The Chapters

The tranquillity of that evening was broken by a sudden streak of fire across the sky.

I remember that my wife cried out, and caught my arm. We were standing at the gate, watching the last of the excursionists pass down the road, when the meteor appeared above the trees to the south-east. It was no mere wavering star, such as one sees fall and vanish in an instant. It came with a steady, furious brightness, a greenish-white core surrounded by a broad envelope of reddish flame, and it traversed half the heavens before it disappeared beyond the low ridge of woodland.

For some seconds after it had gone we remained staring into the darkness.

“Did it fall?” my wife asked.

“It must have done,” I said. “Somewhere near Chertsey, perhaps. It was low before it vanished.”

There was no sound of an explosion. The night resumed its silence so completely that I wondered whether the thing had been an illusion brought about by the tiredness of my eyes. But presently, from far away in the direction of Horsell, there came a faint and prolonged rumbling, like the passage of a heavy train underground. It died away so gradually that I could not tell the moment when it ceased.

The people in the road had stopped also. One man declared that it was a signal from Mars; another that a powder magazine had blown up. A woman laughed nervously and said she had seen the moon fall. Then the little party moved on, and the lights of their bicycles dwindled along the road.

My wife and I went indoors. We spoke of the meteor while we prepared for bed, but there was nothing alarming in our minds. The heavens had always been full of such phenomena, and the nineteenth century had taught us to regard them with the composure of people who possess explanations. I recollect that I found a book upon the table dealing with the constitution of meteors, and turned over a few pages before I slept.

In the morning, however, before I had finished my breakfast, a boy came running up the garden path to tell us that a strange stone had fallen into the sand-pit at Horsell.

He was dusty and breathless, and in such a state of excitement that for a time we could make nothing of his story.

“It’s a great round thing, sir,” he repeated. “It fell in the water and it’s smoking. You can see it from the heath. Everybody’s going to look.”

I asked him whether anybody had been hurt.

“No, sir. Not as I heard. But it’s hot. It’s dreadful hot.”

My wife came through from the other room and stood listening.

“Ogilvy will be there,” I said. “I had better go and see what it is.”

“I am coming with you.”

I protested that there would be a crowd, and that the ground about the sand-pit was rough and slippery after the recent rains. But she had already fetched her hat and was fastening it beneath her chin.

“I want to see it,” she said. “You saw the light last night. I should like to know what it was.”

So we set out together along the road towards Horsell. The morning was clear and bright, though a thin vapour hung above the distant trees. The air had that washed freshness which follows rain, and the fields shone with moisture. At intervals we met people hurrying in the same direction: labourers, boys in caps, two women carrying babies, and a gentleman in a straw hat who told us, with great confidence, that the object was a shell fired from the moon.

The common was already dotted with people when we reached it. A disorderly track had been worn across the grass towards the sand-pit, and from every side came voices, conjectures, and laughter. The rumour had grown during the morning. It was now said that the thing was a ball of iron; that it contained a foreign army; that it had been sent by the French; and that it had buried itself to a depth of a hundred feet.

The sand-pit lay in a hollow, its sides yellow and steep, with pools of brown water gathered at the bottom. It was an old place, partly overgrown with bracken and gorse, and the recent rain had filled the deepest excavation into a shallow lake. At the centre of this water stood the object.

At first I could scarcely believe my eyes. It was an enormous cylinder, perhaps thirty yards in diameter, sunk obliquely in the sand. The greater part of it was hidden beneath the water, but one curved surface rose above the muddy level, shining darkly through sheets of vapour. Steam drifted from it in slow wreaths, and where the water touched its sides there was a continual whispering and bubbling.

The object had not fallen upright. It had ploughed through the farther bank, scattering sand and bushes, and had come to rest with its front buried in the opposite slope. The earth about it was blackened and glassy in places. A long furrow ran up the bank behind it, and the trees above were stripped of leaves.

Ogilvy was standing near the edge of the pool. His clothes were wet to the knees, and his grey beard was clotted with sand. He turned sharply when he saw us.

“You have come,” he said. “I have been waiting for you.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“A meteorite, of course.”

I looked again at the cylinder.

“You call that a meteorite?”

“What else should it be?” he returned impatiently. “A meteor is simply a body entering our atmosphere. This is the remnant of one that has reached the earth. The shape is due to fusion and rotation, or to the breaking away of the outer crust during its passage.”

“It looks manufactured.”

He gave me a stare of mingled amusement and irritation.

“My dear fellow, it has fallen from the sky. Things manufactured by men do not fall from Mars.”

“You saw the light?”

“I did not see it. I was called from my bed by the noise. But there are half a dozen witnesses who saw the fire. Its velocity, its incandescent appearance, the disturbance of the ground—all are precisely what one would expect from a meteorite.”

“Would one expect it to be a cylinder?”

“Why not? We have no right to assume that celestial bodies are shaped according to our convenience. Besides, the apparent regularity may be deceptive. The surface is fused.”

He pointed to the exposed metal. It was dark brown in some places, almost black in others, and streaked with glistening lines. The surface seemed smooth, but not evenly so. There were circular ridges and shallow depressions, as if the substance had been cast in sections. Near the upper part was a broad band running round the curve, broken at one point by a small, perfectly round hollow.

I told Ogilvy of the ten outbreaks of flame seen upon Mars and of the invisible missiles whose existence had occupied my thoughts ever since. He listened with an expression of annoyance.

“You are allowing last night’s spectacle to excite your imagination,” he said. “The eruptions on Mars are a matter for astronomy. This is a stone.”

“It is not like any stone I have ever seen.”

“Then you have not seen enough stones.”

My wife had come down the bank behind me, holding her skirt clear of the wet sand. Ogilvy greeted her with a brief inclination of the head, but his attention soon returned to the object.

“Keep back from the water,” he told us. “The whole thing is still exceedingly hot.”

At that moment a broad-shouldered man in shirtsleeves pushed through the people near the bank.

“I’ll soon tell you whether it’s hot,” he said.

Somebody laughed. The man descended towards the pool, ignoring the protests of several others. He was one of the local labourers, I think, though I did not know his name. He carried a long stick, and with this he prodded the object where it emerged from the water.

The stick smoked instantly.

He dropped it, swore, and stepped back. But the sight had only increased his eagerness. He bent down, scooped up a little water in his hand, and splashed it upon the metal. A sharp cloud of vapour rose, and the people nearest the pool cried out. The man, perhaps to prove that he was not afraid, placed his palm directly upon the surface.

He screamed.

The cry was horrible because it was so sudden and human. He fell backward into the mud, clutching his hand against his breast. When he raised it again, the skin of his palm was white and blistered. His fingers trembled violently.

For a moment the crowd was silent. Then everybody began to speak at once.

“You fool!” Ogilvy exclaimed. “I told you it was hot.”

The man stared at his injured hand with a look of astonishment rather than pain. Two of his companions helped him up the bank, and my wife went to them. She had a flask in her bag, and wetted a handkerchief for the man while one of the women tore a strip from her apron. The injured person submitted to their ministrations in silence, his face drawn and grey.

This incident altered the temper of the crowd. Until then the object had been a curiosity, something to be laughed at and poked with sticks. Now it acquired a quality of danger. People moved away from the water’s edge, though they did not leave the sand-pit. Boys climbed the farther bank for a better view, and several men began measuring the furrow made by the fall.

Ogilvy continued to insist that the body was an ordinary meteorite.

“You may think it singular,” he said to me, “but singularity is not evidence of design. We have only to wait until it cools. Then we shall examine its composition, and the matter will be settled.”

“What of the regular bands?”

“Contraction.”

“The hollow?”

“A bubble, or an accident of fusion.”

“The surface is too even.”

“You are not a metallurgist.”

“And why has it fallen here?”

“Because it was passing overhead and the earth happened to be beneath it.”

He spoke with the assurance of a man defending not merely an opinion but the whole order of his understanding. Around us, the crowd gathered and shifted, listening whenever his voice rose. His authority was considerable; people knew him as an astronomer, and the presence of a scientific explanation was reassuring.

Yet I could not share his confidence. The longer I looked at the cylinder, the more strongly I felt that it had been shaped by some intelligence. There was nothing accidental in its proportions. Even the battered portion at the rear possessed an intention which no natural stone could have had.

“It may be a meteorite,” I said, “but it is a meteorite of a very unusual kind.”

“Every meteorite is unusual until it has been classified.”

At eleven o’clock my wife came back to me from the injured man. His hand had been dressed, and he had gone away under the care of his friends.

“Do you still mean to remain here?” she asked.

“For a little while.”

“It is getting very crowded.”

I looked about me. The people had increased enormously. A group of men from Chertsey had arrived with a cart, and two policemen were trying to keep the bank clear. Children were being lifted upon shoulders. Newsboys moved through the throng shouting contradictory accounts of the fall. From the road came the steady sound of wheels, and beyond the sand-pit the common was dark with figures.

“I should like you to go home,” I said.

She looked at me steadily.

“You are not coming?”

“Not yet. Ogilvy believes it will cool presently. I want to see what happens.”

“What could happen?”

I could not tell her. The answer was in my mind, but it seemed absurd when put into words.

“I want to observe it,” I said.

She smiled faintly.

“You have never been so devoted to a stone before.”

“No,” I said. “I have not.”

There was a stir among the crowd near the pool. Somebody had thrown a clod of earth at the object, and the clod had burst into steam. The policemen shouted angrily. Ogilvy descended a little way down the bank, waving them back.

My wife took my arm.

“Come with me, at least as far as the road.”

I walked with her to the edge of the common. We paused there beneath the trees, while the noise from the sand-pit came to us in confused gusts. She turned and looked back at the blackened hollow, the white vapour, and the multitude of people assembled about it.

“You will not do anything foolish?” she asked.

“Certainly not.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

She hesitated, as if she wished to say more, and then kissed me.

I watched her go along the road towards Ottershaw, her figure growing smaller between the hedges. Once she turned and lifted her hand. I answered her, and then she passed from my sight.

It was nearly noon. The sun stood high and warm, but the vapour still rose steadily from the fallen cylinder. Around the sand-pit the crowd had become a compact, restless mass, and more people were arriving every minute from Chertsey and the neighbouring villages. Ogilvy remained at the water’s edge, arguing with a constable about the safety of approaching the object.

I went back towards them alone.

“Dr. Seward’s Diary.”

(Kept in phonograph)

26 May.—The dinner at Morris’s rooms was a success, though I confess that the success was of a melancholy kind. Quincey had done all that a man could do to make his friends comfortable. His rooms in Piccadilly were small, but they had the indefinable air of a camp, as though at any moment the furniture might be packed upon mules and the whole establishment moved across a desert. There were weapons upon the walls, pipes upon the mantelpiece, and a great bearskin before the fire. The table, however, was laid with the greatest care, and a silver bowl of flowers stood in the centre.

Arthur came first, and I shortly after him. Quincey met us at the door with a smile so broad that it seemed to leave no room for sorrow.

‘Come in, Jack!’ he cried. ‘Art has been waiting for you, and I have been waiting for both of you, and the dinner has been waiting for all three. We are each in the same fix, and that is the best sort of company.’

Arthur shook his hand, and for a few minutes we spoke of ordinary matters. Yet it was plain that his happiness sat upon him like a new garment, and that he was constantly afraid of creasing it by movement. He drank very little, but his eyes shone whenever Lucy’s name was mentioned.

When we sat down Quincey raised his glass.

‘To the lady who has made a better man of Art without making a worse one of the rest of us.’

‘Amen to that,’ I said.

Arthur looked at us gravely.

‘You have both been very kind. I shall not forget it.’

‘Forget it!’ cried Quincey. ‘Why, we shall remind you of it whenever you are dull, and make you pay us for the pleasure of having been generous.’

We ate, and the talk grew more cheerful. Quincey told a story of a railway journey in the States in which he had mistaken a judge for a hotel porter, and the judge had repaid him by sentencing him to spend the night in a station waiting-room. He related the whole affair with such solemnity that Arthur laughed until the tears stood in his eyes.

After dinner we moved closer to the fire, and Quincey filled our glasses again. He had that rare quality in a man of being able to jest without seeming foolish, and to speak seriously without making the room heavy.

‘There is one thing I want to say,’ he began. ‘I told Miss Lucy that I should be her friend. That is a promise, and I mean to keep it. But there is no reason why I should be a stranger to the man she has chosen. So, Art, I ask you plainly: do you love her?’

Arthur rose and stood with his back to the mantelpiece. His face was very grave.

‘With all my heart.’

‘Good,’ said Quincey. ‘Then we understand each other. A man who loves a good woman must be ready to stand by her friends as well as by herself. You have no cause to fear me, and I have no cause to fear you.’

‘Fear you!’ Arthur cried. ‘I should be ashamed if I did not trust you.’

‘That is the ticket,’ said Quincey. ‘And now, Jack, you shall drink to them both.’

I raised my glass, though there was a curious constriction in my throat.

‘To Arthur and Lucy,’ I said. ‘May their happiness be long and sound.’

We drank in silence. For a moment each of us seemed to be thinking of the same thing—that human happiness is a brave undertaking, and that those who enter upon it do so with much courage and little knowledge of what lies before them.

Later, when Arthur had gone, Quincey and I sat together. He had become thoughtful, and the fire had burned low.

‘Jack,’ he said, ‘you have a way of looking at a man as if you would know the truth of him, whether he wished it or not.’

‘I am a doctor,’ I answered. ‘It is my trade.’

‘Then tell me what you see in me.’

‘A sound heart, a restless mind, and a stronger regard for your friends than for yourself.’

He laughed shortly.

‘You are a dangerous man, Jack. But perhaps you are right. I have lived in many places and met many men. I have never found a better friend than Art, and I have never seen a better girl than Lucy.’

He took up a small photograph which lay upon the table. I recognised Lucy’s face, bright and young, with the look of happiness which made it seem almost luminous.

‘She has trusted us both,’ he said. ‘We must see that she has no cause to repent it.’

I told him that she had nothing to fear from either of us. He nodded, but did not answer. Presently we parted, and I walked back to the asylum with a lighter heart than I had carried into the house.

27 May.—Renfield has been quieter than usual. He refused his breakfast, but accepted two flies from the attendant and placed them carefully in a match-box. His periods of excitement have lately followed no regular rule. At times he is perfectly rational, and at others he speaks with an intensity which seems to transform the most trivial matter into a question of life and death.

This afternoon, while I was examining the notes of his case, he turned suddenly towards me.

‘Doctor,’ he said, ‘is Miss Westenra to be married?’

The question was so unexpected that I laid down my pencil.

‘What makes you ask that?’

He looked at me with great attention.

‘Because it is important.’

‘Important to whom?’

‘To her.’

‘Have you ever seen Miss Westenra?’

‘No.’

‘Then why should her marriage concern you?’

He smiled, and began arranging the crumbs upon his plate in a pattern.

‘A lady should not be left without protection.’

I asked him what protection he meant, but he would say no more. He became absorbed in his crumbs, and when I repeated the question he merely answered:

‘The stronger must care for the weaker. That is the law of the household.’

I have no recollection of having mentioned Miss Westenra in his hearing. I shall inquire of the attendants whether her name has been spoken in the ward.

28 May.—Renfield has denied the whole conversation. When I told him that he had asked about Miss Westenra, he stared at me as if I were the patient and he the physician.

‘You are mistaken, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I have never heard the name.’

‘You spoke it yesterday.’

‘Then yesterday I was not myself.’

‘Who were you?’

He leaned forward and whispered:

‘A servant.’

