,” he said. “The next number would be 1848.”

“Was the check book balanced?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could the check have been taken from it without being entered?”

“The check book wasn’t in our hands.”

He took it back and shut it.

“Where would a man go to cash a check for five thousand dollars?”

“Wherever he could find somebody who trusted him.”

“Who in Personville trusts anybody?”

“Not enough people to make banking profitable.”

He said it without smiling. I liked him better for that.

“Did Willsson come into the bank yesterday?”

“I don’t remember seeing him.”

“Check the records.”

“There would be a record if he deposited or withdrew money.”

“Check them.”

He opened another book. His eyes moved across the pages.

“He made no deposit. He made no withdrawal. There was no loan transaction and no certification.”

“Was anybody here asking about him?”

“You are.”

“Before me.”

“No.”

“Did anybody call about his account?”

“I don’t discuss our customers’ business.”

“You’ve discussed it with me.”

“I’ve told you that I have no record of a five-thousand-dollar check. That is not the same thing.”

I handed the book back.

“Suppose the check turns up?”

“Then it will be entered.”

“Suppose the man holding it doesn’t bring it in?”

“Then we won’t enter it.”

“Suppose the check is found on a dead man?”

“That would be a matter for the police.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

He put his fingers together on the desk. They were square fingers with a white scar across one knuckle.

“Mr. Neill, if you’re asking whether Mr. Willsson’s check has been presented or certified, the answer is no. If you’re asking what happened to it, I don’t know.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

I went out.

The check had been written. It had been torn out. It had not reached the bank. That left a lot of room between Donald Willsson’s desk and Mr. Larkin’s books.

I returned to the Great Western Hotel a little after one. The clerk handed me a sealed envelope before I reached the stairs.

“This was left for you,” he said.

“Who left it?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Was it a man?”

“He didn’t say that either.”

“Did he wear a hat?”

The clerk considered this.

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s all right. Neither do I.”

The envelope was brown and unmarked. It had been sealed with gum, not spit. Inside was a sheet of hotel writing folded once.

It read:

Mr. Neill:

You have been told to leave Personville. You have not done so.

Go now. The five thousand dollars is no concern of yours. It will be if you continue looking for it.

M. Thaler

There was no address and no other writing.

I read it twice, then took it downstairs and showed it to the clerk.

“Is this the same writing paper as the envelope?”

“Yes.”

“Did the man who left it ask for me?”

“No. He put it on the desk and went away.”

“Did you see him go?”

“I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Being busy.”

I put the note in my pocket.

“Did he give you a tip?”

“No.”

“Then he was probably from out of town.”

The clerk found this less amusing than I did.

Upstairs, I locked the door and examined the note again. The writing was small and neat. The letters had been formed carefully, without haste. The writer had not needed to press hard. Max Thaler had either known that I was going to the bank or had guessed that a five-thousand-dollar check connected with Donald Willsson’s death would interest me.

There was nothing in the message about the murder. That was the part I didn’t like. A man who sent a warning about a check and said nothing about four bullets had his attention fixed on the money.

I was putting the note away when the telephone rang.

The clerk’s voice said:

“Mrs. Willsson is here to see you.”

“I didn’t ask her to come.”

“She came anyway.”

“That’s a point in her favor.”

“Shall I send her up?”

“Send her.”

I unlocked the door and waited.

The young Mrs. Willsson came in alone. She wore a black dress, black gloves, and black shoes with narrow straps. Her blonde hair was pinned close to her head. Her face was pale and composed, but the hands she held together in front of her were shaking.

She glanced at the bed, the table, and the one chair. Then she looked at me.

“You have heard from my father-in-law?”

“I saw him this morning.”

“He told you I killed Donald.”

“He told me you were a bad woman in several different ways. Murder was one of them.”

“He believes it?”

“He believes it loudly.”

She took off one glove, finger by finger.

“Did you tell him about my shoe?”

“I told him what I saw.”

“And you believe I killed Donald?”

“I believe you went out at ten-twenty and returned at eleven-five with something that looked like blood on your left slipper. I believe Donald was shot at ten-forty. Belief is a cheap article. I need facts.”

She folded the glove on her palm.

“I went to Hurricane Street.”

“Why?”

“Someone telephoned me.”

“Who?”

“I do not know.”

“What did the voice say?”

“Only that Donald was in trouble and that I must come quickly.”

“Man or woman?”

“A man.”

“Did he give his name?”

“No.”

“Did he say where on Hurricane Street?”

“The eleven-hundred block.”

“That was accurate.”

“I drove there.”

“What did you find?”

She looked down at the glove.

“Donald was lying on the sidewalk. He was dead.”

“You were one of the two people seen bending over him?”

“Yes.”

“Who was the other?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he call you?”

“No. He was already there.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall. He wore a dark coat and a hat pulled low.”

“Age?”

“I don’t know.”

“Race?”

“He was white.”

“Did he have a pistol?”

“I did not see one.”

“Did he leave before or after you?”

“After.”

“Where did he go?”

“Down the street.”

“You went with him?”

“No. I drove home.”

“You left your husband lying in the street.”

“He was dead.”

“You didn’t call the police.”

She put the glove in the other hand.

“I did not trust the police.”

“That’s not enough. You could have called the newspaper, a doctor, anybody.”

“I had been warned not to.”

“By the man in the dark coat?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the police would make trouble for me. He said Donald had enemies and that they would say I had killed him.”

“They would have been right about that much.”

Her eyes came up sharply.

“I did not kill Donald.”

“Maybe not.”

“He was my husband.”

“That has stopped people before.”

She turned toward the door.

“Why did you come here?”

“To ask you to find his murderer.”

“Why me?”

“Donald asked you to come. He believed you were honest.”

“He had never met me.”

“He had seen you once in San Francisco.”

“I don’t remember him.”

“He remembered you.”

“Maybe he made a mistake.”

She gave me a tired look.

“Is that all you can say?”

“It covers a lot of ground.”

She moved to the window and looked down at the street. The afternoon had turned gray. Coal smoke hung over the roofs and softened the far hills.

“You know that Max Thaler went to my house this morning?”

“I saw him go in.”

“Did you see him come out?”

“No.”

“He asked me what Donald had told you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I did not know.”

“Was that true?”

“He told me very little.”

“Did he mention money?”

She was silent.

“Did he ask about a check?”

Her face changed, but not enough to make the change useful.

“What check?”

“The five-thousand-dollar check Donald wrote yesterday.”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Did you know he had gone to the bank?”

“No.”

“He did not go to the bank.”

She turned from the window.

“Then where did he go?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Could Max know?”

“His message suggests that he knows enough to dislike my curiosity.”

“What message?”

I gave it to her.

She read it without moving her lips. When she finished, she folded the paper once, as it had been folded before, and gave it back.

“Why does he mention the money?”

“Because I went to the bank.”

“Did he know you would go?”

“Apparently.”

“Then he has watched you.”

“Or he watches everybody.”

She looked again at the note.

“Max is dangerous.”

“I was told that last night.”

“Who told you?”

“Bill Quint.”

She frowned at the name, then shook her head.

“I do not know him.”

“That may be one of the better things that has happened to you.”

She came back to the chair but did not sit down.

“What will you do?”

“Ask questions.”

“Of whom?”

“People who know things.”

“Will you tell the police that I was on Hurricane Street?”

“Not today.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t decided whether you went there to help Donald or to make sure he was dead.”

Her mouth tightened.

“I went because I thought he needed me.”

“What made you think that?”

“The telephone call.”

“Did Donald ever telephone you from the Herald?”

“Many times.”

“Did you recognize his voice?”

“I did not speak to the person who called.”

“Was the call placed to the house?”

