The Chapters

Mina Murray’s Journal.

27 May.—I begin my journal to-day, though I am not yet with Lucy, for something has happened which I cannot understand, and I have found already that the writing down of facts brings them into order. This morning there came a foreign letter, addressed to me in a hand which I did not know. At first my heart leaped, for I thought that perhaps Jonathan had been too hurried to write in shorthand, and had entrusted his message to some one else. Then I saw that the postmark was Klausenburg, and remembered that he had spoken of passing through that place on his journey.

The letter was written in English, very carefully, as though by one who knew the language from books rather than from speech. I copy it here in full, for I may wish afterwards to remember every word:—

Letter, Herr Friedrich Weiss to Miss Wilhelmina Murray.

“Hotel zur Goldenen Krone,

“Klausenburg.

“23 May.

“Honoured Miss,—

“I take the liberty to address you concerning Mr. Jonathan Harker, English solicitor, whose name and your direction I have found upon a card which he gave into my hands. Mr. Harker has been delayed in this country, owing to an indisposition following upon much fatigue and the disturbance of his arrangements for travel. There is no cause, I am assured, for alarm. He has been advised to remain quiet, and to avoid the labour of correspondence until his strength is altogether restored.

“He desired that word should be sent to England, lest his silence should make anxiety. As I possess some English, and as the other persons here do not, it has become my privilege to write. Mr. Harker speaks continually with affection of his home and of the happiness which awaits him there. He hopes, should his recovery proceed as is confidently expected, to resume his journey before many days have passed; but he begs that no fixed date be counted upon, since the railways are uncertain and the roads in the interior have suffered from recent rains.

“I would have written sooner, but did not until yesterday receive from his effects the card bearing your address. Be pleased, honoured Miss, to accept the assurance that every suitable attention is being paid to your friend. A reply directed to this hotel will be delivered to me.

“With distinguished consideration,

“FRIEDRICH WEISS,

“Secretary.”

I have read the letter until I almost know it by heart. There is comfort in it, and yet I cannot feel comforted. Perhaps it is only because the writer is a stranger, and because Jonathan himself has not added even one word. But if he has been ordered not to write, of course he would obey; he is so conscientious in all things. I must not be foolish. The hurried lines which I received told me that he was well and would return in about a week; evidently the fatigue came afterwards. I have written at once to Herr Weiss, thanking him, and asking for exact particulars. I have also written to Mr. Hawkins. I do not like to trouble him, for he is not strong, but he ought to know that Jonathan’s return is delayed.

I wish I could go to Lucy now. I would not tell her enough to cloud her happiness, but merely to hear her speak of Arthur and all her plans would make the world seem natural again. How selfish sorrow is, even when it is only fear of sorrow! It wishes every other voice to speak its language.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

(Kept in phonograph)

27 May.—The little gathering last night has done me good, though the cure had a bitter taste in the taking. Quincey, with that instinct of his which often passes for light-heartedness because it refuses to make a parade of sympathy, contrived everything admirably. There were no strangers, no elaborate dinner, no solemnity. Art came late, radiant and apologetic, and for the first ten minutes could speak of nothing but railway delays and a florist’s stupidity. Then Quincey filled the glasses, and we drank to her.

I had thought that I could do it easily. I found I could not speak at all. Art saw, and put his hand on my shoulder. There are silences which humiliate, and silences which strengthen. That one did both. Quincey broke it by declaring that if any man present attempted a speech he should be fined a bottle; whereupon Art protested that, as the only successful candidate, he ought to be allowed an election address. We laughed, and the difficulty passed.

After dinner Art gave us his messages. Miss Westenra had charged him to say that she valued our friendship, and hoped that nothing in the new happiness could alter the old fellowship. It was generously meant, and I hope generously received. Quincey answered for us both, but afterwards I found Art alone for a moment and told him plainly that he had won what I would have given my life to win, and that because of this I could never give him less than my loyal friendship. He gripped my hand till the bones nearly met. No more was needed.

This morning work again. Renfield restless during the early hours, but quiet after breakfast. When I entered he was seated at the table, arranging crumbs of bread in little heaps according to size. He did not look up, but said at once:—

“Is Miss Lucy Westenra to be married soon?”