I tried to make him explain, but he became angry and demanded that the interview should end. After a few minutes he was calm again and asked for his flies.

I cannot yet decide whether his question yesterday arose from some recollection which has been hidden from us, or whether it was merely one of those sudden associations which appear in diseased minds. The fact that he asked without any leading question is worthy of note.

Letter, Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra.

“3 June.

“My dearest Lucy,—

“I am ashamed that I have not written sooner, but I have been troubled about Jonathan. His last letter was so short that I could scarcely recognise his usual manner in it. He says that his business is nearly concluded and that he expects to return shortly, yet there was something in the form of the words which made me uneasy. You will laugh at me, dear, and say that I have been practising shorthand until I find meanings in every stroke of a pen.

“I have received a letter from a gentleman whom I do not know, and I copy it here in full, so that you may judge for yourself.

“‘Hotel Continental, Klausenburg.

“‘30 May.

“‘Madam,—

“‘You will pardon the liberty I take in addressing you, as I am a stranger both to yourself and to England. My name is M. J. Billington, and I am attached to the British Consular office here. Yesterday I received a communication from a gentleman who gave his name as Mr. Jonathan Harker, solicitor, of Exeter. He requested me to inform you that his journey has been delayed, and that he will not be able to return to England at the time which he had fixed.

“‘Mr. Harker appeared to be in a state of great fatigue. He was unable to give me a clear account of the cause of his delay, saying only that certain arrangements had not been completed and that he must remain abroad until they were. He assured me, however, that his health was improving, and that you should not be alarmed.

“‘I regret that I cannot give you more definite information. Mr. Harker did not remain with me for more than a few minutes, and he left before I could arrange suitable accommodation for him. He carried no travelling bag, and seemed to possess no papers except a small notebook, which he kept in the inner pocket of his coat.

“‘As he spoke of your affection for him, I judged that you would prefer to hear from one who had seen him recently rather than be left to depend upon the post. Should he return to this town, I shall do all in my power to assist him.

“‘Believe me, Madam, your obedient servant,

“‘M. J. BILLINGTON.’”

“I cannot make it out, Lucy. Why should Jonathan be in such a condition of fatigue? Why should he have no bag or papers? He is careful almost to a fault, and would never travel without the means of identifying himself. Yet the gentleman seems respectable, and there is no reason for him to invent such a letter.

“Peter Hawkins has written to say that he also expected Jonathan home by this time. I have not told him of my fears, for I do not wish to make trouble where there may be none. You know how easily one woman’s anxiety can become another woman’s burden.

“Write to me at once, dear, and tell me that you are happy. I need the sound of your happiness just now.

“Your loving

“MINA.”

Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Dr. John Seward.

“4 June.

“My dear Jack,—

“I have had a note from Art saying that Lucy is as well and happy as a bird in spring. That is good enough news to put a man in humour with the world. I wish you had been there when I called. She has a way of looking at a fellow which makes him ashamed of every bad thought he has ever had.

“You asked me last night what I intended to do with myself. I have been thinking of going back to America for a while, but I find that England has a strange habit of holding a man after he has decided to leave it. Perhaps it is the weather. Perhaps it is the people. Perhaps it is nothing more than the fact that there are two friends here whom I am not willing to lose.

“I hope the young lady who is engaged to our friend Harker has had better news than the report I heard at the club. A man may be delayed in travelling without being in danger, but there is no reason why a woman should be kept in the dark. If you see her, give her my respects, and tell her that any service I can render is hers for the asking.

“Yours faithfully,

“QUINCEY.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

5 June.—I called upon Miss Murray at her lodgings, having received a message from her requesting advice. She showed me Mr. Billington’s letter. I could offer no explanation of its contents, but I advised her to write immediately to the consular office and to Mr. Harker’s employer.

She bore herself with admirable composure. Indeed, I think she was more concerned for the effect of the news upon others than for herself.

‘Jonathan would not wish me to become frightened,’ she said. ‘If he says that his health is improving, I must believe him.’

‘There are many reasons why a traveller may lose his papers,’ I answered. ‘Accident, theft, confusion at a railway station—’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But why does the letter seem to me like a message from some one who is trying to remember how Jonathan would speak?’

I looked at her closely. She coloured a little, and then smiled.

‘You see, Dr. Seward, I have been practising to read faces, and perhaps I am beginning to read letters also.’

I told her that she must not allow imagination to take the place of evidence. She replied that she had no intention of doing so, and at once began to make a list of every person who might assist in tracing Mr. Harker’s movements.

There is a quiet efficiency about this young woman which would serve a military commander. She has been trained by affection to observe, and by anxiety to act.

6 June.—A telegram from Arthur states that Miss Westenra has gone with her mother to stay with friends in Hampstead for several days. He adds that she is in excellent spirits. I am glad to hear it, for it will be a relief to Miss Murray, whose mind is already occupied with the uncertainty concerning Harker.

Renfield has been in a state of unusual calm. He asked for no insects and spent the greater part of the day looking through the bars of his window at the gardeners below. When I asked him what he was thinking about, he said:

‘The world is full of people who do not know where they are going.’

‘That is true of most of us.’

‘Not of me.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Where I am sent.’

I questioned him further, but he closed his eyes and would not answer. There is something in his manner which suggests that his fixed ideas are arranged according to a system. If only I could discover the central principle, the rest might be understood.

Letter, Mina Murray to Mr. Peter Hawkins.

“7 June.

“Dear Sir,—

“I am writing to ask whether you have received any further communication from Jonathan. A gentleman connected with the British Consular office at Klausenburg has informed me that Jonathan’s journey has been delayed, and that he appeared without luggage or papers.

“I do not wish to alarm you, and I should be grateful if you would treat this matter as confidential. Yet I cannot rest without knowing whether the business at Castle Dracula has been concluded, or whether there remains anything which requires Jonathan’s presence abroad.

“If you have any knowledge of his present address, however uncertain, I beg you to send it to me by return. I shall be deeply obliged.

“Yours faithfully,

“MINA MURRAY.”

Telegram from the British Consular Office, Budapest, to Miss Mina Murray.

“JONATHAN HARKER ARRIVED LAST NIGHT IN HIS OWN CLOTHES STOP HE DENIES KNOWLEDGE OF ANY CASTLE OR COUNT STOP”

Mrs. Pontellier remained with the children beneath the awning, where they were building a city of sand and shells. Raoul insisted upon a wall around it, and the elder boy, with the seriousness of a military engineer, was digging a moat which the tide was destined to destroy.

Robert walked slowly beside Madame Ratignolle. He was attentive to her steps, which were still somewhat dragging, and he answered the little questions she put to him about the children. But presently he became silent.

“What is it?” asked Adèle, glancing up at him. “You are thinking.”

“I was thinking of Mrs. Pontellier.”

“Ah!”

“She is not like other women,” he said, with a smile which was half amusement and half perplexity. “When she looks at the sea, one would think she heard something in it that the rest of us cannot hear.”

Madame Ratignolle laughed softly.

“You are very observant, Robert.”

“I am not observant. I only notice her.”

“That is sometimes the same thing.”

He looked away toward the glittering water.

“She is never entirely here,” he continued. “One may be speaking to her, and all the while she is walking somewhere alone.”

Adèle said nothing to this. She had no admonition to offer, and would have felt it unkind to suggest that he ought to be careful. Her instinct was to let people follow the bent of their own natures, provided those natures did not cause pain to the children. She leaned more heavily upon his arm as they came in sight of the main house, and Robert, perceiving this, gave his whole attention to helping her up the steps.

Edna stayed beneath the awning until the children’s game had ended in confusion and tears. Then she led them back to the cottage, where the quadroon nurse received them with a resigned expression and began the business of removing sand from their clothing. Edna went into her room and changed her dress. She selected a loose gown of pale blue, fastening it at the throat with a little gold pin which Léonce had given her in the first year of their marriage.

She was standing before the mirror, examining the effect of it, when a boy from the main house appeared at the open door.

“Telegram for Madame Pontellier.”

She took the yellow envelope and tore it without haste. The message was brief:

Will not come out Saturday. Business prevents. Hope you are comfortable. Léonce.

She read it twice. There was no disappointment in her face, nor any particular satisfaction. It seemed to her that he had merely announced a fact which had been waiting somewhere to announce itself. She laid the telegram upon the table and went out.

Adèle was sitting on the gallery of her cottage, her needlework in her lap, while the children played near her feet. Robert was nowhere to be seen. The afternoon had grown warm and languid. The wind, which had been so insistent in the morning, now moved over the island in long, soft respirations.

“Edna,” said Adèle, “come sit with me a little.”

Edna took the chair beside her. For a while they listened to the sound of the children and to the occasional call of a boatman far out upon the water.

“I have something to tell you,” said Adèle at last. “It is not important, but you will be amused.”

“Tell me.”

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

Edna turned her head.

“What did he say?”

“He said that you are not like other women.”

“That does not sound particularly amusing.”

“He said more. He said that when you look at the sea one would think you heard something in it that the rest of us cannot hear.”

Edna’s eyes rested upon the narrow strip of blue visible beyond the houses.

“What else?”

“He said you are never entirely here; that one may speak to you, and all the while you are walking somewhere alone.”

Edna smiled. She was pleased, though she could not have said why.

“Robert should not be allowed to talk so much.”

“Robert does not talk so much. That is why one remembers the things he says.”

Adèle bent over her sewing. She was making a tiny garment, no larger than a handkerchief, with exquisite stitches along the edge.

“Did he say it as a compliment?” Edna asked.

“I do not know. Robert is sometimes serious when he appears to be joking.”

“And sometimes joking when he appears serious.”

“Exactly.”

Edna rose. The air about her seemed suddenly too full of voices, too crowded with the intimate little noises of domestic life. Adèle’s needle flashed in the sun. A child laughed; another cried because his wooden boat had capsized in a puddle. From one of the cottages came the smell of coffee and warm bread.

“I am going down to the water,” Edna said.

“You have not taken your bathing dress.”

“I am not going to bathe.”

Adèle looked up at her with a little troubled crease between her brows, but the crease vanished almost immediately.

“Do not stay too long, dear. The sun is still very strong.”

Edna walked toward the beach alone. The path seemed altered since morning. The camomile was more strongly scented, and the orange trees cast deeper shadows across the sand. She walked slowly, sometimes touching the tops of the grasses with her hand. The telegram lay folded in the pocket of her gown. She had forgotten it there until the paper pressed against her hip, reminding her of Léonce and the city and the ordered rooms in which his life moved with such regularity.

At the beach the bath-houses stood quiet and white in the declining light. The lady in black occupied the porch of the neighboring house. Her head was bent over the little book she carried, and her lips moved faintly.

Edna paused before going farther. She had seen the woman every day without exchanging a word with her. The black dress, the dark veil, the small book held close to the breast—these had formed a figure as fixed and familiar as the bath-houses themselves.

The lady in black raised her eyes.

“You are going into the water, Madame Pontellier?”

Edna was surprised by the sound of her voice. It was low and colorless, but not unpleasant.

“I think I shall try.”

“Do you swim?”

“No.”

The lady in black regarded her for a moment.

“It is a dangerous thing to try alone.”

“I have been told so.”

“Then you have been told rightly.”

Edna smiled, not in defiance, but because the woman’s grave manner struck her as almost comical.

“I shall not go far.”

The lady in black closed her book upon one finger.

“The sea does not measure distance as we do.”

Edna looked out over the water. It was calm near the shore, though farther away it darkened in long uneven bands.

“No,” she said. “Perhaps that is why I want to enter it.”

The lady in black lowered her eyes again.

“God keep you, then.”

Edna removed her shoes and stockings and set them beneath the gallery. She gathered up her skirt and stepped into the water. It was cool against her ankles, then her calves, and finally her knees. The sand shifted beneath her feet. She stopped and looked back toward the shore.

The lady in black had returned to her book.

Edna went on. The water reached her waist. She felt the pull of it around her body, gentle but insistent. Her heart beat rapidly. She had the sensation of standing upon the edge of some vast and untried freedom.

She bent forward and placed her hands upon the water. The first movement was clumsy. She lifted one foot, then the other, and for an instant the sea bore her. Fear seized her and she stood upright again.

She waited, breathing hard.

Then she tried once more.

This time her arms moved outward and down. Her body followed. She floated for the space of a breath, perhaps two. Her feet struck the sand and she rose quickly, startled by her own success.

She laughed aloud.

No one answered. The beach was empty except for the lady in black, who seemed not to have noticed.

Edna tried again. She managed a few strokes, awkward and uneven, with her head lifted too high and her hands beating the water in panic. Yet they carried her forward. She felt the motion pass through her arms and shoulders, and a strange pride gathered in her breast.

She stopped before she had gone any distance. The shore remained close. There was no danger but the danger she had imagined, and no witness to her triumph but the sea.

For several minutes she stood waist-deep, letting the small waves break against her. Then she returned to the sand and put on her stockings without drying her feet. Her dress clung damply about her ankles. The lady in black was still reading.

“You did not drown,” the woman observed.

“No.”

“Then you were fortunate.”

Edna looked at her. “I was not fortunate. I was able.”

The lady in black’s expression did not change.

“Those are not always different things.”

Edna could think of no reply. She left the woman to her devotions and walked back along the path, carrying her shoes in one hand.

At supper the children were sleepy and irritable. Adèle had gone to her room, where she was resting after the exertion of the day. Robert appeared for a little while and helped amuse Raoul, who refused to eat anything except the crisp edge of a biscuit. He said nothing to Edna about the beach, and she said nothing to him.

The telegram remained folded in her pocket. Later, when the nurse had taken the children away and the dishes had been removed, Edna drew it out and read it once more by the lamplight.

She felt no sorrow at Léonce’s absence. Yet the words seemed to establish something between them, some new interval which had not existed when he had been expected on Saturday. She folded the paper carefully and placed it beneath the little gold pin in her dressing-case.

The night had become still. A pale moon lay over the gulf, and the water gave back a tremulous path of light. Edna sat alone upon the gallery of the cottage. Within, the children slept, their breathing soft and irregular, one of them turning now and then against the pillow. The nurse had withdrawn to her own room. From the main house came a murmur of voices, then laughter, and afterward silence.

Edna leaned back and closed her eyes.

She saw again the green meadow of her childhood, stretching away without end. She felt the coolness of the sea about her body and remembered the brief, astonishing movement of her arms. She had gone forward. She had supported herself. The knowledge rested in her like a secret flame.

Then Robert’s words returned to her, as Adèle had repeated them: she was not like other women; when she looked at the sea, one would think she heard something in it that the rest of them could not hear. She was never entirely there, but walking somewhere alone.

Edna opened her eyes and gazed into the moonlit darkness. Robert’s remark remained in her mind, tenderly, persistently, like a voice calling from a distance.

Mary slept through the long gray afternoon and did not waken until the train stopped at a small station where a porter was standing under a dripping shed and a few lamps were burning in the fog.

Mrs. Medlock touched her shoulder.

"Wake up," she said. "We have come to the place."

Mary sat up and looked out of the window. The rain had stopped, but the air was dark and wet and cold. A man was standing near the carriage door. He was tall and thin and wrapped in a long dark coat. His face looked pale and tired, and his shoulders were bent in a way which made Mary know at once that he was Mr. Archibald Craven.

He did not look at her immediately. He spoke to Mrs. Medlock.

"Is this the child?"

"Yes, sir," she answered. "This is Miss Mary Lennox."

Mr. Craven turned his eyes toward Mary. They were strange eyes, gray and deeply set, and he looked at her as if he had almost forgotten that she was there.

"Come," he said.