“Yes.”

“Did the caller know you were there?”

“He asked for me.”

“Did he know your name?”

“He said, ‘Madame Willsson.’”

“Any accent?”

“No.”

“Could it have been Max?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could it have been your father-in-law?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“I know his voice.”

“Could it have been one of the men who work for him?”

She looked at me.

“I do not know who works for him.”

“That makes two of us.”

For the first time she almost smiled. It went away before it had time to become anything.

“What will happen to me?”

“That depends on what happened last night.”

“You think the police will arrest me?”

“They may try.”

“My father-in-law will tell them to.”

“Your father-in-law will tell them whatever he wants them to believe.”

She put her glove on again.

“Will you help me?”

“I was hired to help Donald.”

“He is dead.”

“I noticed.”

“Then help me for him.”

“That costs extra.”

She stared at me.

“I am not joking.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because the room is small and you are frightened. Jokes help fill a room.”

“I am not frightened.”

“Then you’re doing a good imitation.”

She buttoned the glove.

“If you learn who telephoned me, will you tell me?”

“If I learn who telephoned you, I’ll decide who should hear about it.”

“Do you believe that I did not kill him?”

“I believe you may not have killed him.”

“That is not much.”

“It’s what I have.”

She went to the door. I opened it for her.

“Mrs. Willsson.”

She stopped.

“Did you see anything near Donald’s body besides the man?”

“His hat was lying beside him.”

“Was it his?”

“No.”

“What else?”

She thought.

“There was a small piece of paper under his hand.”

“What kind of paper?”

“I could not read it.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

“Was it still there when you left?”

“I do not know.”

“Did the man in the dark coat take it?”

“I do not know.”

She went out.

The door closed. I stood there with the message from Max Thaler in one pocket and the knowledge that the widow had been at the murder scene in the other. Neither pocket was much use.

At five o’clock I went back to the First National Bank. Mr. Larkin was still behind his desk. He saw me and did not look pleased.

“Has the check arrived?” I asked.

“No.”

“Has anybody asked to have it certified?”

“No.”

“Has anybody asked whether it was good?”

“No.”

“Has anybody asked for the number?”

He thought about that.

“No.”

“Have you remembered seeing Willsson yesterday?”

“No.”

“Have you remembered anything useful?”

“No.”

“Then you have a good memory.”

“I have a careful one.”

“That’s different.”

“It is to a banker.”

“Was check number 1848 issued?”

“I told you there was no record of it being paid.”

“I didn’t ask that.”

He studied me.

“You asked whether it was issued. We have no record of checks issued. We have records of checks paid.”

“Could you tell whether somebody had stolen a blank check?”

“Not unless it came back.”

“Could the check be deposited in another bank?”

“Yes.”

“Could it be cashed by a private person?”

“Yes.”

“Could the signature be forged?”

“Yes.”

“Would you know?”

“If it came here.”

“Then you know as much as I do.”

“I know more about banking.”

“I know more about murder.”

“I hope you keep that knowledge to yourself.”

I left him to his hopes.

There was no point in going back to Elihu Willsson. He had already told me what he thought, and I had no reason to think his opinion had grown less noisy. I had no reason to trust the police. I had no reason to trust the widow. Max Thaler had sent a message because he wanted me to understand that he knew what I was doing. That left the dead man, the stranger on Hurricane Street, the telephone call, and a check that had vanished without being used.

At six-thirty I went to a telegraph office near Broadway. The room smelled of dust, hot wire, and the damp wool of people waiting to send bad news. I filled out the form and wrote the address as:

OLD MAN, CONTINENTAL DETECTIVE AGENCY, SAN FRANCISCO

The wire as I wrote it was:

ARRIVED PERSONVILLE ON DONALD WILLSSON REQUEST STOP HE WAS MURDERED LAST NIGHT IN HURRICANE STREET STOP WIDOW ADMITS SHE WAS WOMAN WHO BENT OVER BODY AFTER SHOOTING BUT DENIES KILLING HIM STOP HER STORY MAY BE TRUE STOP ELIHU BLAMES HER AND MAY KNOW MORE THAN HE WILL SAY STOP MAX THALER SENT MESSAGE WARNING ME TO LEAVE AND MENTIONING FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS STOP CHECK WRITTEN BY DONALD HAS NOT BEEN PRESENTED OR CERTIFIED AT FIRST NATIONAL STOP LAST CHECK STUB SHOWS FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS WITH NO PAYEE STOP NO CLUE YET WHERE CHECK WENT STOP ADVISE STOP NEILL

The clerk read it, counted the words, and pushed the form back to me.

“Is that all?”

“That’s enough for one day.”

He took the money and sent it.

I walked back to the hotel after dark. The street lamps made yellow patches in the smoke. Cars moved through them and disappeared. Somewhere a locomotive whistled, and somewhere else a woman laughed too loudly.

In my room I put Max Thaler’s message on the table beside the empty coffee glass. I took off my coat and sat on the edge of the bed.

The wire had gone to San Francisco. The widow had gone home. Mr. Larkin had gone on guarding his books. Max Thaler had gone on knowing things.

I was alone in the room. The wire was sent. The five-thousand-dollar check had left Donald Willsson’s desk and had never reached the bank.

I still did not know where it had gone.

And what of that? I will tell you what came of it, and you shall judge for yourself whether Rosanna Spearman’s confusion was so very unaccountable after all.

Mr. Franklin looked after her for a moment, smiling in his easy foreign way; then he turned to me.

“Betteredge,” says he, “is Lady Verinder expecting me at this hour?”

“She is expecting you at seven o’clock, sir.”

“And it is now?”

“Three o’clock, sir, by the stable clock.”

“Then I am four hours too soon. I must ask you to make my excuses.”

“You shall make your excuses yourself,” I answered. “My lady is in the house, and will be glad to see you.”

He sprang up, and gave me his arm to help me up after him. This was unnecessary, but agreeable. A young gentleman’s arm is a pleasant support to an old gentleman’s legs; and, when the young gentleman has travelled in foreign parts, there is generally something unusual in the manner of offering it. Mr. Franklin helped me with an air which made the act look like a compliment paid by one gentleman to another.

Before we had taken three steps towards the plantation, he stopped.

“There is one thing, Betteredge,” he said. “I came early for a reason.”

“I hope, sir, it is a good reason.”

“That depends upon what you call good. I received a letter in London this morning, and the letter altered my plans.”

“From my lady?”

“No. From Mr. Bruff.”

This answer made me look at him.

Mr. Bruff was our family solicitor, and a cleverer lawyer, in my opinion, never put on a wig. But lawyers’ letters are not like letters from ladies. They have no tender feelings in them, and they seldom bring good news. When a lawyer writes to you, you may generally expect one of two things. Either you have got too much money, or somebody else has got too much of yours.

“Has Mr. Bruff sent you bad news, sir?” I asked.

“Not exactly bad news. But it is news which made me come here before the hour fixed for my arrival. I have the letter in my pocket. Would you like to read it?”

I said I should be honoured. Mr. Franklin took out his pocket-book, and produced a letter folded twice across. The envelope had been opened. The letter itself was written on thick white paper, in a firm black hand. I put on my spectacles, and read as follows.

“London, Thursday morning.

“Dear Mr. Blake,

“I have received from the late Colonel Herncastle’s representatives a sealed packet, which they desire to place in the hands of Lady Verinder through you. I am not at liberty to explain the nature of the packet, and I cannot advise you to open it. You will oblige me by proceeding to Yorkshire without delay, and by taking the packet with you.

“Keep it in your own possession until you reach the house. You may then deliver it to Mr. Betteredge, who will place it in safe custody until Lady Verinder gives directions concerning it. If Lady Verinder declines to receive it, let it remain where it is, unopened, and write to me by return of post.