The question was wholly unprompted, and for an instant I must have shown surprise. I asked him why he wished to know.

“Because marriages alter households,” he replied. “And altered households alter meals. It is a chain, Doctor. You should study chains.”

I asked where he had heard Miss Westenra’s name. He smiled with an air of superiority and pointed to the lining of his waistcoat. From it he drew a torn fragment of a society newspaper, upon which some industrious gossip had printed a paragraph connecting the names of the Hon. Arthur Holmwood and Miss Lucy Westenra. The scrap had been wrapped round a parcel sent him by his sister. Simple enough! Yet the sudden hearing of her name in that place jarred upon me more than I care to admit.

I took away the paper, not because it could harm him, but because I could not endure to see it in his hands. This was unscientific and absurd. Must guard against allowing private emotion to enter treatment. Renfield watched me and chuckled.

“Chains,” he said again. “Even doctors are fastened by them.”

Mem.—The man’s faculty for detecting weakness in others is considerable. It is not insight in any extraordinary sense; merely concentrated observation, sharpened by egotism.

Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Miss Lucy Westenra.

“27 May.

“My dear Miss Lucy,—

“Art says I may write, and Jack says that, if I do, I am to remember that civilisation begins where bad jokes end. As I have crossed a considerable part of the world without finding that boundary, I guess I shall have to remain a barbarian.

“We had our dinner last night, and your future lord and master bore himself tolerably well for a man in his condition. At first he tried to talk about everything except the one subject which had brought us together. He gave us the politics of three counties, the odds on two horses, and a full account of a disagreement with a florist. Jack looked as grave as a judge, and I began to fear we should be obliged to drink your health without mentioning your name. But when the wine came Art stood up and said only, ‘To Lucy!’ and then we drank it.

“You must not think, because we made little noise over it, that either of us gave you a half-hearted toast. There are things a man can shout, and things that he must hold steady inside him for fear the words should break. Jack held steady. He is clean grit, and I honour him more than ever. If ever Art requires a friend who will tell him the truth when lies would be pleasanter, or stand beside him when easier company has gone home, he has that friend in Jack Seward.

“As for me, I claim the privileges of an old trail companion. I mean to come when I am wanted, to stay away when I am not, and to keep my eyes open in either case. Art is the happiest man alive, but happiness is a spirited horse, and sometimes a fellow needs friends to help him into the saddle. You will forgive the figure; I was raised where a horse was accepted in conversation as freely as the weather is here.

“Your message was given to us, word for word. Art tried to improve it, but we stopped him. He has already obtained the prize, and cannot expect to make the presentation speech too. Tell him so if he becomes vain.

“May all good fortune follow you both; and when it does not, may you find Jack and me close behind it.

“Your faithful friend,

“QUINCEY P. MORRIS.”

Letter, Miss Lucy Westenra to Miss Mina Murray.

“29 May.

“My dearest Mina,—

“Your letter has made me anxious, although you say so many times that I am not to be anxious that I know you must be anxious yourself. It is horrid of me to be so happy when you are waiting for news, and I wish I could divide my happiness and send you half. Arthur says that foreign doctors are often very strict about letters, especially when a patient has been tired by travelling, and that Jonathan is sure to be home before your answer can reach Klausenburg. Arthur is so comforting. He never says much, but when he has said it one feels that the troublesome thing has been put in its proper place.

“You must come to us sooner if you can. Mamma says you may come whenever you please, and I want you so much that I could almost be wicked enough to hope your school will close for some dreadful but harmless reason. Is there such a thing? Perhaps all the ink might turn to water, and all the copy-books disappear, so that no one could work and every one would have to take a holiday.

“I had a letter from Mr. Morris. I enclose it, for it is so like him and so good that I think you will understand why I cried over it. I showed it to Arthur first, of course. He laughed at the part about the spirited horse, and said Quincey had once tried to mount one from the wrong side after dining with a Spanish officer in Valparaiso. But afterwards he was very quiet, and said that a man was rich indeed who had two such friends.