He did not offer his hand. He did not kiss her or ask if she were tired after her journey. Mary followed him down the steps because there was nothing else to do. A closed carriage was waiting beyond the station, and a man in a thick coat held open the door.

"This is your uncle," Mrs. Medlock whispered as Mary climbed in. "You must make your manners."

Mary looked at the tall dark figure standing aside to let them pass.

"How do you do, Uncle?" she said.

"How do you do?" he answered.

Then he got into the carriage and sat opposite her.

He said nothing more.

The horses moved away from the station and the lamps swung backward and forward, throwing yellow streaks across the road. Mary sat very stiffly in her corner. She had expected a hunchback to look much more remarkable. Mr. Craven's back was crooked, but his face was not ugly. It was a sorrowful face, and there was something about it which made her feel that he would rather be anywhere than in the carriage with her.

She watched him in the uncertain light. He did not look at her again. Once he lifted the little curtain and stared out at the black country. Once he put his hand over his eyes and sat so still that Mary wondered if he had gone to sleep.

"Is he always like that?" she whispered to Mrs. Medlock.

"Like what?"

"Like he doesn't want to talk."

"Mr. Craven is not a talking gentleman," said Mrs. Medlock. "You'd best remember that."

Mary turned her face toward the window. The country looked unlike any country she had ever seen. There were no bright flowers, no broad verandas, no palms, and no groups of servants moving in the shadows. There were only black hedges, bare trees, and stretches of low land which seemed to have no end.

"What is that?" she asked after a while.

"The moor," said Mrs. Medlock.

Mary pressed her face nearer the glass. The road had risen and there were no houses in sight. The land on either side looked like a wide, dark sea, with small hills in it and long hollows filled with mist.

"What is it used for?" she asked.

"Nothing," Mrs. Medlock answered. "That is, nothing but grouse and ponies and sheep. It belongs to nobody and everybody, as you might say."

"It is very ugly," said Mary.

"That's because you're not used to it. It has a fine, free way of its own. When the heather's out, it is purple. And there are no trees to hem you in."

Mary did not think she would like a place which had no trees to hem it in. It looked lonely and wild, and the wind had begun to make a low sound over the open land. It seemed to come from every direction at once.

The carriage went on for some time. Darkness had fallen completely when the horses suddenly slowed and stopped.

Mr. Craven lifted his head.

"What is it?" he asked.

The driver climbed down from his seat. They heard him call to the horses and then walk a few paces forward. There was a sound of stamping and a dull movement in the road.

"What is there?" Mrs. Medlock called.

"Something in t'way, ma'am," the driver answered. "A sheep, maybe. It won't stir."

Mr. Craven opened the door.

"Stay here," he said to Mary.

But Mary had been shut in the carriage for hours and the darkness outside seemed to call her. Before Mrs. Medlock could stop her, she slipped down after him.

"Get back in!" cried Mrs. Medlock.

Mary did not obey. The air was cold and wet against her face, but it felt large and fresh. She stood by the roadside while the driver bent over a dark heap which proved to be a sheep caught in a broken place between the stones. It struggled feebly, and Mr. Craven knelt to help lift it.

Mary looked away from them toward the moor.

There was nothing there but darkness and wind. Yet it did not seem empty. The land rolled away into the night, and the heather brushed against her shoes. Far off, something called once—a harsh, lonely sound—and then there was silence again.

For a minute she forgot Misselthwaite Manor and the locked rooms and the hunchback uncle. She forgot even that she was cold. The moor seemed to be looking at her, as if it knew she was a strange little girl who had come from a far country and did not belong anywhere.

Then the driver freed the sheep and it scrambled away.

"Back to the carriage, miss," he said. "It'll be rainin' again in a minute."

Mary climbed in. Mr. Craven entered after her and closed the door. His coat was damp at the shoulders.

"Why did you get out?" he asked.

"I wanted to see the moor."

He looked at her for a moment.

"You will see enough of it," he said.

That was all.

The carriage moved on. The moor seemed to stretch beside them for miles. Sometimes the road dipped so low that the mist rose around the wheels. Sometimes it climbed, and Mary saw the sky open above them, black and starless.

At last the carriage turned through great iron gates. They swung back with a long, creaking sound, and the wheels went over a drive between trees. Their branches met overhead and made a roof which hid the sky. The house appeared suddenly, rising out of the darkness with many windows and many chimneys. A few lights shone here and there, but most of the great building was black.

Mary looked up at it.

"It is like a castle," she said.

"It is a house," said Mrs. Medlock.

"It looks empty."

"Nearly enough. But there's servants in it, and you'll have to learn not to wander where you're not wanted."

The carriage stopped before a wide stone entrance. The door opened before they reached it, and a very old man stood waiting with a lamp in his hand. His hair was white and his face was lined and quiet.

"This is Mr. Pitcher," said Mrs. Medlock. "He knows the house from roof to cellar."

Mr. Craven got out.

"Take her to her room," he said. "See that she has what she needs."

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Craven turned toward Mary. For one moment she thought he might speak to her, but he only said, "Good night."

"Good night," she answered.

He went away across the hall. His footsteps sounded slowly on the stone floor and then stopped at a door which Mrs. Medlock had not noticed before. It opened and shut. After that, he was gone.

Mary followed Mr. Pitcher and Mrs. Medlock through the house. The rooms were larger than any she had seen in England and colder than the rooms at the clergyman's bungalow. There were long passages with high ceilings, portraits in dark frames, and great pieces of furniture covered with cloth. The lamps made small pools of light, leaving the corners in shadow.

"Is this where I am to live?" Mary asked.

"Not all of it," said Mrs. Medlock. "You have a bedroom and a nursery. You may use the rooms I tell you about. You are not to go into the West Wing, and you are not to poke into cupboards or closets or old rooms. There is reason for everything in this house."

Mary wanted to ask what the reason was, but Mrs. Medlock's manner warned her that no answer would be given.

Mr. Pitcher opened a door at the end of a passage. It led into a large bedroom with a fire burning low in the grate. The curtains were drawn, and a brass candlestick stood on the table. The bed was high and covered with a thick quilt.

"You'll sleep here," said Mrs. Medlock. "Your boxes are upstairs already. Supper will be brought to you."

"Who will bring it?"

"A man-servant."

Mary looked at her.

"Why not a maid?"

"Because there is no maid to wait on you tonight. You must learn to manage a bit for yourself."

"I have always had a maid."

"You have not now."

Mrs. Medlock took off Mary's coat and hat and laid them over a chair. Then she brushed the wet from the shoulders of her black dress.

"Wash your hands," she ordered. "You look as if you've been dragged through a hedge."

Mary went to the washstand and dipped her fingers into the cold water. She did not like being ordered about, but there was something about the great quiet house which made her feel less certain of herself than usual.

When she had finished, Mrs. Medlock rang a bell and went out. Mary stood in the middle of the room and listened. There were no voices, no laughter, and no sound of running feet. Even the fire seemed to burn carefully, as if it did not wish to make itself heard.

After a short time the door opened and a young man carried in a tray. He was broad in the shoulders and red in the face, and his hair was fair and rough. He set the tray on the table and looked at Mary with curiosity.

"Tha'll be wantin' to eat, miss," he said.

Mary stared at him.

"What did you say?"

The young man stared back.

"Ah said tha'll be wantin' thy supper."

"I don't understand you," Mary said.

"Tha doesn't understand me!" he exclaimed, and laughed. "Well, that's a bit queer. Ah can speak plain enough."

"You do not speak plain enough for me," said Mary. "I cannot understand."

He laughed again, but not unkindly.

"Tha'll learn. Folk from London never can mak' out Yorkshire at first. Tha'll be reet in a week."

"I am not from London."

"India, they say. That'll be farther off than London, then."

Mary sat down at the table.

"What is your name?"

"John."

"John what?"

"John wi' t'kitchen. That's enough."

Mary frowned.

"You should answer properly when I ask you a question."

The young man rubbed his nose and looked amused.

"Eh, but tha's a sharp little thing. Mrs. Medlock said tha'd be a difficult one."

Mary's face became more disagreeable.

"She had no right to say so."

"Maybe she had and maybe she hadn't. Eat thy meat afore it gets cowd."

"What?"

"Eat thy supper afore it gets cold."

"You should say so if that is what you mean."

John shook his head.

"Tha'll be teachin' us all our words next."

He went toward the door, but Mary called him back.

"Where am I to go if I want something?"

"Ring t'bell."

"And if nobody comes?"

"Ring it again."

"And if nobody comes then?"

John looked at her for a moment.

"Then tha'll have to wait."

He went out and shut the door. Mary listened to his footsteps going down the passage. The supper was plain but plentiful. There was roast meat, bread, potatoes, and warm milk. Mary ate because she was hungry, though she thought the food had no proper taste. She had been accustomed to delicate dishes and servants who knew exactly what she wanted before she asked for them.

When she had finished, she sat by the fire and watched it. The room seemed to grow larger as the light faded from the coals. She began to think about the West Wing and the rooms which were shut up. She wondered if Mr. Craven was in there now, sitting alone and looking at the walls.

She did not feel sorry for him as much as she had on the train. He had not spoken to her in any pleasant way. He had not even asked if she were tired.

Presently Mrs. Medlock returned.

"Come along," she said. "It's time you were in bed."

"I am not sleepy."

"That makes no difference. You must go to bed at the proper time."

Mary followed her along another passage and up a flight of stairs. The upper part of the house was darker than the lower. Wind moved somewhere beyond the walls, and the old windows rattled in their frames.

"Do people live all over the house?" Mary asked.

"Of course not. I told you most of it is shut up."

"Why?"

"Mr. Craven likes it so."

"Why does he like it so?"

"Because he does. His wife died here, and he doesn't care for rooms she used."

Mary looked at her quickly.

"Was she in the West Wing?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Now don't ask more questions."

They reached the bedroom. Mrs. Medlock turned down the bedclothes and placed a lamp on the table.

"If you want anything, ring. The bell is beside the bed."

"Will you come if I ring?"

"If you ring loud enough."

She went toward the door. Just as she was opening it, a strange sound came through the house.

It was low at first, like a long breath passing through a crack. Then it rose and trembled along the passage. It seemed to come from somewhere far away and yet near enough to be behind the wall.

Mary stood still.

"What was that?"

Mrs. Medlock did not turn around immediately.

"What was what?"

"That sound."

"I heard nothing."

"It sounded like someone calling."

"Callings? In a house this size? It was the wind."

"It did not sound like wind."

Mrs. Medlock looked at her sharply.

"You've been in a strange country where you hear all sorts of noises. This is an old house. The wind gets into the chimneys and under the doors. You'll hear it every night if the weather is rough."

The sound came again, softer but longer. It seemed to pass through the ceiling and fade behind the closed door at the end of the passage.

Mary listened with her head bent.

"I cannot understand what you say when you say it is the wind," she answered. "It sounds like something alive."

Mrs. Medlock's face grew cross.

"Don't be a stupid child. Lie down and go to sleep."

She shut the door.

Mary climbed into the high bed. The sheets were cold, and the room seemed full of shadows. She pulled the quilt up to her chin and stared at the lamp until her eyes hurt. The flame moved whenever the wind pressed against the windows, and each time it moved the shadows moved too.

For a while she heard footsteps far below. Then they stopped. A door opened and closed. Somewhere in the house a board creaked. After that there was only the wind.

But when it came again, it did not sound like wind to Mary.

It sounded as if something were wandering through the dark passages, looking for a way to be heard.

She lay very still and listened. She was not frightened, she told herself. She was only curious. No one had ever told her the truth about anything, and if there was a secret in the house, she would find it out.

She would find out for herself what the sound was.

The friends were accordingly invited to Kellynch Hall, and, as Sir Walter observed, it was an invitation which ought to have been accepted with gratitude, since it implied a confidence rarely bestowed, and a readiness to listen which he did not often discover in himself.

Mr Shepherd arrived first, with a countenance of grave benevolence, and a portfolio under his arm; Lady Russell followed soon afterwards, having left word that she would remain for dinner, if the discussion should prove of a length to require it. Anne was present when they assembled in the library, and Elizabeth, who had professed herself too much fatigued for the business, contrived to enter before the first proposal had been made.

Sir Walter took his accustomed seat before the fire, although the day was warm; Elizabeth placed herself near the window, where the light might fall favourably on her face; and Anne, having brought a small table for Lady Russell, sat at some distance with her work. Mr Shepherd stood for a few moments, turning over the papers in his portfolio, as if desirous of giving the appearance of method to what he knew would be received with little patience.

“My dear Sir Walter,” said he at last, “I have been giving the subject of your present difficulties the most serious consideration. I have examined the accounts, compared the yearly charges, and looked into every article of expenditure which appeared capable of reduction without injury to the dignity of the family. I trust, therefore, that you will not suppose me rash in laying before you a plan which, though it may demand some temporary sacrifice, will, in a very few years, restore the estate to its proper state.”

Sir Walter bowed. “I am always ready to hear you, Mr Shepherd. No man can be more sensible than I am of the value of sound advice.”

Mr Shepherd unfolded his paper.

“The first point must be the household. Two maids might be dismissed without inconvenience; the stable establishment might be reduced by one man; the gardener’s boy could be dispensed with; and the number of horses kept for ordinary use might be brought down to four.”

“Four!” cried Sir Walter. “My dear Mr Shepherd, you cannot be serious.”

“I am perfectly serious, sir. I have gone no farther than the strictest necessity requires.”

“Four horses at Kellynch Hall! Why, the very idea is degrading. What would the county say? What would Lady Russell say, if she were to see us driving with only four horses?”

Lady Russell, who had been looking attentively at the paper, raised her eyes.

“I should say, Sir Walter, that a person driving with four horses had still much for which to be thankful.”

Sir Walter turned towards her with an expression of injury. “My dear Lady Russell, you are not accustomed to calculate the effect of appearances. A certain style must be maintained by the head of such a family. We are not private people.”

Mr Shepherd hastened to interpose. “The stable, sir, is but one branch. I have also marked down the London establishment. If you were to pass only three weeks there instead of six, and to take a smaller house—”

“A smaller house!”

“The difference would be considerable.”

“I cannot consent to live in a smaller house. It would be impossible to receive properly. My daughter’s acquaintances would be exposed to a humiliation which I should never forgive myself for permitting.”

Elizabeth looked grateful, though she said nothing.

“Then,” continued Mr Shepherd, “there are the entertainments at Kellynch. A less frequent table, fewer parties, and a discontinuance of the annual ball—”

“Discontinuance!” Sir Walter repeated. “You have not reflected, Mr Shepherd, on the nature of the proposal. The Kellynch ball is not a mere entertainment; it is an institution. It has been opened by Miss Elliot for thirteen successive winters.”

“And may be opened for thirteen more,” said Elizabeth, “if the neighbourhood is not deprived of it all at once.”

“Certainly,” cried Sir Walter. “It would be a most extraordinary thing if, because a few tradesmen are impatient, the customs of the family were to be overturned.”

Mr Shepherd folded his paper with an air of disappointment.

“Perhaps I have failed in selecting the proper order of things. The object is not to recommend any single unpleasantness, but to bring the whole within a manageable compass. A little must be saved in many directions.”

“A little in many directions,” said Sir Walter, “is generally a great deal of inconvenience distributed through the day. I cannot approve it. I will not have the household diminished, the horses reduced, the entertainments discontinued, or the London residence exchanged for one that might suit a merchant.”

Lady Russell had listened with increasing concern.