“I regret that I am unable to accompany this letter with fuller explanations. The matter concerns the late Colonel Herncastle, and I must ask you to remember that Lady Verinder has reasons of her own for avoiding any discussion of her brother’s affairs.

“I am, dear Mr. Blake,

“Your obedient servant,

“William Bruff.”

There was the letter, word for word. I have copied it from memory, and I believe I have not mistaken a single sentence. I remember it particularly because it was the first letter I had ever read which told a man to carry a sealed packet and not to ask what was in it.

“Well?” says Mr. Franklin.

“Well, sir,” I answered, “I don’t see that Mr. Bruff could have written more plainly.”

“Nor I. And yet I do not understand it.”

“You are not expected to understand a lawyer, sir. You are only expected to obey him.”

“That is a hard saying, Betteredge.”

“It is the truth, sir. And when truth is hard, you must chew it as you would chew a crust.”

He laughed at this; but the laugh ended suddenly. Mr. Franklin put his hand inside his coat.

“The packet is here,” he said. “I carried it from London myself. I slept with it under my pillow last night, and I have had my hand on it all the way from the station. I don’t know what Mr. Bruff means by safe custody. I only know that I shall be easier in my mind when the thing is out of mine.”

“Will you give it to me now, sir?”

“If you will lock it up.”

“Where would you like it locked up?”

“In a place where nobody can get at it.”

“That description includes the plate-room,” I replied. “There is no better place in the house.”

The plate-room was a small chamber at the back of the servants’ passage, between the kitchen and the staircase leading to the lower rooms. It had a strong door, a lock of my own choosing, and a row of shelves behind an iron grille. The family plate was kept there under my charge. I had often said that a man might leave his conscience in the plate-room with more safety than in some places I could mention.

Mr. Franklin drew out the packet.

It was small enough to lie in the palm of my hand. It was wrapped in brown paper, and tied round with a narrow black ribbon. Three seals of red wax held the folds together. The largest seal bore a mark which I did not recognise. I noticed these things because I am accustomed to notice everything put under my care. I did not notice them because I was curious. Curiosity is a bad quality in a servant, and a worse quality in a steward.

“Will you take charge of it, Betteredge?” he asked.

“I will, sir.”

“You will not open it?”

“Certainly not.”

“You will not let anybody else open it?”

“Not if I can help it.”

He hesitated, with the packet still between us.

“You understand that it may have to remain there only for the night.”

“Then it shall remain there only for the night.”

“And you won’t ask me what it contains?”

“Not unless you choose to tell me.”

“You are a very remarkable old man.”

“No, sir. I am a very ordinary old man who has lived long enough to know that a sealed packet is safer than an unsealed tongue.”

He handed it to me.

I have set that sentence down exactly as it happened. The packet passed from Mr. Franklin’s hand into mine, and from mine into the plate-room. What it contained, I did not know then, and what it contained, I did not know afterwards that night. I had no more reason to open it than I had to open my lady’s letters, or Miss Rachel’s drawers, or Robinson Crusoe’s chest of clothes. A man’s honesty is not proved by what he does when everybody is watching him. It is proved by what he leaves alone when nobody is watching him.

I led the way back through the plantation. Mr. Franklin talked lightly of the journey, of the bad road from the station, and of the English weather, which had disappointed him by being fine. He had been long abroad, and had acquired the foreign habit of finding fault with his own country for not resembling every other country he had visited. The sun was shining, the sea was calm, and the air was warm enough for May. Still he declared that Yorkshire had made a poor attempt at welcoming him.

When we reached the back entrance, Penelope came running down the passage.

“There you are, father!” she cried. “My lady has sent to ask whether Mr. Franklin has come.”

“He has come, my girl. Tell my lady so.”

Penelope looked past me at Mr. Franklin, and dropped a curtsey.

“Will you tell her yourself, sir?” she said.

“I shall be happy to do so.”

He followed her towards the house, and I turned aside to put the packet in safety.

I had just unlocked the plate-room when I heard Penelope calling after me.

“Father!”

I came back.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Rosanna has not returned.”

“Not returned from the sands?”

“No. Nancy says she has gone on to Cobb’s Hole.”

“Who told Nancy that?”

“A boy from the village. He saw Rosanna on the road by the fir plantation, and she asked him whether the fisherwoman was at home. He says she went down towards Cobb’s Hole.”

I looked towards the door of the house.

“Has my lady heard this?”

“Not yet. I was coming to tell her.”

“Then do so, my girl. And don’t let Nancy make a story of it. Rosanna has gone to see her friend, that is all.”

Penelope looked uneasy.

“She never goes so late.”

“It is not late yet.”

“She had no cloak on but the grey one.”

“She has worn that cloak every day since Christmas.”

“She looked ill this morning.”

“She looks ill when she is well, and well when she is ill. Go to my lady.”

Penelope went. I returned to the plate-room, and locked the packet in the inner cupboard, behind the second row of silver dishes. There was a key to the cupboard and another to the room. I turned both of them. The keys went into my pocket. The packet was safe.

You may think I ought to have asked myself why a lawyer should send an object of unknown nature to Lady Verinder, and why Lady Verinder should have reasons for avoiding any discussion of her brother. I did ask myself those questions. I also answered them in my own way. Colonel Herncastle had been dead some weeks. Dead people, as a rule, give their surviving relations enough trouble without sending mysterious packets after them. But the affairs of Colonel Herncastle had always been of a disagreeable kind, and his family had long ago agreed to leave them alone. There are families who keep a skeleton in a cupboard. We kept our skeleton in a separate house, and called it Colonel Herncastle.

Having done my duty, I went to the drawing-room.

The door stood open. My lady was seated near the window, with some needlework beside her. Mr. Franklin was standing before her. He had changed in appearance since I had first met him on the sands. The brightness was still in his face, but it had been checked. My lady had that effect on people when she chose. She could make a cheerful man remember his manners in less than a minute.

Miss Rachel was not in the room. I understood that she was upstairs, and I was thankful for it. My lady had evidently wished to receive Mr. Franklin alone.

“Here is Mr. Betteredge,” says Mr. Franklin.

My lady looked at me.

“Have you done what was necessary?”

“I have locked the packet in the plate-room.”

“Without opening it?”

“Without opening it, my lady.”

She gave a small nod, and turned to Mr. Franklin.

“Then we need say no more about it at present.”

Mr. Franklin seemed surprised.

“I thought you would wish to hear what Mr. Bruff has written.”

“I have no wish to hear anything which obliges me to speak of my brother.”

“Your brother?”

“My brother, John Herncastle.”

The name had scarcely passed her lips before she stopped him with a gesture.

“Mr. Franklin, I permit no discussion of Colonel Herncastle in this house.”

There are some people who give an order loudly because they are afraid it will not be obeyed. My lady gave hers quietly because she knew that it would.

Mr. Franklin bowed.

“As you please, Aunt. I will not mention his name again.”

“You understand me?”

“Perfectly.”

“And you agree?”

“I agree.”

My lady looked at him for a moment longer. She had expected resistance, perhaps. Mr. Franklin’s foreign education had not taught him to resist my lady when she spoke in that tone.

“Thank you,” she said. “You shall see Miss Rachel when she comes down.”

Mr. Franklin’s face brightened again.

“I shall be very glad.”

My lady rose, and offered him her hand. He took it respectfully. Then she left the room.

I was left alone with Mr. Franklin. He looked at me, and I looked at him.

“Well?” says he.

“Well, sir?”

“Is my aunt always so mysterious?”

“My lady is never mysterious when she is speaking to me.”