“Oh, Mina, I am so happy! I am ashamed to write it again when you are troubled, but happiness will out, just as tears will. Arthur came yesterday, and mamma left us alone after tea. We talked of houses, and servants, and visits, and money, and all the sensible things which engaged people ought to talk about; but somehow none of them seemed sensible when Arthur said them, because every word meant that we were to be together. I asked him if men were ever frightened when they were going to be married, and he said, ‘Only that the day may never come.’ Wasn’t that sweet?

“Now I must be practical for you. Arthur has promised to ask his father’s secretary whether inquiries can be made through the proper offices abroad. He says there are consuls whose business it is to help English travellers. So you see, dear, something is being done, and you are not merely waiting.

“Write the moment there is news, even if it is only one line.

“Your ever-loving

“LUCY.”

Mina Murray’s Journal.

30 May.—Still no answer from Herr Weiss. Mr. Hawkins sent for me this afternoon. I found him in his library, with Jonathan’s last business letter open before him. He looked older than when I saw him a month ago, but spoke with his usual kindness. He said that Jonathan had completed the principal business entrusted to him, and that any remaining delay could not seriously matter to the office. When I showed him Herr Weiss’s letter he read it twice, examining the postmark and paper.

He did not say that there was anything wrong, but asked why a secretary at an hotel should write instead of a doctor. I had thought the same thing, though I had not dared to put it into words. He then dictated letters to the British Consul at Klausenburg and to the proprietor of the hotel. I took them down in shorthand and typed them myself. It was a comfort to be useful; the keys seemed to beat out, “We shall know—we shall know—we shall know.”

Mr. Hawkins said I had a clear head, and that Jonathan was fortunate. I nearly cried at that, but did not, for I wished to deserve his praise.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

(Kept in phonograph)

31 May.—Renfield has passed from excitement into gloom. Refuses occupation, but eats normally. Asked whether chains could be broken by pulling at both ends. I replied that it depended upon the strength of the chain.

“No,” he said. “It depends upon who holds the ends.”

Would not explain further. His conversation is full of such verbal traps, constructed less from delusion than from delight in seeing another man step into them. I have ordered more outdoor exercise and less access to printed scraps. There is danger in making too much of an ingenious phrase merely because it comes from a madman.

Telegram, British Consul, Klausenburg, to Miss Mina Murray.

31 May.

No Jonathan Harker lodged there. No Friedrich Weiss employed. Letter is fraudulent. Inquiries proceeding.

Lady Russell and Mr Shepherd came accordingly to Kellynch Hall on the following morning; and as each had been desired to consider the subject separately, each came prepared with a plan, and with some reasonable expectation of being listened to. Lady Russell had passed an anxious evening over figures which she disliked, and retrenchments which she feared; while Mr Shepherd, more accustomed to both, had arranged every particular with the readiness of a man who could reduce another person’s establishment without losing an hour’s sleep.

They were received in the library. Sir Walter sat with the Baronetage on a table beside him, though not open; Elizabeth had a paper and pencil, as if prepared for business; and Anne, who had not been asked to attend, was there at Lady Russell’s request. Mr Shepherd was all deference and activity. He had brought accounts, statements, estimates, and abstracts; papers which Sir Walter looked at with the distrust of a man who suspects every written sum of being intended to affront him.

Lady Russell was first called upon. Her scheme had been formed with an earnest desire to preserve Kellynch and the credit of its owner, and, if it could not be called severe, it was at least sincere. She proposed that the annual visit to London should be given up for three years; that the number of horses should be reduced; that the table should be less profuse when there was no company; that no alteration of furniture, plate, or equipage should be thought of; that the great dinner to the neighbourhood should not be repeated; and that some diminution should be attempted in the indoor establishment, wherever it could be made without hardship to old servants.

She spoke with delicacy, but she spoke plainly. “I am afraid,” said she, “that nothing which is not felt can be effectual. There must be a real difference in the mode of living, or there can be no real improvement in the circumstances.”

Sir Walter heard her to the end, because Lady Russell was Lady Russell, and because he had expected something better.

“Give up London!” he exclaimed. “My dear Lady Russell, you cannot be serious. What is to become of Elizabeth? What is to become of myself? Three years! Why, in three years every creature of consequence might forget that we existed. Reduce the horses too! And discharge servants who have the honour of living in this house! It is perfectly impossible. You would have Kellynch look like the seat of some plain country gentleman with five hundred a year.”