“Sir Walter,” she said, “Mr Shepherd’s plan is certainly more moderate than any which I should have expected to hear from him. But I am persuaded that he has not proposed enough. The evil cannot be removed by trimming away a servant here and a dinner there. You must either consent to a decided reduction, or continue in a course which must end in the loss of all command over your property.”

“Loss of command!” said Sir Walter. “I have never lost command of any thing in my life.”

“You have mortgaged a considerable part of the estate.”

“I have accommodated it.”

“You have debts which are pressing.”

“They are pressing because men are vulgar enough to press for what is due to them.”

Lady Russell sighed. “I am not speaking of vulgarity. I am speaking of danger.”

Sir Walter rose, and walked to the mirror over the mantelpiece, where he contemplated himself in profile.

“Danger is a word which has been very much abused of late. I know of no danger that can affect Kellynch Hall, so long as it remains in the hands of its rightful owner.”

Lady Russell turned to Anne.

“Perhaps you, my dear, have thought of some arrangement which might be stated with less offence.”

Anne had not expected to be called upon. She laid down her work and looked from Lady Russell to her father. Elizabeth also turned towards her, with a degree of curiosity which was not entirely free from displeasure.

“I have thought,” said Anne, “that there is one plan which might lessen the expenses more effectually than either of the plans already mentioned.”

Sir Walter resumed his seat. “I shall be very happy to hear you, Anne, though I confess I am not sanguine.”

Anne spoke with some hesitation at first, but her voice strengthened as she proceeded.

“If we are really to reduce our expenditure, it must be by reducing the number of things which are considered necessary. The servants might be diminished by half, the carriage kept for indispensable occasions only, the horses limited to those which are actually used, and the London house given up altogether for the present year. The ball and all large entertainments might cease. New furniture should not be purchased, nor old furniture replaced merely because it is no longer fashionable. Even the allowance for dress and ornament might be fixed, instead of being left to the convenience of the moment. If these measures were adopted steadily, and without continual exceptions, they might prevent the debts from increasing.”

There was a silence.

Anne had expected to see her father offended, and perhaps Lady Russell alarmed at the plainness of the proposal. Mr Shepherd looked at her with admiration. Sir Walter appeared to be searching for some answer sufficiently dignified to express his disapprobation.

Elizabeth was the first to speak.

“I think Anne is right.”

Sir Walter stared.

Elizabeth, who seemed almost as much surprised as the rest of the company at her own words, continued with greater firmness.

“It is very disagreeable, certainly, and I should not like to be the first to propose such alterations; but if they must be made, they ought to be made completely. There is nothing so mortifying as a mean economy which leaves one deprived of comforts without relieving one from expense. I would rather dismiss six servants at once than be perpetually calculating whether a seventh might be spared.”

Lady Russell looked warmly at Anne. Mr Shepherd’s satisfaction was visible.

Sir Walter, after a pause, said, “This is extraordinary. I am not accustomed to find Elizabeth and Anne of the same opinion.”

“Nor am I,” said Elizabeth; “but that does not make the opinion less sound.”

“My dear Elizabeth, you cannot mean that the family should live like people of no consequence.”

“I mean only that people of consequence should not be made ridiculous by debts.”

Sir Walter coloured deeply. He had not expected this from Elizabeth, whose pride had usually been so conveniently united with his own.

“I must beg,” he said, “that the word ridiculous may not be applied to any thing connected with my conduct.”

“It was not my intention to apply it,” replied Elizabeth, with an air of dignity; “but I cannot retract the principle.”

Anne felt a painful mixture of pleasure and apprehension. Elizabeth’s support was valuable, yet it came with so much of her own temper that it could hardly be expected to promote peace. Lady Russell, perceiving this, turned again to Mr Shepherd.

“You have not mentioned the house itself.”

Mr Shepherd hesitated.

Sir Walter noticed the hesitation. “The house itself, Mr Shepherd?”

“I was only considering, sir, whether the estate might not be made to produce a more immediate advantage.”

“It produces a very sufficient advantage, when properly understood.”

“Certainly, sir. But there are occasions when a property may be rendered profitable in a manner which does not diminish its honour.”

Sir Walter fixed his eyes upon him.

“What manner?”

Mr Shepherd looked at Lady Russell, then at Elizabeth, and finally at Anne, as if seeking support from every quarter before risking the word.

“If Kellynch Hall were—if the Hall and principal offices were placed under an arrangement for temporary occupation—”

“Occupation?”

“By a respectable family, sir.”

Sir Walter stood up.

“I understand you perfectly, Mr Shepherd. You mean a tenant.”

The word had scarcely passed his lips before Sir Walter lifted his hand with an authority that might have suited the first baronet of the name.

“Let no one speak that word again in my presence.”

Mr Shepherd bowed. “I should be very sorry to offend.”

“You have offended. The suggestion is insulting.”

“It is not intended as such.”

“It is impossible that it should be otherwise. Kellynch Hall has never been occupied by any one but the family. It is my principal seat. It is associated with the dignity of the title, with the history of the house, with every proper feeling of possession and descent. To talk of strangers inhabiting it, arranging its rooms, walking through its grounds—”

“Only during your absence,” said Lady Russell mildly.

“My absence!” cried Sir Walter. “I am not going to be absent.”

“No one has proposed that you should.”

“But the suggestion contains it. I see the whole scheme. First the house is to be occupied by another family; then I am to be turned out of my own apartments; then the estate is to be reduced, the title degraded, and the name of Elliot made a by-word in the county.”

Elizabeth rose also.

“I cannot bear to hear the subject pursued. Whatever economy may be necessary, I will never consent to Kellynch Hall being disgraced in that manner.”

Anne looked at her father. It was clear that no argument could reach him while the house was concerned. The debts, the tradesmen, the mortgages, all were remote and capable of being evaded by language; but the idea of another family crossing the threshold was immediate, and therefore intolerable.

Mr Shepherd gathered up his papers.

“I fear, sir, that I have done little good.”

“You have done no good,” replied Sir Walter; “but I do not attribute that to want of zeal. The advice was only impracticable.”

Lady Russell, who had been silent for some moments, said, “Then nothing is settled?”

“Every thing may be settled,” said Sir Walter, “when proper respect is paid to the circumstances. I will retrench where retrenchment is becoming. I will not surrender the comforts of life, nor submit to arrangements which may injure the appearance of my family.”

Anne could not help saying, “But if the debts continue to increase, papa, the appearance of comfort will not long be maintained.”

Sir Walter looked at her with astonishment, as if she had spoken in a foreign language.

“My debts, Anne, are my own concern. I have never asked you to examine them.”

“No,” said Anne, “but you have asked us all to advise you.”

“I asked for advice which should preserve the family from inconvenience. I did not ask to be reproached.”

“I meant no reproach.”

“Then you should not have used such expressions.”

Lady Russell interposed with gentle authority. “Anne has only spoken from anxiety. We are all anxious, Sir Walter.”

“I am not anxious,” he answered. “I am only annoyed by the unnecessary alarm of others.”

At this moment a servant entered with a letter.

“It has been brought from the post, sir. It is from Uppercross.”

Anne knew the hand before the direction had been fully seen. Sir Walter handed it to Elizabeth, who glanced at the seal and passed it to Anne.

“It is from Mary.”

Anne opened it. The contents were as follows:

“My dear Anne,

“I am very unwell this afternoon, and have been obliged to remain on the sofa ever since dinner. Charles thinks it is only a nervous attack, but he never understands my complaints, and I am sure that something is really the matter. My head aches dreadfully, my back is extremely weak, and I have had such a sinking that I could scarcely sit up to write.

“I wish you would come to me as soon as possible. You know that I am always better when you are here, and there are many things which I cannot explain to any one else. Charles is kind enough, but he is so occupied with his own pursuits; and the children are very noisy. I am sure I should recover sooner if you would come and take care of me for a few days.

“Do not let papa or Elizabeth persuade you that you cannot be spared. I have often said that you are the only person who really considers my health. Pray come by the first opportunity.

“Your affectionate sister, “Mary Musgrove.”

Anne read the letter twice. The first time with concern, the second with a more composed attention to the complaints, which she suspected to be less dangerous than Mary believed them, though not on that account less likely to require her presence.

“I hope it is not any thing serious,” said Lady Russell.

“I hope not. But Mary wishes me to go to her.”

Sir Walter shook his head.

“Your sister is married, Anne. She has a husband to attend to her.”

“Charles is very kind,” said Anne; “but Mary says she is unwell.”

“Mary is always unwell when she has any thing to complain of. I cannot encourage this perpetual dependence on you.”

Elizabeth folded the letter neatly.

“I think Anne might go, if she wishes it. There is no reason for her remaining here, now that we have settled nothing.”

Sir Walter glanced at her.

“We have settled that my affairs are not to be made the subject of family agitation.”

“We have settled no such thing,” said Elizabeth. “We have only settled that you will not hear the word which Mr Shepherd used.”

Mr Shepherd looked distressed. Lady Russell, however, could not repress a smile.

Sir Walter resumed his seat with an air of wounded resignation.

“I shall dine at seven. I hope no more letters will arrive to disturb the household.”

The conference was thus brought to an end, though nothing relating to the debts had been advanced beyond the point at which it began. Mr Shepherd departed with his portfolio and a melancholy persuasion that he had been treated more like an enemy than an adviser. Lady Russell remained with Anne for a short time, speaking earnestly of the necessity of firmness, patience, and prudent conduct; but she could suggest no means of overcoming a determination which rejected both the inconvenience of retrenchment and the shame of acknowledging its need.

Elizabeth withdrew to her room, where she might meditate upon the extraordinary fact of having agreed with Anne. Sir Walter returned to the Baronetage, and before dinner had evidently regained sufficient tranquillity to read the paragraph concerning the family’s ancient honours with all his usual satisfaction.

The evening was quiet. No further mention was made of the accounts, the servants, the horses, or the house. Sir Walter sat with the volume open beside him; Elizabeth embroidered; Lady Russell, after dinner, took her leave; and Anne remained near the window, looking out upon the darkening avenue.

She had resolved to go to Uppercross.

Mary’s letter might contain exaggeration, but it contained also a direct request, and Anne knew too well the consequences of leaving her sister to the management of her own spirits. She would go in the morning, if a carriage could be procured, and remain as long as she was wanted. The thought of leaving Kellynch was not unpleasant. There was little hope of doing good there, and much comfort in being where her assistance might at least be useful.

Yet, as she prepared for bed, the unsettled state of the family returned upon her mind. Mr Shepherd’s papers had been carried away; Lady Russell’s plan had been rejected; her own had been received with surprise, then offence; and Elizabeth’s support, though unexpected, had produced no alteration. The debts were still increasing, the income was still exceeded, and the dignity of the house stood, in her father’s imagination, between them and every reasonable remedy.

Anne alone could see the danger plainly; and, seeing it, could do nothing but grieve, and go in the morning to Uppercross.

I had not yet recovered the use of my breath, nor Mr. Franklin the use of his legs, when Penelope came running over the sandhills.

“Father!” she cried. “Father, my lady has sent me to look for you. And Mr. Franklin—bless me, sir!—what a surprise!”

“Not to me, Penelope,” says Mr. Franklin. “I have been surprising myself ever since I left London.”

He rose, shook the sand from his beautiful clothes, and offered Penelope his hand. She dropped a curtsey, and then looked past him towards the hills.

“Is Rosanna with you, father?”

“No,” I answered. “She went on before us. She was going to Cobb’s Hole.”

Penelope turned upon me with an expression of dismay.

“Without waiting for dinner?”

“Without waiting for dinner.”

“She has never gone to Cobb’s Hole at this hour before.”

“There is a first time for everything,” I observed.

Mr. Franklin looked from one to the other of us. “Is the place far off?”

“Not above half a mile by the shore,” said Penelope. “But Rosanna is not strong. She ought not to have gone so far.”

Upon this, Mr. Franklin made a movement in the direction of the sandhills.

“Wait a moment, sir,” I said. “You have been travelling, and my lady is waiting for you. I will send somebody after the girl.”

“No, no,” says Penelope eagerly. “I will go myself. I can overtake her by the path through the plantation, and bring her back before dinner is ended.”

“Bring her back if you can,” I said. “And tell Nancy that Mr. Franklin has arrived four hours before his time, and that there is no excuse for keeping the roast mutton waiting.”

Penelope smiled, and disappeared among the hills.

“Now, Betteredge,” says Mr. Franklin, “let us get to the house. I have something to tell you before I see my aunt.”

“You have arrived four hours early,” I replied. “You owe me seven-and-sixpence, and you have turned up at a place where a young woman is in tears, where the quicksand is shivering, and where dinner is cooling itself on the kitchen table. If that is not a good beginning, I should like to know what is.”

He laughed in his light foreign way; but the smile went out of his face almost directly afterwards, and he tapped the breast-pocket of his coat.

“It is the letter,” he said.

“What letter?”

“The letter which brought me here.”

I looked at him with attention. “A letter from your aunt?”

“No.”

“From Miss Rachel?”

“No.”

“From Mr. Bruff?”

“No.”

“Then,” says I, “it must be from somebody who has a stronger claim upon you than any of the three.”

He stopped on the path, and drew a folded paper from his pocket. The paper was sealed, and the seal had been broken. He held it out to me.

“Read it,” he said.

I took the letter. The writing was large, black, and upright, as if the person who wrote it had been accustomed to give orders, and expected the orders to be obeyed. There was no signature at the bottom. The letter ran as follows:—

“Dear Sir,—I have been informed that you propose to pass some weeks at your aunt’s house in Yorkshire, beginning tomorrow. I write to warn you that your intended visit may expose you to a danger which you will do well not to disregard.

“You will hear, if you have not already heard, the name of John Herncastle spoken in connexion with the family of Lady Verinder. You may also be told that the late Colonel Herncastle left behind him a certain object of great value, which he was anxious should remain in his own possession. I advise you, in the strongest terms, to make no inquiries concerning this object, and to accept no responsibility connected with it.

“On the evening of your arrival, be careful to keep any parcel, box, or packet entrusted to you in a secure place, and permit no person to open it without your presence. If you have brought nothing of the kind with you, you may consider this particular warning unnecessary.

“I have no desire to alarm you. I have only desired to give you the means of avoiding danger. If you are wise, you will burn this letter and forget that you have received it.

“Your obedient servant, “A Friend.”

I read the letter twice. On the second reading, I gave particular attention to the words concerning the parcel, box, or packet.

“Did you bring anything of the kind with you?” I asked.

Mr. Franklin put his hand once more into the pocket of his coat. “I did.”

“Is that why you came early?”

“That is why I came early.”

“You were warned to bring it, or warned against bringing it?”

“I don’t know. The letter reached me this morning, when I was on the point of leaving London. I had already made up my mind to travel tonight, and to arrive at my aunt’s tomorrow. I changed my mind when I read it.”

“Who gave you the letter?”

“It was delivered at my hotel by a messenger who would not wait for an answer.”

“Did the messenger say who sent him?”

“He said nothing.”

I returned the letter. “What do you make of it, sir?”

“I make nothing of it. I have read it, and I have obeyed it. That is all.”

This answer appeared to me unsatisfactory. When a man receives an anonymous letter, and the letter sends him flying across the country four hours before his appointed time, he ought, in my humble judgment, either to make something of it or to make nothing of himself. I said as much.

“It may be a hoax,” he replied. “It may be a warning given in good faith. It may be the work of an enemy of my uncle, or of some person who wishes to frighten me on his account. I can’t tell. But I brought the packet with me, and I mean to put it in a safe place until I have seen my aunt.”

“Have you shown it to anybody?”