“What does she say to you?”

“Orders.”

“And do you always obey them?”

“Always, when they are given plainly.”

He smiled.

“You are a philosopher, Betteredge.”

“No, sir. I am a servant. A philosopher has the pleasure of thinking; a servant has the pleasure of knowing what he is expected to do.”

He walked to the window and looked out towards the sea.

“Where has the girl gone?” he asked.

“Rosanna?”

“Yes. The girl who was with you on the sands.”

“She has gone to Cobb’s Hole.”

“Why?”

“To see a friend.”

“Is she ill?”

“She is troubled in her mind.”

“Did I frighten her?”

“You frightened her before you said a word, sir.”

He turned round quickly.

“Did I?”

“You appeared suddenly, and she is not accustomed to young gentlemen appearing suddenly.”

“She seemed to know me.”

“She knew that you were handsome.”

“Betteredge!”

“I report what I saw, sir. I don’t invent it.”

He laughed again, though not so freely as before.

“I hope she will not get into trouble because of my arrival.”

“Rosanna gets into trouble by thinking too much, sir. Your arrival may have given her something new to think about.”

At that moment Penelope entered the room.

“My lady wishes Mr. Franklin to come upstairs,” she said. “Miss Rachel is ready to see him.”

Mr. Franklin went with her. At the door he stopped and looked back.

“Tell Rosanna, when she returns, that I am sorry if I startled her.”

“I will tell her, sir.”

But Rosanna was not there to hear me.

The afternoon passed into evening. A message came from Cobb’s Hole, brought by a boy who had been sent to inquire. Rosanna had been seen near the fisherwoman’s cottage, but had not entered it, so far as anybody knew. After that, no further news arrived.

At supper, my lady said nothing about Colonel Herncastle. Mr. Franklin said nothing about Colonel Herncastle. I said nothing about Colonel Herncastle. The name was shut out of the house as carefully as a draught under a door.

Late that evening, I sat in my beehive chair with Robinson Crusoe on my knee. The plate-room key was in my pocket. The packet was locked away behind the silver. The house was quiet above and below, except for the occasional sound of a footstep in the passages.

I read the same page three times without understanding a word of it.

Rosanna Spearman had not come back to the house.

I replaced the book in its place, and hurried out into the hall.

John was standing by the library door.

"Well?" he asked.

"I am going to fetch Poirot."

He nodded.

"Yes. Do so. I confess I cannot think clearly."

The house seemed strangely altered. Every object was familiar, yet each appeared to have acquired a new significance. The chairs and tables, the pictures upon the walls, the very passages through which I had passed so often, all seemed to watch us with a mute and sinister patience.

Outside, the air was heavy and oppressive. The storm had broken during the night, and the gravelled drive was wet beneath my feet. Far away, thunder muttered heavily.

I walked quickly down the road towards the village. My mind was in a tumult. The description of strychnine poisoning which I had just read recurred persistently to my mind. The rigid arching of the body, the violent convulsions, the intervals of comparative ease, all agreed with it only too well.

And yet, if Mrs. Inglethorp had been poisoned, where was the poison? Who had administered it? Above all, where was Alfred Inglethorp?

I reached the little house where Poirot had been lodging with two Belgian refugees. To my surprise, he opened the door before I had time to knock a second time.

"Ah, my friend!" he exclaimed. "You come for me. It is well. I have already heard."

"You have heard?"

"Yes. The news was brought to me by William Briggs, the boy who keeps the lodge gate. He came running to the village less than half an hour ago."

"Then you know that Mrs. Inglethorp is dead?"

"Yes, I know that. And I know also that the doctors suspect something more than the failure of the heart."

I stared at him.

"You are certain of that?"

"My friend, Dr. Bauerstein does not lock two rooms without a reason."

He had already put on his coat and was carrying a small black case.

"I have waited for you," he continued. "It would not have been polite to present myself at the house before someone came to invite me."

"John has given me permission to bring you."

"Then we waste no time."

We set off together. Poirot walked rapidly, though with the short, precise steps which were peculiar to him. His face was grave, but his eyes were bright and alert. He asked me no questions at first. Indeed, he seemed to be thinking deeply.

We had passed the lodge and were turning into the avenue when a man came towards us from the direction of the village. He was bareheaded, and his black beard was wet with rain. His clothes were disordered, though not to the extent that one might have expected after a night spent out of doors.

It was Alfred Inglethorp.

He stopped when he saw us.

"Mr. Hastings," he exclaimed. "Is it true? Is my wife dead?"

There was such anguish in his voice that I felt a sudden shame at the suspicions which had crossed my mind.

"I am afraid it is true," I replied.

He covered his face with his hands.

"Good God! I cannot believe it. I left her but yesterday evening in apparent health."

Poirot bowed gravely.

"You have been absent from the house all night, monsieur?"

"Yes. I walked with Dr. Bauerstein as far as the village. When I reached the crossroads, the storm broke. I had no umbrella, and the rain was falling in torrents. I went to the Red Lion and obtained a room there. I have remained under that roof all night."

"At what hour did you arrive?"

"About half-past ten. Perhaps a little later."

"And you heard nothing of this terrible affair?"

"Nothing. I slept badly, but I was not disturbed. At daybreak I came straight here."

He spoke with agitation, but his story was clear enough.

"I cannot understand it," he continued. "She was alive when I left her. Surely the doctors must be mistaken."

Poirot looked at him steadily.

"The doctors are not always mistaken, monsieur."

There was a slight pause. Alfred drew himself up.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean only that they have given their opinion."

The other man turned to me.

"Mr. Hastings, I beg you to believe that I had no reason to remain away from Styles. I should have returned last night, but for the storm."

"I do not doubt that you had some reason," I said awkwardly.

Poirot's eyes flickered towards me, but he made no comment.

We resumed our walk. Alfred accompanied us, a little behind. He did not speak again until we reached the house.

John was waiting in the hall. Lawrence stood near the fireplace, his arms folded, his face set in an expression of almost savage despair. Mary was seated beside the window, very pale. Cynthia had come down and was standing close to her.

At the sight of Alfred, John took one step forward.

"Where have you been?"

"At the Red Lion in the village."

"All night?"

"Yes."

"I thought you had gone to the farm at the crossroads."

Alfred flushed.

"I said that I had walked as far as the crossroads with Dr. Bauerstein. I did not say that I had remained there."

"No," said John slowly. "No, I suppose you did not."

At that moment Dorcas entered the hall. She carried a tray, but on seeing Alfred she stopped abruptly.

"Mr. Inglethorp!" she cried.

He turned towards her.

"Yes, Dorcas?"

"I thought you had come back last night."

A silence followed.

"What makes you think that?" he asked.

Dorcas looked from him to John.

"I may be mistaken, sir. But I was awake about a quarter to one. I heard the hall door open, and I saw a gentleman standing by the umbrella stand. I thought it was you."

"It could not have been me," replied Alfred. "I was at the Red Lion."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Dorcas. "I only know what I saw."

"Did the gentleman speak to you?"

"Yes, sir. He asked whether the mistress had rung for me."

"Are you certain of that?"

"I believe so, sir."

Her voice faltered. Alfred made an impatient gesture, but it was not directed at her so much as at the whole unhappy confusion.

"You have been frightened and distressed," he said. "The light must have been poor. You may have mistaken someone else for me."

"Yes, sir," said Dorcas meekly. "That may be so."

Poirot had remained silent. He was looking at the marks of mud upon Alfred's boots.

"Mr. Inglethorp," he said, "you have come directly from the Red Lion?"

"Yes."

"Then it is possible that your boots were cleaned there?"

"I do not know. I was not thinking of my boots."