Lady Russell endeavoured to distinguish between plainness and degradation; but Sir Walter would not hear of the distinction.

“There is no dignity,” said he, “in being ill served. A bad dinner is a bad dinner, whether eaten by a baronet or a butcher; but it is infinitely more disgraceful in the baronet, because more people have a right to expect better of him.”

Elizabeth, though she had looked grave at the mention of London, observed that perhaps the great dinner might be omitted.

“The great dinner,” returned her father, “is the only part of the plan which has common sense in it; but as it is the only dinner at which several people see the plate together, it is the very one which cannot be spared.”

Lady Russell’s plan was therefore rejected. Sir Walter declared that it would deprive them of every advantage of fortune while leaving them all its responsibilities; and Elizabeth, who had hoped that numbers might produce some new source of income, was disappointed to find that they only proved the old sources of expense.

Mr Shepherd was then desired to speak.

He began with assurances. Nobody could feel more strongly than himself the importance of maintaining the consequence of Kellynch Hall. Nobody could be more sensible of what was due to an ancient family. He would be the last man in Somersetshire to recommend any thing unbecoming Sir Walter Elliot. But facts were facts; demands were demands; and though a gentleman’s creditors might be very proud of supplying him, they were sometimes so deficient in proper feeling as to wish to be paid.

His plan was shorter than Lady Russell’s, and more disagreeable. He proposed the immediate sale of two carriage horses and three saddle horses; the dismissal of the second footman and one groom; the shutting up of the eastern apartments, except when visitors made them necessary; the discontinuance of all improvements in the grounds; and a fixed reduction in the weekly expenditure of the house. He had even presumed to set down the sums which ought not to be exceeded.

Sir Walter’s colour rose as he listened.

“Shut up the eastern apartments! The very rooms which contain the best mirrors in the house!”

“They might be carefully covered, Sir Walter.”

“Covered! And of what use is a mirror covered? Sell the bay horses too! Mr Shepherd, you forget yourself. They were admired by Lord L—— only last autumn.”

Mr Shepherd bowed. “That circumstance, Sir Walter, would undoubtedly increase their value.”

“Their value! Their value is in my possessing them. I do not keep horses to discover what another man will give for them.”

The second plan was rejected as decidedly as the first. Sir Walter would neither diminish his appearance under Lady Russell’s regulation, nor his household under Mr Shepherd’s. He had asked for economy, but had not supposed that economy meant doing without any thing. He thought it extraordinary that persons of understanding should confound retrenchment with privation.

There was a silence. Lady Russell looked distressed; Mr Shepherd looked down upon his papers, but with the patience of one who knew that necessity could repeat an argument oftener than vanity could refuse it; and Elizabeth, drawing lines upon the margin of her sheet, said, “There must be some other method.”

Anne had listened with increasing concern. She had long understood enough of their situation to know that small savings, even if accepted, would not be sufficient; and she knew too well the dispositions before her to hope that any proposal could be welcome. Yet there was something in the uselessness of the discussion, in the solemn assembling of four persons to advise what the fifth was determined not to practise, which gave her courage.

“If we are to remain at Kellynch,” said she, “I believe we must do considerably more than either Lady Russell or Mr Shepherd has proposed.”

Every eye was turned towards her. Sir Walter’s was astonished; Elizabeth’s cold; Lady Russell’s encouraging.

“We ought not merely to give up London for three years,” Anne continued, “but for as long as the debts remain. We ought to sell the carriage horses, and keep only such horses as are necessary; to reduce the servants wherever it can be done justly; to receive no company at dinner beyond what our income allows; to buy nothing which can be delayed; and to have every account brought in and examined monthly. There should be a certain sum for each part of the establishment, and it should never be exceeded. The improvements must cease entirely. We might open fewer rooms, and live in a smaller part of the house. And the charities ought not to be cut off; they are not the cause of the difficulty, and would save too little to justify the loss.”

Sir Walter stared at her.

Anne, though colouring, went on. “If the object is really to preserve Kellynch, every lesser consideration must give way. It would be painful at first; but there might be credit in doing it steadily. In seven years, perhaps sooner, much might be recovered. If we do only what is easy, nothing will be recovered.”