“To nobody.”

“Do you know what is in it?”

“Certainly.”

“Will you tell me?”

“Certainly not.”

We had now reached the plantation. The sea was behind us, and the great house showed itself through the trees, shining white in the afternoon light. Mr. Franklin, who had been grave enough while speaking of the letter, brightened again at the sight of the familiar windows.

“Dear old place!” he cried. “How often I have thought of it abroad! How little I expected to arrive upon it in this fashion!”

“Foreign parts, sir,” I remarked. “They teach a man to travel in a hurry, and to keep his secrets in his pocket.”

“Betteredge, you are jealous of the Continent.”

“I am jealous of nothing but my dinner.”

At the house-door, Penelope was waiting for us. Her face was troubled.

“Rosanna has not come back,” she said.

“Did you see her at Cobb’s Hole?” I asked.

“No, father. I went there by the shortest way, and asked at the cottage of the fisherman’s widow. Rosanna had been there, but she had gone away again before I arrived.”

“Where had she gone?”

“The widow could not say. She had spoken with Rosanna for a little while, and Rosanna had asked whether any gentleman had arrived at the house. When the widow told her that she knew of no gentleman, Rosanna left the cottage.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“She said she was going back to the sands.”

“Then she has gone back to the sands,” says I.

Penelope shook her head. “I searched the beach. She was not there.”

Mr. Franklin had stood silent while we spoke. He now asked, “What is the meaning of all this?”

I explained, as shortly as I could, that Rosanna had met us on the shore, that she had behaved strangely, and that she had afterwards gone in the direction of Cobb’s Hole. I did not repeat everything she had said concerning the Shivering Sand. There are some subjects which grow worse by being repeated; and I had already made up my mind that the quicksand was one of them.

“Perhaps she has returned to the house by another path,” said Mr. Franklin.

“She has not,” Penelope answered. “Nancy says she has not been seen. My lady has sent me to inquire where she is.”

Upon this, the library-door opened, and Lady Verinder herself appeared. She had heard the last words.

“Franklin!” she exclaimed.

Mr. Franklin advanced to meet her. My lady received him with both hands extended; and, if a woman can be said to look relieved at the sight of a man, my lady looked relieved at the sight of her nephew.

“You are early,” she said.

“I have travelled fast.”

“Have you had an accident?”

“No.”

“Has anything happened in London?”

“Nothing that I can explain in a sentence.”

My lady glanced at me and at Penelope. “We will hear all about it presently. Penelope, go once more to the sands with Samuel. If Rosanna is not there, send one of the men to Cobb’s Hole. She must be found before dark.”

Penelope curtseyed and withdrew.

My lady led Mr. Franklin into the library, and signed to me to follow them. There was a fire on the hearth, though the weather was warm; my lady always liked a fire in the evening, and the habit had survived the reason for it. Mr. Franklin placed his hat on the table, and took the sealed packet from his pocket.

Here, reader, I must explain that the packet was small enough to lie in the hollow of his hand. It was wrapped in brown paper, tied with string, and sealed in two places with dark red wax. I noticed these particulars because I had the packet in my possession afterwards; but I did not know them at the time, and I had no more idea of what the packet contained than I had of what was passing under the Shivering Sand.

“I have brought this with me,” said Mr. Franklin. “I want it locked up for the night.”

My lady looked at the packet, and then looked at him.

“Is it necessary?”

“I believe it to be necessary.”

“Is it connected with Colonel Herncastle?”

The change in my lady’s face, when that name was spoken, was so sudden that I could not help observing it. She became very pale, and sat down.

“Franklin,” she said, “there is one subject which must not be discussed under my roof.”

“I understand you, aunt.”

“No mention of my brother. No inquiries about his life, his property, his papers, or his death. I have suffered enough already from the remembrance of John Herncastle.”

“I promise you,” he answered, “that I will not mention his name again.”

“Not to me, not to Rachel, not to any person in this house.”

“Not to any person.”

“And you will give me your word that this packet has nothing to do with him?”

Mr. Franklin hesitated.

My lady saw the hesitation. “You cannot give me that word?”

“I cannot give you a word which may afterwards prove to be false. I can give you my honour that no harm shall come to you, or to Miss Rachel, through anything which I have brought here.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“No,” says Mr. Franklin. “It is the best thing I can offer.”

My lady sat silent for a moment. Then she turned to me.

“Betteredge, take the packet to the plate-room. Lock it in the little iron safe, and bring me the key.”

I stretched out my hand.

“Wait,” said Mr. Franklin. “Betteredge must not open it.”

I looked at him with dignity. “Sir, I have passed the greater part of my life in a house where other people’s property was safer in my hands than in their own. I know the difference between carrying a packet and opening one.”

“I beg your pardon. I spoke hastily.”

“You did, sir. But I forgive you.”

He put the packet into my hand. It was heavier than it looked. I held it for a moment, weighing it mentally, as men will weigh a secret when the secret is enclosed in paper and wax.

“What is it?” I asked, though I knew he would not tell me.

“A thing which I am not prepared to trust to a bedroom.”

“A thing which can be locked in a safe?”

“A thing which can be locked in a safe.”

“Then the safe shall have it.”

I carried the packet away. The plate-room was at the end of the passage, beyond the butler’s pantry, and was kept locked except when the silver was wanted. The safe stood in a recess behind the shelves. I unlocked it, placed the packet on the lower shelf, and locked the door again. I then locked the plate-room itself, and brought the key to my lady.

There is a certain pleasure in locking up a secret which you have not been allowed to know. It is like being entrusted with the care of a baby whose name and parentage are both withheld from you. You cannot call it by its proper name; but you can see that it is safely put to bed.

My lady took the key, and placed it in the pocket of her dress.

“Has anybody seen you?” she asked.

“Only Mr. Franklin.”

“Has anybody seen the packet?”

“Only Mr. Franklin, you, and me.”

She looked towards the door. “Let us hope it remains so.”

Dinner was served immediately afterwards. Miss Rachel was not present. My lady explained that she was resting in her room, being tired with the occupations of the day. Mr. Franklin asked no questions about her, and my lady asked no questions about his journey. The agreement concerning the forbidden subject appeared to lie between them on the table, though nothing had been set down there except the wine and the bread.

As for me, I ate my roast mutton with an appetite sharpened by the events of the afternoon. If you have never had a mysterious packet placed in your keeping, and a reformed thief wandering about a lonely coast after sunset, you cannot expect to understand the condition of my mind. Robinson Crusoe himself, with Friday at his elbow and the footprint on the shore before him, had not more reason for taking care.

After dinner, I went to the servants’ hall.

“Has Rosanna returned?” I asked.

Nancy was clearing the table. She stopped with a plate in her hand.

“No, Mr. Betteredge.”

“Has she sent word?”

“No.”

“Did she take her cloak?”

“She had it on when she went out.”

“Her bonnet?”

“Yes.”

“Her purse?”

Nancy stared at me. “How should I know?”

“You ought to know everything in a house where you complain that all the hard work falls on your shoulders.”

Nancy put down the plate. “If you mean to accuse me, Mr. Betteredge, you may accuse me plainly.”

“I mean nothing of the kind. I mean to find Rosanna.”

Penelope came in while I was speaking. “My lady has sent one of the stable-men to Cobb’s Hole,” she said. “He has not seen her. The fisherman’s widow says that Rosanna left the cottage before four o’clock.”

“Then she is somewhere between the cottage and the house.”

“Or somewhere between the house and the sands,” said Penelope.

This was a distinction without a difference, and I told her so. She looked as if she thought there was more in it than that.

At nine o’clock, the stable-man returned. He had searched the shore-path, the plantation, the cottages at Cobb’s Hole, and the strip of beach between the two spits of rock. He had found no Rosanna.

My lady gave orders that the search should be continued in the morning. Mr. Franklin said nothing. He had been sitting with a book open before him for nearly an hour, without turning a page.

Late that evening, I went at last to my own room and took my place in the beehive chair. Robinson Crusoe lay open on my knee. The little iron safe in the plate-room held Mr. Franklin’s sealed packet. Rosanna Spearman was still not back in the house.

I tried to read. But the print danced before my eyes, the wind moved uneasily about the chimneys, and somewhere in the darkness beyond the windows the sea was coming in over the Shivering Sand. “It looks as if it had hundreds of suffocating people under it,” Rosanna had said.

“Stuff and nonsense!” I remarked aloud.

But the room was empty, and nobody answered me.

I left the Herald with the check stub in my pocket and went to the First National Bank.

The bank occupied the ground floor of a gray stone building on Broadway, between a clothing store and a saloon. Its brass doors were open. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of ink, dust and money. Men in black coats moved behind brass cages. Nobody looked as if he had ever been shot at, which made the place seem unreal.

I asked for the cashier and was taken to a private office in the rear. The cashier was a broad, soft man with a bald pink head and a nameplate that said R. J. Bell. He looked at the check stub I put before him.

“Donald Willsson?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you representing the estate?”

“No. I’m a detective. I want information about the check.”

His pink face became more careful.

“What sort of information?”

“Whether it was presented or certified.”

He lifted the telephone and spoke into it. He gave an account number and the number of the check. Then he listened.

“Nothing,” he said when he had hung up.

“Nothing what?”

“Nothing has been presented against that account.”

“The check hasn’t come in?”

“No.”

“Was it certified?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Quite sure. A five-thousand-dollar check drawn by Mr. Willsson would have been noticed.”

“Could he have drawn it on another account?”

“He had only one checking account here.”

“Could he have cashed it himself?”

“Not if it was made out to somebody else.”

“Do you know that it was?”

Mr. Bell looked at the stub again.

“I don’t know anything about the check except that no check for five thousand dollars has been presented or certified.”

“Could the stub have been written and the check torn out without being used?”

“Yes.”

“Could the check have been destroyed?”

“Yes.”

“Could it be floating around Personville in somebody’s pocket?”

“It could be anywhere.”

“That’s a lot of help.”

“It is all the help I can give you.”

I put the stub away.

“Was there anything unusual about his account yesterday?”

“Mr. Willsson withdrew two hundred dollars in cash.”

“When?”

“About three o’clock.”

“That was when he went out for twenty minutes.”

“I don’t know anything about his movements.”

“Did he ask for any other money?”

“No.”

“Did he deposit anything?”

“No.”

“Did he come in alone?”

Mr. Bell’s eyes rested on me without blinking.

“I said I don’t know anything about his movements.”

“You know he withdrew two hundred dollars.”

“I know that because the bank’s records show it.”

“Then the records might show whether he came in alone.”

“They might.”

“Will you look?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a police officer and you haven’t shown me any authority to examine private banking records.”

“I could show you a badge.”

“That would not be authority.”

“Suppose I were a police officer?”

“Then I should ask to see your warrant.”

“You keep a warrant handy?”

“I keep my job handy.”

I grinned at him.

“Who handles the paying teller’s window?”

He did not answer.

“Never mind. I can find out.”

I got up.

“Wait,” he said.

I waited.

“I shouldn’t have told you about the withdrawal.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then you’d better tell me something else. Was the two hundred dollars withdrawn by Willsson in person?”

Mr. Bell’s face went blank.

“I have nothing more to say.”

“That’s all right. You’ve said enough.”

Outside, Broadway was bright with noon and crowded with people who had places to go. I went back to the Great Western and asked for my mail. There wasn’t any. I took the elevator to my room, telephoned for a drink, and sat down to think.

The five-thousand-dollar check had been written, torn from the book and carried away. It had not reached the bank. If it had been made out to somebody, that somebody had not tried to cash it. If it had been made out to cash, the same thing applied. The check could have been destroyed, but people did not usually destroy five-thousand-dollar checks unless they had a good reason. A good reason was generally the same thing as a bad conscience.

The two hundred dollars was more interesting. Donald had gone out with the check. He had come back twenty minutes later, and sometime during that interval he had obtained the cash. He had then arranged to meet a woman at ten o’clock, made an appointment at his house, and at ten-forty had been murdered in Hurricane Street.

There was a narrow path from the bank to Hurricane Street. It ran past the Herald, past some cheap restaurants and through a section where people went at night when they did not want to be recognized. A man could spend two hundred dollars there in an hour, but he could not spend five thousand dollars without making a noise.

I was still sitting there when the telephone rang.

The voice at the other end was a woman’s.

“Is this Mr. Neill?”

“That depends on who is asking.”

“I am Mrs. Willsson.”

Her voice was low and controlled. There was the faint foreign accent I had noticed the night before.

“What do you want?”

“I want to see you.”

“Why?”

“I can’t talk over the telephone.”

“You talked over it last night.”

There was a pause.

“I’ll come to your hotel.”

“Don’t.”

“I am coming.”

“Why?”

“I have something to tell you.”

“Tell it to the police.”

“I don’t trust the police.”

“That makes two of us. But I still don’t want you here.”

“I shall be there in ten minutes.”

The connection broke.

I looked at the telephone for a while. Then I went downstairs.

The lobby had a black marble floor, a cigar counter, some leather chairs and the usual collection of men who watched strangers. I took a chair near the entrance and waited. Ten minutes later a Buick coupé stopped at the curb. The woman who got out wore a dark dress and a small black hat. She came through the revolving door without looking at anybody. She looked slender and tired and as if the night had not ended for her.

She saw me and came over.

“Mr. Neill?”

“Upstairs.”

She followed me to the elevator. Neither of us spoke while it carried us up.

In my room she stood just inside the door and looked around. There was nothing to look at except a bed, a washstand, two chairs, a table, a telephone and a bottle of whiskey beside a glass. She looked at the bottle longer than she looked at me.

“You must excuse the furniture,” I said.

“I did not come to criticize it.”

“That’s good. Sit down.”

She sat on the edge of the chair nearest the door. I stayed standing.

“You came uninvited,” I said. “That means you’re either brave or frightened.”

“I am both.”

“Which one brought you?”

“Fear.”

“Of what?”

“Of being arrested.”

“Who would arrest you?”

“Your police.”

“They haven’t yet.”

“They may.”

“They’re slow.”

“They are not slow when they want something.”

“Who wants something from you?”

She looked at me steadily.

“Your son’s wife,” I said. “You mean the gang.”

“I mean anyone who can make trouble for me.”

“You can make trouble for them.”

“I don’t know enough.”

“You knew enough to go out last night with blood on your slipper.”

Her face went white, but her voice did not alter.

“I did not kill Donald.”

“Why did you go out?”

“I received a telephone call.”

“From whom?”

“I don’t know. A man’s voice. He said Donald was in danger.”

“Where?”

“He told me to drive to Hurricane Street.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you find your husband?”

She shook her head.

“I found nobody. I drove slowly through the block. Then I saw Donald on the sidewalk.”

“Was he alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“You got out of the car.”

“Yes.”

“And bent over him.”

“I tried to help him.”

“Who was with you?”

“Nobody.”

“There was a man and a woman bending over him when the neighbors looked out.”

“I saw no man.”

“You were there?”

“Yes.”

“Then you saw a man.”

“I saw a shadow. I thought it was a post or a tree.”

“There aren’t many trees in that block.”

“I was frightened.”

“Where did the blood come from?”

She looked down at her shoes.

“I knelt beside him. My slipper touched him.”

“You left before the police arrived.”

“I was afraid.”

“Afraid of being charged with murder?”

“Afraid of everything.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police this morning?”

“Because I knew how it would sound.”

“It sounds bad.”

“I know.”

“What happened to the pistol?”

“I had no pistol.”

“Who did Donald expect to meet at ten?”

“I don’t know.”

“A woman called him. He said he could be there at ten, but would have to hurry away.”