"Naturally."

Poirot smiled, and the conversation ended.

John turned to him.

"Mr. Poirot, I am grateful that you have come. I confess that I do not know what to do."

"That is very simple, monsieur. We must observe."

"You wish to enter the room?"

"If you permit it."

John took the keys from his pocket. His hand trembled slightly as he fitted one into the lock.

"I have given my word that nothing shall be disturbed before the post-mortem."

"I will disturb nothing," said Poirot. "I wish only to look."

He unlocked the door giving upon the passage, and we entered the boudoir. The air was close and oppressive. The little table lay overturned beside the bed. The carpet was crumpled where the struggle had taken place, and one of the lamps had been broken. Upon the mantelpiece stood the clock, still pointing to the hour at which I had last noticed it.

Mrs. Inglethorp lay motionless upon the bed. The sheet had been drawn up to her shoulders. For a moment Poirot stood perfectly still, his eyes travelling over the room.

Then he began his examination.

He looked first at the windows. Both were fastened. He examined the bolts, the catches, and the dust upon the sill. He bent over the hearth and studied the ashes. He inspected the dressing-table, the water-jug, the overturned table, and the carpet beside it.

I watched him in silence.

"Nothing is ever without importance," he murmured. "The place of each object, the direction in which it falls, the distance from the bed, all these things have their meaning."

He moved to the mantelpiece. One of the ornaments had been displaced, though it had not fallen. Poirot lifted it, examined the patch of dust beneath it, and replaced it exactly as he had found it.

"Why do you do that?" I whispered.

"Because, my friend, it is necessary to know whether the ornament was moved before or after the attack."

He crossed to the bed. His hand hovered above the pillow, but he did not touch it. Then he turned to the carpet near the foot of the bed.

There, almost hidden in the pile, was a small dark object.

Poirot knelt. He did not pick it up with his fingers. From his pocket he produced a square of white paper, folded it around the object, and lifted it carefully.

It was a tiny pellet of red sealing-wax, flattened on one side.

He held it out to me.

"What do you make of that?"

"It may have come from a letter."

"It may."

"Was it lying there before the attack?"

"That is what we are here to discover."

"Can you tell where it came from?"

"No."

He folded the paper again and placed it in his waistcoat pocket.

"Then why remove it?"

"My friend, you ask too many questions."

"Surely you can tell me what importance you attach to it?"

"No."

His answer was so decided that I could not press him further.

At that moment a movement near the door attracted my attention. Cynthia stood there, pale and bewildered. She had evidently followed Mary from the hall.

Poirot turned towards her.

"Did you sleep soundly last night, Mademoiselle Cynthia?"

"Yes, monsieur. I slept until Mrs. Cavendish came and woke me."

"Thank you."

He did not question her further. Instead, he walked past her and closed the door of the boudoir.

For the next hour he occupied himself with a minute inspection of the adjoining rooms. He looked at the door communicating with Cynthia's room, examined the bolts, and measured the distance between the two rooms with his eyes. He went into Mr. Inglethorp's bedroom and studied the untouched bed, the wardrobe, and the dressing-table.

Alfred had followed us as far as the passage, but John had prevented him from entering.

"I think it is better that no one should disturb the room," he said.

"I am her husband," replied Alfred.

"And I am her son."

For a moment they stood facing one another. Then Alfred bowed stiffly and withdrew.

Poirot watched him go.

"You think this wise?" I asked.

"I think nothing at present."

"Surely the story told by Dorcas is important."

"Perhaps."

"But it contradicts his statement."

"Perhaps."

"You cannot dismiss it so lightly."

"I dismiss nothing. I place it in the proper compartment."

"What compartment is that?"

"The compartment of things not yet understood."

He then went downstairs, where he spoke quietly with John. I remained in the hall and watched Lawrence pace restlessly from one end of the room to the other. Mary had disappeared. Cynthia sat by the window, her hands folded in her lap.

The atmosphere of the house was unbearable. Every whisper seemed to carry a hidden meaning. Every silence was more eloquent than speech.

At last John came to us.

"Mr. Poirot says that he must have the room kept locked until the doctors return."

"That is reasonable," I replied.

"I have given him the keys."

"Have you told him everything?"

John looked at me strangely.

"Everything that I know."

"Does he think that my mother was poisoned?"

"My dear Hastings, I do not know what he thinks."

Lawrence gave a short, bitter laugh.

"He thinks Bauerstein is a genius, and that the rest of us are fools."

"Lawrence!" cried John sharply.

"I beg your pardon. I am overwrought."

Poirot came down the stairs. His face was composed, almost cheerful.

"Come, Hastings," he said. "We will take the air."

We went out upon the terrace. The morning had grown brighter, though the clouds still hung low over the trees. The rain had ceased, and drops glittered upon the leaves. From the village came the distant sound of a cart.

"You are troubled, my friend," said Poirot.

"Naturally."

"You would like to know what I think."

"Very much."

"You shall know when I know it myself."

"That is not encouraging."

"It is exact."

He walked slowly along the terrace.

"There are certain facts," he continued, "and there are certain appearances. The appearances may be false. The facts cannot be false, though we may misunderstand them."

"And what are the facts?"

"You ask me to speak before I am ready."

"But surely you have formed some opinion."

"An opinion is a dangerous thing when it is formed too soon."

He stopped near the stone balustrade and looked down into the garden.

"One thing I will say. The room must remain locked. No one is to enter it without me or without the permission of the police."

"Do you expect the police to come?"

"I expect many things."

We returned to the house. Alfred was standing near the front door, apparently preparing to leave.

"I have business in the village," he said. "I shall return shortly."

Poirot bowed.

"Naturally, monsieur."

Alfred's eyes rested upon him.

"You are investigating my wife's death?"

"I am looking into certain matters."

"With what authority?"

"With the authority of Mr. Cavendish."

"Then I shall have something to say about that."

"I am sure you will."

The two men stood facing one another. Neither raised his voice. Neither made any direct accusation. Yet I felt that beneath the quiet words there lay a struggle as sharp as any physical contest.

Alfred went out.

Poirot watched the door close behind him. Then he turned to me.

"Now, my friend, we will go upstairs once more."

"Why?"

"Because I have remembered something."

We mounted the stairs. The corridors were empty. The household had withdrawn into separate corners, as though each person feared to meet the eyes of the others.

Poirot unlocked the door of Mrs. Inglethorp's boudoir. He entered and closed it behind us. The little red pellet lay upon the white paper which he had placed on the table.

For several minutes he did nothing. He stood near the bed, his hands clasped behind his back, and gazed about him.

"Poirot," I said at last, "you must tell me what you are looking for."

"Perhaps I have found it."

"What?"

He pointed to the pellet of sealing-wax.

"You mean that?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you refuse to explain it before?"

"Because you were not ready to understand."

I confess that this answer irritated me.

"I am capable of understanding a piece of sealing-wax."

"No, my friend. You are capable of understanding the sealing-wax. That is not the same thing."

"I do not see the distinction."

"Exactly."

He picked up the pellet, placed it in the centre of the table, and motioned me to stand opposite him. The room was still locked. The morning light entered through the curtains in a thin grey band.

Poirot bent over the little red object.

"Hastings," he said quietly, "the important thing is not where this came from. It is where it did not come from."

I stared at him in complete bewilderment.

Dr. Seward's Diary.

(Kept in phonograph)

27 May. I have been restless since yesterday, and the work of the house has seemed unusually heavy. I went early among the patients, hoping that the sight of familiar duties would steady my mind.

Renfield was in better spirits than usual. He had arranged a number of small boxes upon the floor, each containing a few flies. He spoke of them as if they were persons under his command, and complained that one had escaped during the night. When I told him that no creature could be kept in order without restraint, he answered that restraint was useful only to those who had not yet learned obedience.