Lady Russell could not approve every particular; she thought Anne demanded too much, and feared the effect of such seclusion upon Elizabeth. Mr Shepherd, however, looked at her with sudden respect, and began moving his figures nearer, as if they had at last found a person capable of understanding them.

Sir Walter was preparing an answer in which “absurdity,” “indelicacy,” and “impossibility” were likely to bear a distinguished part, when Elizabeth spoke.

“I think Anne is right.”

The surprise was general. Anne herself could scarcely believe that she had heard correctly.

“I think,” Elizabeth repeated, “that if any thing is to be done, it had better be done completely. There is no advantage in appearing to save, and being still told that we are in debt. I would give up London, if it were understood that we did so from choice; and I would have no more improvements. The south walk is quite finished. We might receive fewer people, and only those whom it is worth while to receive.”

Her motives were not precisely Anne’s. She had been struck by the mention of seven years, and had instantly formed a picture of the debts extinguished, Kellynch unimpaired, and herself still presiding there with increased consequence from having restored its affairs. A vigorous economy, dignified by her own management, appeared less humiliating than a succession of counsels and remonstrances. She could fancy it spoken of as Miss Elliot’s plan; and whatever could be known as Miss Elliot’s plan acquired some elegance in her eyes.

But her support, from whatever source, was valuable; and Anne looked at her with gratitude.

Sir Walter did not.

“Elizabeth!” cried he. “You cannot mean to shut yourself up in Somersetshire, and see nobody, and wear old gowns, and sit in three rooms with the furniture covered?”

“I said nothing of old gowns, sir.”

“Anne did, I dare say, or meant it. Fixed sums! Monthly accounts! A smaller part of the house! One might as well inhabit the steward’s cottage. And as for the charities, I am amazed that Anne should prefer every poor person in the parish to her own family.”

Anne gently denied having done so; but denial was useless where accusation was convenient.

Mr Shepherd perceived that the moment required a new direction. He cleared his throat, arranged his papers once more, and addressed Sir Walter with even more than his usual humility.

“There is another possibility, Sir Walter, which I have hitherto been unwilling to name. It is not a measure to be urged; far from it. It is merely one of those arrangements which are sometimes adopted by families of the highest distinction, without the smallest injury to their consequence. Indeed, in certain circumstances, the consequence may be rather increased than diminished. A principal residence, well preserved, well occupied, and yielding a considerable return—”

“What do you mean?” said Sir Walter.

Mr Shepherd hesitated only long enough to make his submission conspicuous. “I mean, Sir Walter, that Kellynch Hall might possibly be let to a tenant.”

The word had scarcely escaped him before Sir Walter rose.

“A tenant! Kellynch Hall let! I desire that the word may never be spoken again in my presence. Never, Mr Shepherd. I am astonished that any man who has transacted the business of this family should be capable of pronouncing it.”

Mr Shepherd bowed very low.

“To suppose,” Sir Walter continued, “that I would admit some unknown person to sleep beneath my roof, walk upon my staircase, look into my mirrors, and perhaps give orders in the very room where I am now standing! No. Kellynch is not a common house, to be advertised and occupied by any body who can pay for it. The Elliots have lived here too long to be displaced by money.”

Lady Russell attempted to observe that no displacement had been advised as a present measure; but he was too deeply offended for qualification. Elizabeth, who had supported Anne’s plan because it left her mistress of Kellynch, looked as indignant as her father. Even Anne felt the pain of the suggestion, though she could not think its pain an answer to its prudence.

Mr Shepherd protested that he had only mentioned what his duty compelled him not entirely to conceal. He had intended no disrespect; he had named no person; he had proposed no place for Sir Walter’s removal; he had merely stated a possibility. But Sir Walter would allow no explanation. The subject was closed, and must remain closed.

At this moment the door opened, and a servant brought in a letter for Miss Anne Elliot. It had been sent from Uppercross by a man who was waiting for an answer.

Anne knew Mary’s hand, and opened it immediately.