She closed her eyes for a moment.

“Did you call him?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Was he seeing another woman?”

“I don’t know.”

“You were jealous.”

She opened her eyes.

“Who told you that?”

“Your father-in-law.”

“He hates me.”

“He hates everybody who does not obey him.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“No. But it can look the same from a distance.”

She stood up.

“I came to tell you that I did not kill Donald. I did not come to be insulted.”

“I’m not insulting you. I’m asking questions.”

“Your questions are insults.”

“Then answer them better.”

She went to the door.

“Wait,” I said. “Did Donald give you any money yesterday?”

She stopped.

“No.”

“Did he have any money when you saw him last night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he ever mention a five-thousand-dollar check?”

Her hand tightened on the doorknob.

“No.”

“Think before you answer.”

“I have thought.”

“Then think again.”

She turned her head. Her eyes were dark and tired.

“You will not find his murderer by making me suffer.”

“Maybe not. But I might find him by learning what Donald was doing.”

“I told you all I know.”

“Did you?”

She opened the door.

“Mr. Neill, you should leave Personville.”

“Why?”

“Because men who ask too many questions here disappear.”

“Do they?”

“Yes.”

“Who told you that?”

“Nobody had to.”

She went out and closed the door.

I waited until I heard the elevator start down. Then I went to the window. Her Buick swung away from the curb and disappeared around the corner toward Mountain Boulevard.

The telephone rang again.

I picked it up.

There was no voice. A boy’s voice, perhaps, would have been behind it, but no boy spoke. A man said:

“Message for Mr. Neill.”

“Go ahead.”

“Mr. Thaler says you are to leave Personville by sundown.”

“Why?”

“That is the message.”

“Did he say what happens if I don’t?”

“No.”

“Where are you?”

“I was told to deliver the message, not answer questions.”

“Who told you?”

The line went dead.

I put the receiver down. Max Thaler had not appeared. He had not needed to. The message had come neatly and cheaply, without disturbing the brown clothes or pretty dark profile I had seen slipping through the dead man’s doorway.

I went downstairs and found a restaurant across the street. I ate a steak that had been cooked on one side and warmed on the other. While I was eating, a folded piece of paper was brought to me by a waiter. There was no name on it.

The paper said:

DON’T BE CURIOUS ABOUT THE CHECK.

That was all.

I turned it over. It was a piece of yellow writing paper torn from a hotel pad. The Great Western used white paper.

I gave it back to the waiter.

“Who brought this?”

“A man.”

“What did he look like?”

“Like a man.”

“Tall?”

“About average.”

“Old?”

“No.”

“Dark?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“You should notice things brought to tables.”

The waiter shrugged and went away.

I finished the steak. Outside, the sun had begun to drop behind the slag heaps west of town. Poisonville turned copper-colored in the evening light. The mine buildings stood black against the sky. Smoke lay over them in a flat gray sheet.

I went back to the hotel and wrote the wire.

There was a Western Union office in the lobby, behind a glass partition. I carried the message there and handed it to the clerk. The clerk read it twice.

“Address?”

“Continental Detective Agency, San Francisco. Attention: Old Man.”

“What’s your name?”

“Henry F. Neill.”

He wrote it down.

“Message reads?”

I told him:

“Arrived Personville. Willsson murdered before assignment began. Father controls local political machine and believes widow guilty. Widow admits being at scene but denies killing. Five-thousand-dollar check written by Willsson yesterday has not been presented or certified at First National. He withdrew two hundred dollars in cash. Max Thaler has ordered me to leave town. Check destination unknown. Advise instructions. Neill.”

The clerk counted the words, named the charge and took my money. He gave me a receipt.

“That all?” he asked.

“That’s all.”

He slid the message beneath the glass.

I went upstairs after dark. The room was hot and close. I opened the window, but the air that came in smelled of coal smoke and the mine’s wet stone. Somewhere below, a motorcar started, ran for a moment and stopped. I could hear footsteps in the corridor, then the elevator cables whining.

I poured a drink and sat on the side of the bed.

The check had been written at the Herald. Donald had taken it when he went out. It had not been cashed. His widow claimed not to know about it. Someone had sent a warning not to be curious. The bank had given me the two hundred dollars, though Mr. Bell had tried to keep that from me. The old man wanted the widow in jail. Max wanted me out of town.

The five thousand dollars had gone somewhere between Donald’s desk and Hurricane Street.

I looked at the telephone. It did not ring.

The room grew darker. I did not turn on the light.

There was no answer yet to the question of where the check had gone.

I spent five minutes in the library, and then, unable to endure further delay, hurried out into the hot morning.

The sun was already high, though the air remained heavy and oppressive. There was no breath of wind, and the trees stood motionless against a sky of pale, hard blue. As I crossed the lawn, the house seemed to watch me with its blank windows and closed shutters. Only a few hours earlier it had been full of life; now it appeared to me like a great tomb.

I made my way rapidly down the drive and along the road to the village. My mind was in a tumult. The sudden death of Mrs. Inglethorp, the mysterious absence of her husband, the strange behaviour of Lawrence, and Mary’s cry when I had mentioned poison—all these things revolved in my head without producing any clear result.

I reached the small house where Poirot was lodging and knocked sharply at the door. It was opened almost immediately by my friend himself.

“Ah, Hastings!”

“You know?”

“But certainly I know. You are come to fetch me.”

“How did you hear?”

Poirot shook his head reproachfully.

“My friend, in a village, news travels more rapidly than in London. At five minutes past five, the little man who drives the doctor’s car came to tell me. He was much excited. He said that the old lady at Styles was dead, and that the doctors suspected—how do you say it?—an irregularity.”

“You mean foul play?”

“I mean nothing of the kind. I repeat only the words of M. Renaud.”

“Then you will come?”

“I have been waiting for you.”

He ran upstairs, returning almost at once with his little black case. He had changed his bedroom slippers for a pair of shining shoes, and had put on a neat dark coat. His manner was composed, but his eyes were bright with interest.

“You have brought no police?” I asked.

“No. You told me that the matter was in the hands of the family?”

“Yes. There is to be a post-mortem tonight.”

“Good. That gives us time.”

We had gone scarcely halfway up the village street when a motor-car came rapidly towards us. It stopped opposite the lodge gates, and Alfred Inglethorp descended.

I confess that I was startled. He looked weary and unshaven, his black beard somewhat disordered, and there were deep lines beneath his eyes. Yet he preserved his usual self-possession.

“Hastings!” he exclaimed. “You are going to Styles?”

“Yes.”

“And this is your friend, M. Poirot?”

I introduced them. Poirot bowed.

“I have heard of you,” said Mr. Inglethorp. “I fear that there is little you can do. My wife is dead.”

“We have not yet established that there is nothing to do,” replied Poirot quietly.

Alfred Inglethorp stared at him. Then he turned to me.

“I have been searching for Dr. Wilkins. I heard, at the station, of the terrible occurrence. I cannot understand it. I left Mrs. Inglethorp in perfect health last night.”

“Where have you been?” I asked.

He drew himself up.

“I had gone to Tadminster on business. When I reached the station last night, I found that the last train had gone. I therefore walked to Market Basing and spent the night at the King’s Arms. This morning I took the first train to Styles St Mary, and came on here by motor.”

Poirot’s eyes had never left his face.

“You were not at the house during the night?”

“Certainly not.”

“Did you speak with anyone at the King’s Arms?”

“With the landlord, and with a commercial traveller who was staying there. I was shown to a room shortly after midnight.”

“That is very precise.”

“I have nothing to conceal.”

The words were spoken with some irritation. I felt embarrassed and hastened to turn the conversation.

“You must come up to the house.”

“I shall do so at once.”

We entered the drive together. As we approached the house, Alfred Inglethorp stopped suddenly.

“I came back by the side entrance,” he said. “The front door was locked, I suppose?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“That is curious. I tried the side door first, but it was bolted.”

A moment later we encountered Annie, who was carrying a tray across the hall. She stopped at sight of him.

“Mr. Inglethorp, sir!”

“I have returned, Annie.”

“Yes, sir. But—”

She glanced nervously at Poirot and me.

“Well?” he demanded.

“I thought you came in by the front door, sir.”

“I did nothing of the kind.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I heard the front door open just after six, and saw you come through the hall.”

The silence that followed was extremely unpleasant.

“You are mistaken,” said Alfred Inglethorp coldly.

“I may be, sir,” faltered Annie. “But I am almost certain.”

“Go downstairs,” he ordered.

The girl hurried away. Poirot watched her until she disappeared through the servants’ doorway.

“An interesting observation,” he murmured.

“What do you mean?”

“My friend, I mean only that the servants of a household are often most accurate witnesses.”

Mr. Inglethorp heard him.

“You are investigating already, M. Poirot?”

“I have been asked to make some observations.”

“By whom?”

“By Mr. Cavendish.”

“I should have thought that the family might have waited until the doctors had completed their work.”

“The doctors themselves have not waited.”

He made no answer. His face had become hard and sullen.

We mounted the stairs. At the head of them stood John Cavendish, with Lawrence beside him. John’s eyes rested upon Alfred with an expression I could not read.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“I have already explained to Hastings.”

“Then I need not ask again.”

The two brothers stood facing one another. Lawrence looked exhausted, and his pale face seemed almost transparent in the morning light. He had changed his clothes, but his hands still trembled.

“Where is Mary?” I asked.

“With Cynthia,” said John. “She has been ill.”

“And Miss Howard?”

There was a pause.

“Evie is not here,” said John. “You know that.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Poirot moved towards the door of Mrs. Inglethorp’s room.

“Let us see, if you please.”

John took the keys from his pocket. He unlocked the door, and we entered. The room was unchanged since the doctors had left it. The curtains had been drawn back, and the harsh daylight revealed every detail with merciless clearness.

The bed stood in disorder, the pillows thrown aside and the coverlet twisted beneath the dead woman’s feet. The small table beside it lay upon its side. A glass of water had been overturned, and a dark patch showed upon the carpet.

Poirot did not approach the bed immediately. He stood in the doorway, his head inclined, taking in the room with a rapid glance.

“Do not touch anything,” he said.

“I have touched nothing since we came in,” I assured him.

“You have an excellent memory?”

“I think so.”

“Then let us test it.”

He advanced slowly. His little grey eyes darted from the bed to the fireplace, from the fireplace to the dressing-table. He stooped and examined the carpet, then the legs of the overturned table.

“What are you looking for?”

“My dear Hastings, if I told you that, you would look for it also, and perhaps find too much.”

He went to the mantelpiece. There stood a small clock, a pair of silver candlesticks, and several ornaments of china. He lifted each in turn, replacing it exactly where it had stood. Next he examined the grate. The fire had burned low, but among the ashes lay several fragments of blackened paper.

Poirot’s expression changed.

“Who has touched the fire?”

“No one, I believe.”

“Believe?”

“I cannot be certain.”

“Ah!”

He took a small pencil from his pocket and disturbed the ashes delicately. Then, with the point of the pencil, he drew out a thin white object no larger than a fingernail. It appeared to be a little crescent of wax, or perhaps some hardened substance that had been exposed to heat.

Poirot examined it closely, then slipped it into an envelope.

“Is that important?” I asked.

“It may be.”

“What is it?”

“I do not know.”

I stared at him.

“You do not know?”

“I know what it is not.”

“And what is it not?”

Poirot smiled.

“That is another question.”

He crossed the room to the dressing-table. There were bottles and jars arranged upon it, a hairbrush, a comb, several papers, and a small despatch-case. He touched none of them, but bent over the floor near the table.

“There,” he said.

At first I saw nothing. Then I perceived, caught in the crack between two boards, a minute scrap of blue paper. Poirot drew it out with the point of his pencil. It was torn across, and bore no writing that I could see.

He held it towards the light.

“A piece of an envelope,” I suggested.

“Perhaps.”

“Or a label?”

“Perhaps.”

“But surely you can tell.”

“My friend, I can tell many things. But it is necessary to know which things are worth telling.”

He folded the fragment carefully and placed it in his pocket.

“Why do you take it?”

“Because it was here.”

“That is hardly an explanation.”

“It is the best explanation that I can give you at present.”

He walked to the door leading into Mr. Inglethorp’s room. That door had been locked by the doctors. Poirot studied the lock, then the threshold. He did not attempt to open it.

“You think the two rooms have significance?”

“I think that two locked rooms have always significance.”

“But one was occupied by Mr. Inglethorp.”

“Was it?”

“He says he was away.”

“Precisely.”

At that moment there was a knock upon the outer door. John entered.

“Poirot, there is something you must know. The police have been sent for.”

“Excellent.”

“You do not object?”

“Why should I object?”

John hesitated.

“The family is in a terrible position. If this becomes a public scandal—”

“If there has been no crime, there will be no scandal,” said Poirot. “And if there has been a crime, the sooner it is known, the better.”

John looked at him gloomily.

“The doctors are preparing for the post-mortem.”

“Then we have no time to lose.”

He turned to me.

“We will speak to the other persons in the house. But first I wish to see the young lady who works at the hospital.”

“Cynthia?”

“Yes.”

We found Cynthia in the small sitting-room adjoining the passage. Mary Cavendish was with her. Cynthia sat in a chair by the window, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She still looked dazed, and her eyes were heavy with sleep.

Poirot bowed to her.

“Mademoiselle, I will ask you one question only.”

She looked at him without comprehension.

“You slept soundly last night?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I did not wake until Mrs. Cavendish shook me.”

“Thank you.”

Mary rose abruptly.

“Is that all?”

“For the moment.”

Poirot turned away. I noticed that Cynthia watched him anxiously.

We went downstairs. In the hall, Alfred Inglethorp stood beside the long window, apparently engaged in reading a letter. He glanced up as we passed.

“I shall be in the library,” he announced.

Poirot bowed but made no reply.

Outside the dining-room door we encountered Lawrence. He was holding an empty glass in one hand.

“You have questioned Cynthia?” he asked.

“Only upon one point,” I answered.

“Then you are satisfied?”

“I am not yet satisfied upon anything,” said Poirot.

Lawrence looked at him with sudden hostility.

“You will make a great deal of this, I suppose.”

“I shall make only as much as is necessary.”

“You foreigners delight in mysteries.”

“My dear sir, I delight in facts.”

Lawrence laughed bitterly.

“Facts! There are no facts here. Only suspicion and grief.”

He turned and walked rapidly away.

Poirot watched him.

“He is very unhappy.”

“Who could blame him?”

“No one. But unhappiness does not prevent a man from observing.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean exactly what I say.”

We entered the library. John was standing near the writing-desk, his back to us.

“The police inspector may arrive at any moment,” he said. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

“Not yet.”

Poirot crossed to the window and looked out over the lawn.

“The storm has passed.”

“During the night?” I asked.

“There was no rain?”

“Not a drop.”

“Then it passed elsewhere.”

He returned to the desk and picked up nothing, though he examined the blotting-paper and the pens. His whole attitude seemed one of intense concentration. I felt my curiosity becoming unbearable.

“Poirot,” I cried, “you have found something in that room. What is it?”

He looked at me gravely.

“Yes.”

“What?”

He placed his hand upon the pocket of his coat.

“This.”

He took out the little scrap of blue paper and laid it upon the desk between us.

I bent over it. To my eyes it was merely a torn fragment, with one edge darkened and the other showing a faint line of red.

“What can you possibly learn from that?”

Poirot did not answer. He was gazing past me, his eyes fixed upon the open doorway.

Then he picked up the scrap and returned it to its envelope.

“We must go back upstairs,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because the room is locked.”