I examined his hands and eyes, and asked him several questions concerning the events of yesterday. He replied with perfect clearness for some minutes, then wandered into an account of the relative value of flies, spiders, and birds. He maintains that life may be measured by the amount of life consumed, and that a creature which gathers many living things into itself becomes stronger in proportion. I have heard this argument before, though never put with such confidence.

I was about to leave him when he called after me.

"Doctor, is Miss Westenra to be married soon?"

The question was so direct that I turned back. No one had spoken of Miss Westenra during the interview. Her name had not occurred in any conversation within his hearing, so far as I know. I asked him why he wished to know.

"Because she has a good face," he said. "A good face should be kept from sorrow."

I asked whether he had seen her, or whether any one had told him of her engagement. He looked at me with great attention, but made no reply. Then he stooped over the boxes and counted the flies again, touching each lid with his finger as he reached it.

"Miss Westenra is well," I said. "You have no concern with her."

He smiled faintly.

"That is what men say when they have concern with everything."

I could get nothing further from him. When I pressed him, he became silent and refused his food. The question may have come from some association in his disordered mind, yet the use of her name troubles me. I must ask Lucy whether she has ever visited this place, though I am almost certain that she has not.

I shall not mention this matter to her unless I find reason to do so. She has enough to occupy her thoughts, and I have no right to burden her with the sayings of a patient whose ideas change from hour to hour.

Letter from Sister Agatha to Miss Mina Murray.

Hospital of St. Joseph, Buda-Pesth, 27 May.

Dear Madam,--

You will pardon the liberty I take in writing to you. My name is Sister Agatha, and I am one of the nurses at this hospital. Until to-day I had never heard of you, nor had I any knowledge of the gentleman whose name I now send.

A young Englishman was brought here yesterday evening by two travellers who had found him upon the road beyond Klausenburgh. He was in a very weak condition, with a wound upon his forehead and a great fatigue which made him unable to give a clear account of himself. Among his papers was an envelope bearing your name and address. He also gave us your name when he became able to speak, and begged that word should be sent to you.

The gentleman calls himself Mr. Jonathan Harker. He says that he is a solicitor in the employment of Mr. Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, and that he is engaged to Miss Mina Murray. As I have no acquaintance with either Mr. Hawkins or yourself, I cannot vouch for these particulars, but the papers appear to be in order.

Mr. Harker has been delayed in making his return to England. He is not in a condition to travel at present, and our physician has directed that he remain here until his strength has returned. His mind is clear at times, though he becomes confused when he tries to recall the whole of his journey. He is most anxious that you should not be alarmed, and has repeated several times that the delay is the only reason for his absence.

He has no relative in this country to whom I can write. For that reason I have addressed this letter to you, although I fear that it may cause more concern than comfort. You may assure his employer that he is receiving every care. We shall send another report when he is able to leave, unless you desire to come here yourself.

Mr. Harker has asked that no one be admitted to him except the hospital staff and those who can prove a close friendship. I have followed his wishes, though I cannot understand why he is so troubled by the thought of being questioned. He is quiet when left alone and shows no impatience with the nurses.

Please write to him if you can. A letter from you may give him more strength than any medicine.

I remain, dear Madam,

Your obedient servant,

Sister Agatha.

Quincey P. Morris's Diary.

28 May. The dinner at my rooms last night went off better than I had dared to hope. I had made my arrangements in the afternoon, and by seven o'clock the table was laid, the lamps trimmed, and the wine standing ready. I ordered a plain dinner, for I know that a man talks better after he has eaten, and I wanted Arthur and Jack to be in good condition for the health which I had promised them.

Arthur came first. He was dressed with more care than usual, though he pretended not to notice it. He carried the look of a man who has found what he sought and is afraid that some accident may still deprive him of it. I gave him a glass, but he only touched it with his lips.

"Art," I said, "you are getting too respectable for this company."

He laughed and answered that he had been respectable all his life.

"Then it is time you made a beginning."

Jack arrived before I had made a second attempt upon him. He brought a mind full of patients and a face which told me that the patients had not improved it. He complained of the traffic, the weather, and the incapacity of a cabman who had taken him two streets out of his way. After that he became cheerful, as he always does when there is a meal before him.

We sat down at eight. I had a good soup, a cold chicken, a saddle of mutton, and some pudding which my cook insists upon calling an American dish, though I have never tasted anything like it in Texas. Jack ate as if he had been fasting for a week. Arthur ate little, but smiled whenever Lucy's name was spoken.

For a while we talked of old journeys. Jack recalled an evening in the East when we had been caught in a storm and were obliged to sleep beneath an overturned cart. Arthur said that we had slept soundly because we had been too tired to be uncomfortable. I reminded him that he had used my shoulder for a pillow, and that Jack had taken the blanket. Jack denied both charges, though neither denial was worth the breath spent upon it.

When the dessert came, I filled the glasses and rose.

"Gentlemen," I said, "we have known one another in places where a man's life may depend upon the hand beside him. To-night we drink to the hand that has won the fairest prize of all."

Arthur tried to stop me, but Jack lifted his glass.

"To Miss Westenra," he said.

We drank, and for some moments there was no sound but the settling of the fire. Arthur then spoke of Lucy with such quiet happiness that I saw there was nothing left for any other man to say. I had thought myself prepared, but the heart is a poor servant of the will. Still, I am not ashamed of the feeling. A man may lose and yet be grateful that he was given something worth losing.

Jack tried to turn the conversation towards the mind and the habits by which a man may deceive himself. I told him that he had brought the asylum to dinner, and that I would have it removed before the pudding.

"It is not my fault," he said. "The mind follows one everywhere."

"Then give it a chair in the hall," I answered, "and shut the door upon it."

Arthur laughed heartily, and Jack declared that I had no proper respect for science. After this we spoke of the wedding, and Arthur promised that the three of us should meet again before long. He said that Lucy would wish it, and I believe him.

We parted shortly after midnight. Arthur went home with the look of a man walking through a city which had suddenly become his own. Jack remained to finish one glass, then hurried away because a patient had sent for him. I sat alone for a little while after they had gone. The room seemed larger, and the fire lower, but I had no regret that I had asked them there.

If a man must walk alone, he may at least remember the company he once enjoyed.

Letter, Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra.

29 May.

My dearest Lucy,--

I received this morning a letter which has caused me both relief and anxiety. It came from Buda-Pesth, and was written by a hospital nurse who says that she had never heard my name until she found it among Jonathan's papers. I am copying the letter for you, because I know that you will be as eager as I am to understand what has happened.

Jonathan is safe, but he has been delayed. He was brought to the hospital after being found upon the road beyond Klausenburgh. He has a wound upon his forehead and has suffered from great fatigue. The nurse says that his mind is clear at times, but that he becomes confused when he tries to recall his whole journey. She does not say how long he must remain there, though she thinks that he will not be able to travel for some time.

You will understand how strange it is to read that he has been delayed when his own last letter gave me reason to expect him almost immediately. I cannot decide whether to be more thankful that he is alive or more frightened by the fact that he has been found in such a condition. The nurse writes kindly, and there is no reason to doubt her. She tells me that he has asked that I should not be alarmed. That is like him, and yet I cannot help feeling that there is something in the letter which she does not know how to explain.

I have written to the hospital, and have asked Jonathan to send me a line if he is able. I have also written to Mr. Hawkins, though I fear that he may already have heard from some other source. If Jonathan must stay abroad, I shall ask permission to go to him. I know that this would be difficult, and perhaps unwise for a young woman travelling alone, but the thought of remaining here while he is ill is harder to bear.