“MY DEAR ANNE,

“I am very unwell, and have been so all the morning. I do not know what is the matter with me, but I am sure something is, for I have had such a trembling and such a weight upon my spirits as nobody can understand who does not suffer as I do. Charles is gone out, though I told him I was not fit to be left, and the children are so noisy that my head is quite distracted. I wish you would come to Uppercross directly, for I am certain I shall be worse if I am alone; and you always know better than any body what ought to be done for me. Pray do not say you cannot be spared, for Elizabeth has papa, and Lady Russell is so often with you; and I have nobody. If you do not come to-day, come to-morrow early. I am sure the air here would do you good too, for you looked very thin when I saw you last.

“Your affectionate sister,

“MARY MUSGROVE.”

The letter was handed to Lady Russell, and from her to Elizabeth. Sir Walter, on hearing that Mary was unwell, inquired whether she had any thing infectious; and being assured that there was no reason to suppose it, observed that Mary was always fancying herself ill when she had been too much in the sun.

“She asks for Anne,” said Elizabeth. “Anne had better go.”

Lady Russell looked doubtful. She knew Mary’s illnesses, and she knew Anne’s usefulness; but she also knew that Anne’s usefulness was the very reason for her being continually surrendered.

“I can go to-morrow morning,” said Anne. “The man may carry word that I shall be with her before noon.”

“It will be the best arrangement,” Elizabeth replied. “We shall be occupied here.”

Sir Walter made no objection. Anne’s absence could create little inconvenience which he was likely to perceive; and Uppercross was near enough to make her departure appear of no importance. Mr Shepherd seized the opportunity of withdrawing with his papers, Lady Russell soon followed, and the consultation ended without one retrenchment determined upon, one expense resigned, or one creditor made easier.

The rest of the day passed with very little reference to what had occurred. Sir Walter was too much offended to discuss it, and Elizabeth too much unsettled to renew her support of a plan which had produced no admiration. Anne spoke once of the accounts, but received no answer. By evening, the library wore its usual tranquil appearance; the papers had disappeared, the Baronetage was again open, and every visible trace of distress was removed.

Anne, alone in her room, prepared what was necessary for the morning. Mary’s complaints did not alarm her; but Mary’s wish, unreasonable as it often was in expression, had still the claim of a sister’s dependence. She resolved to go, and felt some relief in the certainty of being useful at Uppercross. Yet her thoughts returned continually to the morning—to Lady Russell’s anxious moderation, Mr Shepherd’s unwelcome truth, Elizabeth’s unexpected support, and her father’s immoveable pride. She had proposed every sacrifice she could imagine while preserving their home; and nothing had been accepted. The house was quiet, the summer evening fair, and Kellynch still theirs in all the dignity of possession; but its debts remained wholly unsettled, and Anne could discover no means by which they were ever to be otherwise.

It was perhaps an hour after this, when my wife had gone indoors and I still lingered at the garden gate, that I saw the falling star.

At first it appeared no more than a greenish point low in the eastern sky, moving with extraordinary swiftness and increasing in brightness as it moved. It left behind it a luminous streak, pale and tremulous, which remained visible for several seconds. Then the light became dazzlingly white, and the thing passed behind the pine trees towards Ottershaw. Almost immediately there came a glow upon the under surfaces of the clouds, though the night overhead was clear, and after an interval that seemed longer than it could really have been, a dull concussion shook the air.

The windows of our house rattled. Somewhere a dog began barking furiously, and another answered it from the direction of Chertsey. I heard a man call out in the road.

My wife came back to the door.

“What was that?” she asked.

“A meteor,” I said. “A very large one. It must have fallen near Ottershaw.”

For some minutes we stood listening. There was no second sound, and presently the dogs ceased their clamour. A faint luminous vapour remained above the trees, but this also slowly faded. I remember that I was more curious than alarmed. The spectacle had been magnificent, but the idea that it might bear any relation to the flashes upon Mars did not enter my mind. The interval between cause and consequence was too great for imagination; the mind does not readily unite events separated by millions of miles and many days.

I went in at last, and for a while lay awake, thinking of the enormous velocity with which such a body must have entered the atmosphere, and of the heat produced by its arrested motion. Then ordinary sleep took possession of me.