“But we have the keys.”

“No, Hastings. The room has been locked by the doctors. That is not the same thing.”

I followed him in bewilderment. He took the keys from John, who had come after us, and once more we entered the bedroom. Poirot closed the door and turned the key.

The house was quiet now. From somewhere below came the faint sound of voices, and outside a rook called harshly from the elms. Upon the bed Mrs. Inglethorp lay motionless beneath the sheet.

Poirot drew the little object from its envelope and placed it upon the overturned table.

It was not the scrap of blue paper, but the tiny white crescent which he had taken from the ashes.

“What is it?” I demanded.

He shook his head.

“My friend, you ask too soon.”

“But you have formed an opinion?”

“I have formed three opinions.”

“Three!”

“Yes. And two of them are false.”

I stared at him helplessly.

Poirot leaned nearer, and his voice fell to a whisper.

“The important thing, Hastings, is not where this was found, but where it was not found.”

I confess that I could make nothing of his meaning. The small white object lay between us, innocent and mysterious, while Poirot looked at it with the intense satisfaction of a man who has discovered a clue—and I, with growing exasperation, remained entirely in the dark.

Eve Halliday had not gone more than a hundred yards when the thought of the umbrella began to trouble her.

It was one thing to accept a miraculous umbrella from a tall young man with a monocle and a grave friendliness; it was another to retain it. The former might be put down to one of those pleasant accidents which occasionally brighten the lives of the impecunious. The latter began to look suspiciously like theft.

She turned back.

The rain had stopped, as rain in London frequently does when one has acquired an umbrella, and the sky was now wearing an expression of bland innocence. Eve crossed the road and entered the gloomy building. A porter was standing just inside the doorway, polishing the brass handle of a large umbrella-stand with the intense concentration of a man who has been waiting for something to happen and has decided that, if nothing else happens, the brass shall at least happen properly.

“Excuse me,” said Eve. “Could you give this to the gentleman who lent it to me?”

The porter looked at the umbrella.

“Which gentleman, miss?”

“The tall one with the monocle.”

The porter’s face became thoughtful. A club porter is trained to remember the faces of gentlemen, but the tall one with a monocle was a description which might have fitted half the membership and three-quarters of the committee.

“He went in just now,” said Eve. “I don’t know his name.”

“No, miss.”

“I thought I’d leave a note.”

“That would be safest, miss.”

The porter produced a sheet of club paper and a pencil, and Eve wrote:

Dear Sir,

Thank you very much for the umbrella. I am returning it at once. It was most awfully kind of you.

Yours gratefully,

Eve Halliday.

She folded the paper and slipped it beneath the handle.

“Will he get it?”

“He will get it, miss.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, miss.”

Eve went out again, feeling that she had discharged an obligation and had acquired another. The umbrella had been a gift from Heaven, but Heaven, as represented by a club porter, had apparently decided to charge her with the safe custody of it until such time as the mysterious donor could be located.

Upstairs, meanwhile, the mysterious donor was being located with considerable promptitude.

Psmith had returned to the smoking-room and resumed his position by the window. He was feeling pleased with himself. The rain had ceased; the young lady had been assisted; and the Honourable Mr. Walderwick’s umbrella was back in the club’s possession, where it could be reclaimed by its owner at leisure.

He had just begun to wonder whether there was any useful service which could be performed for the weather—such as persuading it to clear up permanently—when the door opened and the Honourable Mr. Walderwick came in.

He was a short, red-faced young man, with damp-looking hair and the air of one who has been subjected to a personal affront by nature. He carried no umbrella.

“Psmith!”

Psmith turned.

“Walderwick,” he said. “You are looking surprisingly dry for a man who has been caught in the rain.”

“I want my umbrella.”

“Ah!” said Psmith. “You are not looking surprisingly dry, then. You are looking exactly like a man who has been caught in the rain.”

“Where is it?”

Psmith glanced towards the window.

“I should imagine it is in the cloak-room.”

“I’ve been to the cloak-room. It isn’t there.”

“Then I fear the cloak-room has suffered a reverse.”

“Somebody’s taken it.”

“Quite possibly.”

“It was a new one. I only bought it yesterday.”

“Then it has had a brief but adventurous career.”

Walderwick advanced upon him.

“Psmith, I left that umbrella in the stand at ten o’clock. I come back at eleven and it’s gone. What’s more, the porter says you took one out.”

“The porter is an observant fellow.”

“Did you take mine?”

“I took an umbrella.”

“Was it mine?”

Psmith regarded him with a mild, almost devotional interest.

“Walderwick, you are asking a question which bristles with technical difficulties. What is an umbrella? Is it merely a contrivance for excluding rain, or is it something more? Can ownership be established by the initials upon the ferrule? If so, what happens when the initials are—”

“Was it mine?”

“It may have been.”

“Where is it?”

“Ah, there you have me. It is not in my immediate possession.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I lent it to a young lady.”

Walderwick stared.

“You lent my umbrella to a young lady?”

“I did not know it was yours at the time.”

“You’ve got a nerve.”

“I have frequently been told so.”

“I want it back.”

“Perfectly reasonable. You shall have it back.”

“When?”

“Immediately.”

“Then send for it.”

“Unfortunately, it is not at hand.”

Walderwick’s face deepened in colour.

“Psmith!”

“I am listening.”

“You’ve taken my umbrella, lent it to someone you don’t know, and now you tell me it isn’t at hand.”

“You have summarised the affair with admirable clearness.”

“And you think it funny?”

“Not at all. I think it unfortunate. Still, I see no reason why we should allow the morning to be clouded by a misunderstanding.”

“Where is the girl?”

“Again, I fear, I cannot say.”

“Then I’ll have the value of it.”

“An excellent suggestion.”

“How much did it cost?”

“I have no notion.”

“Three pounds ten.”

“Then I will give you four.”

Walderwick blinked.

“Four pounds?”

“Four pounds.”

“For an umbrella?”

“I am anxious to avoid unpleasantness.”

“You’re offering me four pounds for an umbrella that cost three-ten?”

“I am offering you four pounds for an umbrella which you appear to value at three-ten. There is a distinction.”

Walderwick looked at him suspiciously. It was plain that he suspected a trap, but equally plain that he could not see where the trap was situated.

“Make it five,” he said.

“Done.”

Psmith took out his cheque-book.

“Cash.”

“Cash would be inconvenient.”

“I want cash.”

“Very well.”

He crossed the room to the writing-table, rang the bell, and requested that five pounds should be brought to him. While the attendant was gone he stood looking out of the window at the awning of Messrs. Thorpe & Briscoe. The girl had disappeared. It seemed to him that, without her, the awning had reverted to its natural condition.

The attendant returned with the money. Psmith handed it to Walderwick, who pocketed it with the air of a man who had just won an argument against a lunatic.

“There,” said Psmith. “The umbrella is now yours no longer.”

“It was never yours.”

“Not in the strict legal sense, perhaps. But the matter is now adjusted.”

“You’re a funny blighter.”

“I have occasionally suspected it myself.”

Walderwick departed, and Psmith returned to the window.

A moment later the porter came in with Eve’s note.

“Miss left this with the umbrella, sir.”

Psmith took the paper and read it. His expression did not alter, but he read it twice.

“Did she say anything?”

“Only that she didn’t know your name, sir.”

“Quite so.”

“She was very grateful, sir.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

The porter withdrew. Psmith looked at the note again. It was a small, simple document, but it had accomplished the unusual feat of making him feel that the morning had not been wasted. He placed it carefully in his breast pocket.

Then he rang for luncheon.

* * * * * *

Eve’s next engagement was at two o’clock, and it was one of those engagements which have a tendency to become more formidable as the hour approaches. At ten minutes to two she stood outside the hotel in Brook Street where the representative of the Blandings Castle Library was staying, and reflected that she had probably made a mistake in wearing the whale of a hat.

The hat was excellent for impressing employment bureaux and for sheltering beneath awnings. It was less excellent for being interviewed by a man who might have strong views on the subject of books. It seemed to her that a person who spent his days among ancient manuscripts might reasonably be expected to disapprove of a bird of Paradise feather.

She went in.

The gentleman waiting for her in the small sitting-room was not, as she had expected, a dry little scholar with spectacles, but a tall, spare man of about forty, with a narrow face and a pair of eyes which appeared to have been trained to detect dust upon furniture at a distance of twenty yards.

“Miss Halliday?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Baxter.”

He indicated a chair.

Eve sat down, taking care not to crush the feather.

“I understand that you have had experience of cataloguing.”

“A little.”

“How much is a little?”

Eve considered.

“I once catalogued father’s pipes.”

“Pipes?”

“There were twenty-three of them. I arranged them according to the amount of tobacco they would hold. The small ones were under the sofa, the medium-sized ones in the umbrella-stand, and the large ones on the mantelpiece.”

Mr. Baxter did not smile.

“I meant books.”

“Oh, books. No, I haven’t catalogued any books.”

“Then why did you apply for the post?”

“It sounded pleasant.”

“Pleasant?”

“And I know a good deal about books.”

“Have you read much?”

“Quite a lot.”

“What, for instance?”

Eve began to name a few of the books she had read. Mr. Baxter stopped her after the third title.

“Have you any knowledge of bibliography?”

“No.”

“Palaeography?”

“No.”

“Collation?”

“Not unless it’s something to do with cooking.”

He stared at her.

“I am afraid you misunderstand the nature of the work.”

“I expect I do. But I learn quickly.”

“Your references?”

Eve produced the letter Miss Clarkson had given her. Mr. Baxter read it and folded it neatly.

“This is from Miss Clarkson.”

“Yes. She was my form-mistress at school.”

“It says that you are intelligent, energetic, and trustworthy.”

“Clarkie has always been a brick.”

“Do you have any other references?”

“Not with me.”

“From previous employers?”

“I have never had any previous employers.”

Mr. Baxter leaned back.

“Miss Halliday, the position is one of considerable responsibility. The library contains many valuable books and papers. The cataloguer must be methodical, accurate, and familiar with the ordinary technical terms of the work.”

“I can become familiar with them.”

“Quickly?”

“By lunch-time, if they aren’t too difficult.”

For the first time something very like irritation showed in Mr. Baxter’s face.

“You have misunderstood the appointment entirely. It is not a social engagement.”

“I am glad to hear it. I was afraid you were going to ask me to catalogue the library in evening clothes.”

Mr. Baxter looked at the clock.

“What led you to believe that you were qualified?”

“Mr. Threepwood said so.”

“Mr. Threepwood?”

“He thought I should be just the person.”

“Indeed.”

“I think he may have been trying to get me down to Blandings.”

“Why?”

“He keeps proposing to me.”

Mr. Baxter’s expression became still more forbidding.

“I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do. Nobody does, really. Freddie proposes in much the same tone in which other people ask whether you will have coffee. But it is very kind of him.”

“I am sure.”

There was a pause.

“Do you know anything about Lord Emsworth’s library?” he asked.

“I know it is at Blandings.”

“Have you ever seen it?”

“No.”

“Do you know the difference between a first edition and a later impression?”

“Not personally.”

“Can you distinguish between a quarto and an octavo?”

“Not at present. But I’m sure I should be able to distinguish them by dinner.”

Mr. Baxter rose.

“I am afraid this interview has not been satisfactory.”

Eve rose also.

“I knew that when I began talking about the pipes.”

“I have not said that you are unsuitable.”

“No?”

“I have said that you have no experience.”

“That is a very serious accusation.”

“And yet,” said Mr. Baxter, “you appear to have intelligence.”

“Clarkie has noticed that too.”

“Also energy.”

“I can prove that by running down the stairs.”

“And you may be trustworthy.”

“I returned an umbrella this morning.”

“What umbrella?”

Eve remembered that she had not mentioned the umbrella to him and decided that the story would take too long.

“Never mind.”

Mr. Baxter picked up Miss Clarkson’s letter again.

“I shall make a further recommendation that you be given a trial.”

Eve stared.

“A trial?”

“For a fortnight. If you can learn the work and perform it satisfactorily, the appointment may become permanent.”

“That sounds as if I have got the place.”

“It sounds as if you may have the place.”

“I shall take it. I’m splendid at trials. I was tried once for putting salt in the headmistress’s coffee, and they had to admit that the evidence was inconclusive.”

Mr. Baxter’s eyes narrowed.

“I should prefer you not to play practical jokes at Blandings.”

“I shall try to restrain myself.”

“Your duties would begin tomorrow.”

“Excellent.”

“You will report to me at three o’clock.”

“Excellent.”

“Bring suitable clothes.”

Eve glanced at her hat.

“Would a hat with a slightly smaller bird be suitable?”

“Your appearance is immaterial.”

“That is a relief. I was afraid you might make me leave the feather behind.”

“I was referring to the work.”

“So was I.”

Mr. Baxter opened the door.

Eve went out, and he remained standing in the middle of the room, regarding the closed door with the look of a man who had unexpectedly discovered a new and rather alarming species of insect.

* * * * * *

At half-past three Eve found herself in Piccadilly, having made a small purchase at a tea-shop and a still smaller one at a stationer’s. She was carrying a packet of pencils and thinking about Blandings, first editions, and the strange fact that she had acquired employment by admitting that she knew nothing about it when a voice behind her said:

“Excuse me!”

She turned.

The young man with the monocle was standing at the kerb. He was without an umbrella now, and his tall, thin figure rose against the grey afternoon like a question-mark which had lost its sentence.

“Oh!” said Eve. “It’s you.”

“I am gratified that our acquaintance has advanced so rapidly.”

“I returned your umbrella.”

“Did you?”

“To the porter.”

“That was extremely considerate.”

“I didn’t know where else to return it.”

“Nor did I.”

Eve laughed.

“You must think I’m very odd.”

“Not at all. I have frequently been told that I am odd, and I have always regarded it as a tribute.”

“I meant returning the umbrella.”

“Yes, I understood that.”

“You lent it to me without knowing me.”

“Possibly I had seen you before.”

“I’m sure you hadn’t.”

“Then I must have been acting on instinct.”

“You may have been acting on charity.”

“Charity,” said Psmith, “is instinct in its more agreeable form.”

She looked at him, smiling.

“You talk as if everything were perfectly simple.”

“Everything is perfectly simple until one begins to explain it.”

“You’re very mysterious.”

“I have been working steadily at it for years.”

They stood together while a stream of motor-buses rolled past and a taxicab splashed through a puddle with the cheerful malice of its kind.

“I ought to tell you,” said Eve, “that I am grateful.”

“You have done so in writing.”

“You read my note?”

“It was brought to me.”

“Then you know my name.”

“I know the name at the bottom of the note.”

“And you don’t know mine.”

“I should be sorry to spoil the symmetry.”

She was about to answer when a bus gave a warning hoot and a policeman waved them back from the road. Eve stepped aside, and the young man moved with her.

“Are you going somewhere?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ve just been interviewed for a post.”

“Successful?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been offered a trial.”

“That sounds encouraging.”

“It was a very odd interview. The gentleman asked me if I knew bibliography.”

“Do you?”

“No. Do you?”

“I have always tried to avoid knowing anything which could be put into a question.”

“That’s what I thought. He asked me about octavos.”

“Were you able to satisfy him?”

“I said I could distinguish them by dinner.”

“A sound practical answer.”

“I think he was annoyed.”

“Then you have made an impression.”

“He said I might start tomorrow.”

“Then you have made a very sound impression.”

“I’m to catalogue a library in a place called Blandings.”

At the word “Blandings,” something flickered behind the monocle, but it was gone so quickly that Eve could not be certain that she had seen it.

“Blandings,” he repeated.