Do not let this letter disturb your happiness. You must think of your own affairs, which are so much brighter than mine at present. I have not forgotten the joy with which you wrote to me of Arthur, nor the kindness shown by Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris. Their friendship for him has made me think better of men than I did before, and that is saying much, for Jonathan has always seemed to me the measure by which all others should be judged.

Write to me at once, dear Lucy. Tell me that you are well and happy, and tell me whether Arthur has fixed the day. I shall be glad to hear every small detail. At present I have only this hospital letter before me, and the hours pass very slowly.

Your loving

MINA.

Telegram from Peter Hawkins to Miss Mina Murray.

30 May.

JONATHAN HARKER ARRIVED EXETER THIS MORNING STOP ALIVE AND ASKING FOR MINA STOP COME AT ONCE PETER HAWKINS

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

“What’s the matter?”

“I want you to take me somewhere.”

“Where?”

“To the Dôme.”

“All right.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a chauffeur.”

“I’m not a chauffeur.”

“I know. That’s why I asked you.”

I leaned forward and told the driver to go to the Dôme. He looked at us in his little mirror and nodded. We drove along the dark streets, past cafés with their chairs on the pavements and people sitting close together under the awnings.

“Why are you miserable?” I asked.

“Because I am.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It’s enough of one.”

“You could be happy.”

“Could I?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think I should?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re very helpful.”

“I try to be.”

She put her hand on my arm. Her fingers were cold.

“Don’t be cross with me, darling.”

“I’m not cross.”

“You are when you are quiet.”

“I’m quiet most of the time.”

“Yes. That’s why it is so hard to know what you mean.”

The taxi moved slowly along the boulevard. There were people in the road and the driver sounded his horn without making them hurry. A woman in a red dress stood in a doorway under a yellow light. Two soldiers were laughing beside a newspaper kiosk.

“I met a man last week,” Brett said.

“Did you?”

“His name is Wilfred P. Houghton.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“He has money.”

“That’s something.”

“He has a great deal of it.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“At the Crillon.”

“Was he staying there?”

“Yes. He was staying in one of the best rooms. He had a man who carried his bags.”

“That is a sign.”

“He was rather nice.”

“What does he do?”

“Nothing.”

“That can be very profitable.”

“He has shares in mines. And land in California. He said he had a yacht in the Mediterranean.”

“He sounds useful.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“What would you do if you had money?”

“Spend it.”

“On what?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’d go somewhere.”

“I go somewhere every summer.”

“That isn’t the same.”

“No.”

She looked out through the window. The glass reflected her face and the lights went across it as we passed.

“He asked me to go to Biarritz with him,” she said.

“Did you go?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I had other things to do.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You remember meeting him.”

“I remember that.”

“What was he like?”

“He was about forty. He had gray hair and a pink face. He wore a pearl in his tie.”

“That sounds unpleasant.”

“It was a very small pearl.”

“That improves it.”

“He had good hands.”

“That makes all the difference.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Of course I mean it.”

“He said he could arrange everything.”

“What things?”

“Everything.”

“That’s a large order.”

“He said I had only to decide.”

“Did you decide?”

“Not then.”

“What about now?”

She turned from the window.

“Do you think I should?”

“I don’t know him.”

“You don’t have to know him.”

“It helps.”

“Would you like to know him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like men who arrange everything.”

“You like men who arrange nothing.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

The taxi stopped for a stream of bicycles. A man shouted at the driver. The driver shouted back. Brett watched them.

“Would you go away with me if I asked you?” she said.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“That is not a place.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

She smiled without looking at me.

“You could come if you wanted to.”

“I want to.”

“But you won’t.”

“I can’t.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s true.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’d better take me to the Dôme.”

“We’re going there.”

“That’s all right, then.”

Neither of us said what we meant. I wanted her to stay with me, but I was afraid to ask her.

The taxi drew up in front of the Dôme. The terrace was full. Men in soft hats sat with women who wore bright dresses and smoked cigarettes in long holders. There were small tables everywhere, and the waiters moved between them carrying bottles and glasses.

We got out. Brett paid the driver and we went inside. The café was less crowded in the back room. We found a table beside a mirror. The waiter came.

“Whiskey and soda,” Brett said.

“Two,” I said.

The waiter brought them. Brett held her glass in both hands.

“I don’t want to marry Wilfred Houghton,” she said.

“You don’t have to.”

“He would marry me.”

“Has he asked you?”

“He said he would.”

“That is not quite the same thing.”

“He said it in a very definite way.”

“Men with money can afford to be definite.”

“I could go to California with him.”

“You could.”

“He has a house there.”

“Of course.”

“It’s near Santa Barbara.”

“You’ve never been to California.”

“No.”

“It might be very pleasant.”

“You want me to go.”

“No.”

“You do.”

“I don’t care where you go.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Yes.”

She drank the whiskey. There was a little soda left in the glass.

“Why did you bring that girl tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“You wanted to have a good time.”

“I thought it would be pleasant to eat with somebody.”

“You didn’t like her.”

“She was all right.”

“She had bad teeth.”

“Yes.”

“She was very funny.”

“She was trying to be.”

“You were cruel to her.”

“I left her money.”

“How much?”

“Fifty francs.”

“That was generous.”

“It was what I had.”

“You have more than that.”

“I know.”

“Perhaps you should give her more.”

“She was still at the Bal when we left.”

“Was she?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps she is still there.”

“I have to go back and get the envelope.”

“Why?”

“I left it with the patronne.”

“Why didn’t you give it to her?”

“I thought she might go off with one of the men.”

“And then you would have saved fifty francs.”

“Yes.”

“You’re very careful with money.”

“Not usually.”

She looked at me in the mirror.

“Do you like me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know.”

The waiter came and filled the glasses. At the next table a young man was telling a story in English. The woman with him had her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

“Do you know what you want?” Brett asked.

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

“Yes, you do.”

“What?”

“You want to be taken care of.”

“Do I?”

“You want someone with money.”

“Perhaps.”

“You want to go to California.”

“Perhaps.”

“You want to go away with a man you met last week.”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps is a very good word.”

“It is when one doesn’t know.”

“You know.”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you say it?”

“Because you know already.”

She put her hand over mine on the table. It was warm now.

“I’m going to leave,” she said.

“Are you?”

“Somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Where the money is.”

“You could go.”

“Yes.”

“Would you be happy?”

“What is happiness?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither does anyone else.”

The young man at the next table began to sing. The woman with him laughed openly now. The waiter brought them another bottle.

“Take me back,” Brett said.

“To the Bal?”

“Yes.”

“I have to go there.”

“You can get your money.”

“It’s not my money.”

“Then get the girl’s money.”

“It’s only fifty francs.”

“Perhaps that is all she has.”

“It’s probably more than that.”

“Then give her another fifty.”

“I don’t have another fifty.”

“You’re a newspaperman. You must have money.”

“I’m a poorly paid newspaperman.”

“That’s a very romantic profession.”

“It isn’t.”

“Everything is romantic when one is unhappy.”

We finished the drinks and went out. The air was cooler. The boulevard had emptied a little, but there were still taxis moving past, with their lamps shining on the wet pavement.

We found one near the curb. Brett got in first and moved over. I gave the driver the address of the Bal. He started down the boulevard.

“Do you still want to go away?” she asked.

“Where?”

“You know where.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

She leaned her head against the seat.

“I’m tired.”

“Go to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“You slept in the taxi.”

“I was pretending.”

“Why?”

“Because you were there.”

“I was there anyway.”

“It was different.”

We drove past the Luxembourg Gardens. The gates were closed and the trees were black against the sky. A street cleaner pushed a cart along the pavement.