I was awakened shortly after six by the sound of voices in the lane. A milk-cart had stopped there, and the milkman was telling our neighbour’s gardener that a star had fallen into the old flooded sand-pit beyond the Ottershaw road. He had seen smoke rising over the common, and a labourer going early to Chertsey had found splintered trees and a great bank of earth flung across the path. I dressed hastily, swallowed a cup of tea, and set out.

The morning was already warm, with that clean, fresh brightness which sometimes follows a hot night. The hedges were wet with dew; spiders’ webs hung among the furze like little nets of silver, and innumerable larks sang overhead. Against this pleasant familiar world the account of the fallen star seemed absurdly theatrical. Yet as I approached the common I encountered increasing signs of its reality. Two men on bicycles passed me, talking excitedly. A boy came running towards Ottershaw with his boots muddy to the ankles, and shouted as he went that there was “a great boiler” in the pit. Presently I smelt a faint scorched odour, like damp straw burning.

The old sand-pit lay in a hollow where the workings had been abandoned for several years. The winter rains had flooded its deeper part, and even in summer a broad, shallow pool remained there, fringed with rushes and coarse grass. The falling body had struck the eastern bank obliquely, tearing a wide passage through the furze and young pines, and ploughing up the sand in a prodigious furrow. At the end of this furrow the bank had collapsed into the water, so that earth, shattered roots, and broken branches were heaped confusedly about the pool.

The object itself lay half-submerged near the farther margin.

At my first sight of it I experienced a disappointment so curious that I recall it even now. After the splendour of its descent I had expected some black, jagged mass, perhaps glowing in places like iron from a furnace. Instead, through clouds of steam that rose continually from the disturbed water, I saw a smooth, enormous body of a dull grey colour, rounded like the end of a cylinder. Perhaps thirty yards of it were visible, though the steam and the brown water made its exact dimensions uncertain. Its upper surface was incrusted here and there with a black, scaly substance, and water running over it hissed softly and vanished.

A little group of people stood upon the torn bank. Among them, bareheaded and with his coat collar turned up, was Ogilvy. He had a stick in one hand and a pocket lens in the other, and was disputing with a tall labourer who persisted in calling the thing a shell.

“It is no more a shell than you are,” Ogilvy said. “It is a meteorite—a meteorite of an unusual form, certainly, but an ordinary celestial body nevertheless.”

He recognised me and beckoned impatiently.

“You saw it fall?”

I told him what I had seen.

“Precisely,” he said. “The luminous train, the concussion, the incandescence—all perfectly usual. Its shape is singular, but there are crystalline and rotational influences we do not yet understand. It may have broken from a much larger mass.”

I went down the sandy slope until the heat stopped me. Even at a distance of several yards my face and hands felt scorched, and the air above the object trembled as it trembles above a road in summer.

“Ordinary!” I said. “Do ordinary meteorites come shaped like cylinders?”

“You have seen only one end.”

“It is smooth.”

“So are many fused surfaces.”

“And hollow, perhaps.”

He turned upon me sharply.

“What evidence have you that it is hollow?”

I had none, and said so. Nevertheless, I pointed out that the thing’s sides, where the black crust had broken away, appeared too regular to be natural. There was a faint suggestion of parallel lines upon them, and about the visible end ran what looked like a narrow ridge.

Ogilvy laughed at this. He was excited and tired, and his laugh had an irritable note.

“My dear fellow,” he said, “a thing falls out of the sky, and at once you require it to be artificial. If a brick fell from the moon you would call it a message. That ridge is a fracture, and the lines are cooling marks. Nature is under no obligation to make her meteorites rough for your convenience.”

“But its size—”

“Is remarkable.”

“And its direction?”

“Also remarkable. Nothing more. We must wait until it cools, pump out the pit, and examine it properly. Until then all this talk of shells and machines is the merest sensationalism.”

By this time perhaps twenty persons had collected. There were two labourers, the milkman I had heard in the lane, several boys, a young woman carrying a basket, and a gentleman from Chertsey who had ridden over on a grey horse. Everyone spoke at once, and everyone had a different account of the fall. One boy declared that he had seen the object turning over and over in the air; another that it had struck the ground with a noise like a cannon; the labourer maintained that voices had been heard beneath the water. This last assertion made Ogilvy extremely angry.