“Do you know it?”

“I have heard of it.”

“Then you know more than I do. I have never been there.”

“You may find the library agreeable.”

“I hope so. I’m not sure about the books, but the castle ought to be fun.”

“Do you like castles?”

“I like anything that has a roof and no collector of debts at the front door.”

“An admirable standard.”

A pause followed. Eve looked towards the west.

“I must go. I have an appointment with a dressmaker.”

“Then I will not detain you.”

“You haven’t detained me. You’ve made Piccadilly much less depressing.”

“I am pleased to have been of service.”

“And thank you again for the umbrella.”

“It was nothing.”

“It was five minutes’ worth of rain.”

“An umbrella is a small price to pay for five minutes’ worth of rain.”

She gave him her hand. He took it solemnly.

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

He watched her walk away until the whale of a hat had disappeared round the corner. Then he returned to the Drones, moving with the thoughtful air of a man who had just received information which had altered the appearance of the universe without altering any of its furniture.

* * * * * *

In the smoking-room, Psmith found the Honourable Mr. Walderwick sitting by the fire, though the day was warm.

“You have met the umbrella girl?” asked Walderwick.

“I have met a girl.”

“Was she carrying my umbrella?”

“No.”

“Then she must have sent it back.”

“I believe she did.”

Walderwick produced the five pounds which Psmith had given him and counted it.

“I can’t make out why you paid me five pounds for that thing. It wasn’t worth more than three-ten.”

“I was in a generous mood.”

“It had a hole in it.”

“Then I have made a particularly generous purchase.”

“You’ve got the umbrella, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I find that it reminds me of a young lady.”

Walderwick looked at him in silence.

“What was her name?” Psmith asked.

“How should I know?”

“She wrote a note.”

“Didn’t she sign it?”

“Miss Halliday.”

“Eve Halliday,” said Walderwick. “The porter told me. Nice girl, was she?”

Psmith looked down at the umbrella lying beside his chair.

“Yes,” he said. “She was a nice girl.”

Walderwick rose and went out, apparently satisfied that his part in the day’s work was complete.

Outside, the rain began again. Psmith sat alone in the smoking-room with the umbrella he had bought, the evening settling darkly over Dover Street and the awning of Messrs. Thorpe & Briscoe becoming once more what it had always been—a perfectly ordinary awning, with nothing whatever to recommend it.

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

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

“What about?”

“I don’t know.”

The cab went on through the dark streets. The driver had the hood up and the glass was clouded. Brett put her head back against the cushions and kept her eyes closed.

“Take me to the Crillon,” she said.

“Are you staying there?”

“No. I want to see somebody.”

“Who?”

“His name is Lord Ashton.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Is he a lord?”

“Yes.”

“Does he have money?”

“He has a great deal of money.”

“When did you meet him?”

“Last week.”

“Where?”

“At the Ritz.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Then why are you going to see him?”

“He asked me to.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

We were silent. The cab turned into the Boulevard Saint-Germain. The streets were almost empty and the cafés were closing. A man in a long overcoat walked quickly along the pavement, holding his hat against the wind.

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

“No.”

“I want to go to Strasbourg.”

“That’s a long way.”

“You proposed it once.”

“I proposed walking there.”

“I remember.”

“You said it was impossible.”

“It would have been impossible.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“No.”

She opened her eyes and looked at me.

“You’re a fool, Jake.”

“I know.”

“You’re always making things difficult.”

“I don’t make anything difficult.”

“You do. You make everything difficult.”

The cab stopped in front of the Crillon. Brett got out and stood on the pavement while I paid the driver. A porter came down the steps and looked at us. Brett walked to the entrance and turned.

“Come up.”

“I’ll wait here.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I don’t want to meet Lord Ashton.”

“You don’t have to meet him.”

“Then what am I doing up there?”

“I want you to come.”

“Why?”

“I’ve asked you.”

“That isn’t a reason.”

“It is for me.”

She looked toward the hotel doors. The porter was watching us.

“Come on,” she said.

We went inside. The hall was very bright and empty. A clerk stood behind the desk reading a newspaper. Brett spoke to him in French, and he answered in English. He telephoned upstairs.

“He’s coming down,” she said.

“Good.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t be so damned reasonable.”

“I’m not reasonable.”

“You are when you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

We sat in two chairs near the desk. The clerk folded his newspaper. There was a large bowl of white flowers on a table between us. Brett took a cigarette from her case and held it without lighting it.

“Lord Ashton has a suite here,” she said.

“Of course.”

“He’s leaving tomorrow.”

“Where is he going?”

“Biarritz, I think.”

“Very convenient.”

“Don’t be hateful.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

A man came down the stairs. He was tall and thin and wore a dinner jacket under a dark overcoat. His hair was gray at the temples. He saw Brett and smiled, then looked at me.

“Hello, my dear,” he said. “I thought you might come.”

“This is Jacob Barnes,” Brett said.

“How do you do?”

“How do you do?”

He shook my hand. His hand was soft and dry.

“Will you come up?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Jacob’s going back to his friends,” Brett said.

“I’m not going back to my friends.”

“You are.”

Lord Ashton looked from one of us to the other.

“Perhaps you would care to have a drink,” he said.

“No, thank you.”

“Brett?”

“I’ll come up for a little while.”

“Fine.”

He turned toward the stairs.

“You can go,” Brett said to me.

“I know.”

“Don’t wait.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

She came close to me. She was smiling, but her eyes were tired.

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You’re going upstairs with Lord Ashton.”

“That isn’t what I mean.”

“It’s what you said.”

She put her hand on my sleeve.

“Will you take me somewhere first?”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Then why are you going upstairs?”

“Because I have to.”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

“Yes, I do.”

Lord Ashton had stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He was looking at us with polite interest.

“Brett,” he said.

“Go on up,” she told him. “I’ll be there.”

He smiled again and went upstairs.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked.

“To the bal.”

“The bal musette?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I left something there.”

“What did you leave?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps it’s there.”

“Perhaps.”

We went out. The porter opened the door and the night came in. The cab was waiting at the curb.

“To the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Geneviève,” I told the driver.

Brett got in beside me.

“You’re angry,” she said.

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m tired.”

“That’s worse.”

The cab moved off. We passed the dark gardens and the shuttered shops. A newspaper boy was asleep on a doorstep with a bundle of papers under his head.

“Do you love me, Jake?” Brett asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“And you won’t say it?”

“I just said it.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t.”

She leaned back and looked out of the window.

“You never say anything.”

“I say plenty.”

“You say the wrong things.”

“You ask the wrong questions.”

She laughed, but it was not a happy laugh.

“I met Lord Ashton last week. He’s very rich.”

“You told me.”

“He wants to take me to Monte Carlo.”

“Go.”

“I might.”

“You ought to.”

“You’re very nice.”

“I’m not nice.”

“Yes, you are. You’re the nicest man I know.”

“Don’t talk that way.”

“How should I talk?”

“About something else.”

“There isn’t anything else.”

“There’s the weather.”

“It’s going to rain.”

“It may.”

“You see? That’s what you do. You take everything away.”

“I don’t take anything away.”

“You do.”

“Perhaps I do.”

The cab stopped outside the bal musette. The policeman was no longer by the door. The light was still on inside and music came faintly through the walls.

“I’ll be back,” I said.

“I’ll wait.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’ll wait.”

I got out and went inside. The proprietor was still on his high stool, playing the accordion. The room was more crowded than before. The dancers moved heavily across the floor. The daughter of the house was behind the bar, and the patronne sat near the door.

She saw me.

“Vous avez oublié quelque chose?”

“Yes. An envelope.”

“Ah, oui. Mademoiselle Hobin has been asking for you.”

“Where is she?”

“On the floor.”

Georgette was dancing with a small dark man in a checked jacket. She saw me and stopped dancing.

“Jacob!” she called.

The man kept hold of her hand.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re dancing.”

“Go away,” she told him.

He shrugged and went back into the crowd.

“Your friends are very gay,” Georgette said.

“They’re not my friends.”

“The blond ones?”

“No.”

“Your fiancée?”

“I haven’t got a fiancée.”

“That was a joke?”

“Yes.”

“It was not a good joke.”

“No.”

She looked toward the door.

“Where did you go?”

“For a ride.”

“With the beautiful girl?”

“Yes.”

“Is she your fiancée?”

“No.”

“She is very beautiful.”

“Yes.”

“She thinks she is very beautiful.”

“Yes.”

Georgette put her hands on her hips.

“And she leaves you?”

“She is waiting outside.”

“Then go to her.”

“I came for the envelope.”

“You gave me fifty francs.”

“I gave it to the patronne.”

“It is mine?”

“Yes.”

“You are generous.”

“No.”

“Perhaps you are sorry for me.”

“No.”

“Perhaps you are sorry for yourself.”

“Yes.”

She looked at me with the sullen smile that made her almost pretty.

“Why did you come back?”

“For the envelope.”

“That is not why.”

“It is.”

“You are in love with the beautiful girl.”

“Yes.”

“And she does not love you.”

“Yes.”

“And you give me fifty francs.”

“Yes.”

“You are a strange man, Jacob.”

“I know.”

The patronne came over and handed me the envelope.

“Mademoiselle Hobin did not want to take it,” she said.

“Didn’t she?”

“She said you had given it to her.”

“I gave it to the house.”

Georgette looked at me.

“You insult me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Do you want to dance?”

“No.”

“Do you want to drink?”

“Yes.”

She went to the bar and called to the daughter. I stood beside her. The accordion played a fast tune. The bells around the proprietor’s ankle beat time with the music.

“Two beers,” Georgette said.

We drank them standing at the bar.

“Your girl is waiting,” she said.

“She isn’t my girl.”

“She is waiting for you.”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you stay here?”

“I don’t know.”

“You are afraid.”

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know.”

“That is a lie.”

“Yes.”

The beer was warm and the room smelled of sweat and tobacco. Some one opened the door and cool air came in. It moved over the floor and was gone.

“I like you,” Georgette said.

“I don’t like myself.”

“That does not matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“You think too much.”

“Yes.”

“About the beautiful girl?”

“Yes.”

“She will make you unhappy.”

“Yes.”

“Then let her go.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“You are a fool.”

“Yes.”

She touched my arm.

“Come back with me.”

“No.”

“You are afraid.”

“Yes.”

She laughed.

“Go to your beautiful girl.”

I put the money for the beer on the bar.

“Your fifty francs,” she said.

“Keep it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“It’s yours.”

“No. You gave it to the house.”

“The house gave it to me.”

“Then keep it.”

She pushed the envelope toward me.

“You see,” I said. “You don’t want money.”

“I want money. I don’t want your money.”

“That’s different.”

“Yes.”

I put the envelope in my pocket.

“Good night, Georgette.”

“Good night, Jacob.”

Outside Brett was still in the cab. She had the door open and was smoking.

“What did you find?” she asked.

“My envelope.”

“Was it where you left it?”

“Yes.”

“And the girl?”

“She was there.”

“Did she get the money?”

“Yes.”

“No?”

“I got it back.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You always know.”

“I don’t.”

She threw the cigarette into the gutter.

“Where shall we go?”

“Back to the Crillon?”

“No.”

“Do you want to go to Lord Ashton?”

“No.”

“He’s waiting.”

“I know.”

“Then where?”

“Take me somewhere we can sit.”

“There are plenty of places.”

“Not those places.”

“Where?”

“Montparnasse.”

We drove south. Brett sat close beside me but did not touch me. The city had begun to change. The black windows showed a little gray at their edges. We crossed the Luxembourg gardens, where the trees stood still and wet-looking under the lamps.

“Why did you bring me to the bal?” she asked.

“You asked me to.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

“I thought you wanted to go.”

“You thought I wanted to go.”

“Yes.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yes.”

“Couldn’t you ever do something without thinking?”

“I do things without thinking.”

“Not with me.”

“No.”

The cab stopped near the cafés on the Boulevard du Montparnasse. We got out and went into one that was still open. The room was nearly empty. A waiter wiped the marble top of the bar. We sat at a table near the window.

“What will you have?” I asked.

“Champagne.”

“It’s early.”

“It’s late.”

We ordered a half-bottle. The waiter brought it in a bucket of water and opened it carefully. Brett filled my glass.

“To Lord Ashton,” she said.

“To Lord Ashton.”

She drank.

“He has a yacht.”

“Does he?”

“Yes. A very large one.”

“Where does he keep it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does he know?”

“He knows everything.”

“Of course.”

“He has a house in Sussex.”

“Does he have a wife?”

“No.”

“Children?”

“No.”

“Then he’s all right.”

“You’re hateful.”

“I’m not.”

“You are when you’re hurt.”

“I’m not hurt.”

“Yes, you are.”

She looked out at the boulevard. A few taxis went by. A woman in a red coat stood under the awning of another café, talking to a soldier.

“I could go with him,” Brett said.

“Yes.”

“He’d take me anywhere.”

“Yes.”

“Would you come?”

“To Monte Carlo?”

“Anywhere.”

“I don’t think he’d like it.”

“He wouldn’t know.”

“He would know.”

“Then you could come alone.”

“Yes.”

“But you won’t.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Yes.”

She reached across the table and took my hand. Her fingers were cold.

“I’m damned fond of you,” she said.

“I know.”

“That’s all?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“You could say you’re damned fond of me.”

“I’m damned fond of you.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“Yes, I do.”

“That’s the trouble.”

The waiter brought the bill. I paid it and left a tip. Brett stood up.

“Take me to the Gare du Nord,” she said.

“What are you doing there?”

“I want to see the trains.”

“It’s a long way.”

“I know.”

We got into another taxi. The sky was light over the roofs now. The driver drove quickly through the empty streets. At the Gare du Nord the great iron roof was gray in the morning light, and porters pushed baggage carts across the entrance.

Brett stood looking at the departure board.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Nowhere.”

“There’s a train to London.”

“I know.”

“You could take it.”

“I could.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

She turned toward me.

“Are you coming in?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like stations.”

“You don’t like anything.”

“I like some things.”

“What?”

“I like you.”

She smiled at me.

“That’s not enough.”

“No.”

A porter pushed a cart between us. The wheels rattled over the stones. Brett stepped back.

“Take me to the Crillon,” she said.

We went out and found a taxi. It was fully light now. The city was beginning its day. Milk carts rattled along the streets, and the shops were opening. Brett leaned against me and closed her eyes.

“Will you come upstairs?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Yes.”

The taxi stopped at the hotel. She got out and stood beside the open door.

“Good-bye, darling,” she said.

“Good-bye.”

“You won’t come?”

“No.”

“That’s all right.”

“Yes.”

She bent down and looked into the cab.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Take me to the hotel.”

“I have.”

“No. The other hotel.”

“Which one?”

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

“The one on the Rue de Castiglione.”

“Lord Ashton’s?”

“Yes.”

The driver looked back at us.

“Go on,” she said. “Tell him.”

I told the driver the address. Brett got in and sat alone in the corner. She held the door open.

“Will you come later?”

“No.”

“You might.”

“I might.”

She closed the door. The taxi moved away down the Rue Royale.

I walked toward the river. The sun was coming up behind the buildings and the windows were bright. At the Place de la Concorde the fountains were still and the pavement was wet from the night washing. I crossed toward the gardens and went down to the river.

The water moved slowly under the bridges. A barge came out from under the Pont de la Concorde, its engine making a low, steady sound. On the other bank a man opened the shutters of a café. The sky above the roofs was pale yellow.

I walked along the river toward home. The city was waking, and the light lay flat on the water. I had been with Brett all night and it had made no difference.