“Do you want to go to Spain?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I like it there.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s true.”

“Would you take me?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“In the summer.”

“That is a long time.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is if one is unhappy.”

The taxi went down the hill toward the river. The driver knew the streets and took them without asking. We passed a café where three men sat drinking at a table under a bright light.

“You’ve never heard of Wilfred Houghton,” Brett said.

“No.”

“He knows everybody.”

“That is not likely.”

“He knows people who matter.”

“Do they matter to you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know enough to mention him.”

“I’m only telling you.”

“You can do that.”

“I thought you might be interested.”

“I’m interested in anything that makes you happy.”

“Would it make you happy if I married him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It would be inconvenient.”

“For whom?”

“For me.”

“That’s better.”

“It isn’t.”

“No.”

She sat up and looked at me.

“You don’t want me to marry him.”

“No.”

“But you don’t want to marry me.”

“No.”

“You see how simple it is.”

“Yes.”

“You always make things simple.”

“I try to.”

“You make them impossible.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

We were quiet for a while. The taxi crossed the river. The lamps along the quay made a broken line in the water. A barge moved slowly under the bridge, its cabin lighted.

“What would you do if I married him?” Brett asked.

“Send you a present.”

“What kind?”

“A good one.”

“You’d write a letter.”

“I might.”

“What would you say?”

“Congratulations.”

“You’d say more than that.”

“Perhaps.”

“You’d say you were sorry.”

“Would you want me to be?”

“Yes.”

“Then I would.”

The taxi stopped before the Bal. The door was open and the policeman was gone. The accordion player sat on his high stool with his head hanging forward. The bells around his ankle were still.

“Wait here,” I said.

“I’m coming in.”

“It won’t take long.”

“I want to see the girl.”

“Why?”

“I want to know how she looks when she is not dancing.”

We went inside. The room smelled of beer, sweat, and stale smoke. The dancing-floor was nearly empty. Two couples danced slowly while the proprietor played a waltz.

The patronne was behind the bar. She saw me and reached under the zinc counter.

“Votre enveloppe, monsieur.”

“Thanks.”

She handed it to me. It was still sealed.

“Is the girl here?” I asked.

The patronne pointed toward the far table.

Georgette was sitting there alone. Her hat was off and her hair had fallen over one side of her face. She had a glass in front of her and was smoking a cigarette.

“You came back,” she said.

“I left something.”

“Yes. Your fortune.”

“I thought you would have gone.”

“I was waiting.”

“For me?”

“For the money.”

I put the envelope in my pocket.

“You could have taken it.”

“I am not a thief.”

“You were with those men.”

“They were dancing.”

“They looked like thieves.”

“They had no money.”

“That may be why.”

She looked past me at Brett.

“Is that the woman you were going to marry?”

“It was a joke.”

“Perhaps it is still a joke.”

“This is Lady Brett.”

“Bonsoir, Lady Brett.”

“Bonsoir.”

Georgette looked at me again.

“She is very beautiful.”

“Yes.”

“She does not look like a girl who waits.”

“She didn’t wait.”

“She is waiting now.”

Brett went over to the bar and ordered a brandy. The patronne poured it. Brett drank half and looked around the room.

“Your friend is very pretty,” she said.

“She isn’t my friend.”

“Then why did you bring her?”

“I don’t know.”

“You bring many women when you don’t know things?”

“Not many.”

“Only pretty ones?”

“Not always.”

She smiled with her closed mouth.

“Did you have a good time with her?”

“Yes.”

“Was she kind?”

“Yes.”

“Did she give you money?”

“No.”

“Then you must give her some.”

“I gave her fifty francs.”

“You should give her more.”

“I haven’t got more.”

Georgette held out her hand.

“Let me see it.”

“What?”

“The fifty francs.”

I took the envelope from my pocket and gave it to her. She opened it, counted the note, and put it in her bag.

“You see,” she said. “You did have money.”

“It was yours.”

“Yes.”

Brett came over with the brandy.

“Are you leaving?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Your fiancée has her money.”

“She is not my fiancée.”

“Of course not.”

Georgette stood up and put on her hat.

“Could you take me somewhere?” she asked.

“Where?”

“Somewhere warm.”

“You can take a taxi.”

“I have no taxi.”

“Get one.”

“You have one.”

“It isn’t mine.”

“Everything is someone’s.”

The two couples had stopped dancing. The proprietor rested his hands on the accordion. Outside, a taxi sounded its horn.

“Good night,” I said.

“Good night, Jacob.”

Georgette went out. Brett watched her through the doorway until she crossed the street.

“She is not happy either,” Brett said.

“No.”

“Perhaps you should have taken her home.”

“Perhaps.”

“You could have.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I wanted to go with you.”

She looked at me. I could see that she had understood.

We went out and got into the taxi. I told the driver to take us to the Halles. Brett leaned back and closed her eyes.

“I’m not going to marry Wilfred Houghton,” she said.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I wanted you to know.”

“I know.”

“He has a yacht.”

“That’s useful.”

“He has a house in California.”

“Also useful.”

“You’re very difficult.”

“So are you.”

“Yes.”

At the Halles the market was beginning to wake. Men pushed handcarts between the stalls. The air smelled of vegetables, wet rope, and fish. We went into a café that was open all night and sat near the window. Brett ordered coffee and eggs. I ordered coffee.

“You should eat,” I said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You ordered eggs.”

“I may eat them.”

The waiter brought the coffee. Brett put sugar in hers and stirred it carefully.

“What will you do in Spain?” she asked.

“Work a little. Fish. Watch the bullfights.”

“Would you take me to a bullfight?”

“Yes.”

“Would you watch it?”

“Yes.”

“What if I were afraid?”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

She smiled.

“You know very little.”

“I know that.”

We sat there while the market grew louder. A truck unloaded crates of oranges. The driver swore at a porter. Somewhere a woman was calling prices.

Brett ate one egg and pushed the plate away.

“I don’t want to go home,” she said.

“Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can come with me.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“That is very reassuring.”

“We could keep driving.”

“Until where?”

“Until you wanted to stop.”

“And then?”

“Then we would stop.”

She looked at me across the table.

“You would be very good to me.”

“I try to be.”

“That isn’t what I want.”

“I know.”

She put her hand on the table, palm upward. I put my hand in it. We sat that way for a while.

Then she said, “Let’s go.”

We paid and went outside. The sky over the roofs had begun to turn gray. The market men moved quickly now. The first buses went along the street with their lights still on.

“Where?” I asked.

“To the Ritz.”

“Why?”

“I want to go there.”

“All right.”

We found a taxi. In the back seat Brett held my hand and rested against me. We did not talk. The city passed in the windows, empty in some places and full in others. At the Place de la Concorde the lamps were pale in the morning light.

The taxi stopped before the hotel. Brett did not get out.

“Take me somewhere else,” she said.

“Where?”

“Home.”

“Which home?”

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

She gave the driver an address. I had not heard it before. He started again.

At the next corner she changed her mind.

“No. Stop.”

The driver stopped. Brett opened the door and got out. She stood on the pavement, looking tired and very young.

“I’ll get another taxi,” she said.

“There is one behind us.”

I crossed the street and stopped it. The driver opened the door.

Brett came over.

“Good night,” she said.

“It’s morning.”

“Good morning, then.”

“Good morning.”

She got into the taxi. She leaned out.

“Don’t be unhappy.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying.”

She smiled at me and shut the door. The taxi pulled away toward the river.

It was dawn. I walked down to the quay and started home alone. The water was gray under the bridges, and the city was quiet except for the carts and the first buses. I walked beside the river while the light came up over the roofs.