“Steam,” he said. “You heard steam escaping between the stones.”

“It was knocking,” insisted the man.

“Stones settling.”

“It knocked three times.”

“Then three stones settled.”

The steam rose in slow white coils and drifted across the pit. Wherever it thinned, the smooth grey curve became visible, monstrous and inexplicable among the rushes and yellow sand. I found myself regarding it with a vague discomfort. There was no movement, no sound beyond the gentle seething of the water, yet its very regularity gave it an appearance of purpose. It seemed less like a thing that had fallen than like a thing that had arrived.

I remained there for nearly an hour. Ogilvy sent one of the boys to summon Henderson, the London journalist, who happened to be staying in Woking, and attempted to prevent the crowd from descending the bank. As more people came, however, his authority diminished. The news had spread with extraordinary rapidity. Carts stopped in the road; cyclists left their machines against the hedges; children, released or escaped from breakfast, came trooping over the common. The early rumours magnified the object at every telling. It was a fallen planet, a piece of the moon, a new sort of bomb, a Russian engine, a treasure-ship from the stars.

At last I returned home, partly because I was hungry and partly to tell my wife. I found her at breakfast, and her interest in my account was much greater than I had expected.

“You actually saw it?” she said.

“As much as the steam permitted.”

“And Mr. Ogilvy says it is a meteorite?”

“He insists upon it.”

“Then I should like to see it.”

I objected that the way was rough and the place already crowded, but this only confirmed her intention. Within half an hour we were walking together towards the common.

The road now wore the aspect of a holiday morning. People were going in twos and threes in the same direction, and every passer-by had some fresh piece of intelligence. A butcher’s boy told us the meteorite was made of silver; an old gentleman assured my wife that it had poisoned the pool; and a woman with a perambulator said soldiers had been sent for. None of these things was true. The little shops at Ottershaw had emptied themselves into the road, and a publican had set a boy to sell ginger beer and biscuits from a hand-cart near the entrance to the common.

My wife became silent when she saw the scar among the trees. The sunlight, now high and powerful, shone full upon the pit, and the steam had diminished; consequently the object appeared larger and more definite than before. The water about it was still bubbling in places, and dead fish had risen among the reeds. A wide strip of the grey surface was exposed, and the narrow ridge about its end was unmistakable. I noticed, too, a series of shallow grooves, perfectly equal in their spacing, that disappeared beneath the muddy water.

Ogilvy was still there, stained with sand and perspiration, and more dogmatic than ever. Henderson had arrived and was taking notes. On seeing me with my wife, Ogilvy came up the bank.

“You perceive,” I said, pointing to the grooves, “that nature has been unusually mechanical.”

He glanced at my wife, as though appealing to her against my obstinacy.

“Cooling contractions,” he said. “The whole surface has been fused. As the outer layer hardened, it cracked with a certain regularity. You may observe analogous forms in basalt.”

“Basalt does not commonly fall in cylinders.”

“We do not yet know that it is a cylinder.”

My wife asked whether it was dangerous.

“Not in the least,” said Ogilvy. “Except from the heat. In a few hours it will be possible to approach it. By to-morrow, perhaps, we shall know its composition.”

His confidence reassured her, though it did not altogether reassure me. We moved with the crowd along the edge of the pit, where two local constables were now attempting, with indifferent success, to keep a space clear. The heat still came from the object in waves, but the morning breeze made it deceptive. At one moment one felt scarcely anything; at the next the face tingled as before an opened oven.

It was this uncertainty that caused the accident.

A young fellow in a striped waistcoat, one of those brisk, incredulous lads who must test everything with their own hands, had pushed his way down the bank. He carried a walking-stick, and with this he struck the grey surface lightly. The stick gave out a sharp metallic sound, clearer than any stone should have made. At this the people nearest him cried out, and Ogilvy shouted to him to come back.

The young man looked up, grinning.

“Cold enough now,” he said.

Before anyone could stop him he stooped and laid the palm of his hand upon the object.

He screamed and sprang backwards so violently that he fell in the water. The crowd surged away from the bank, and for a few seconds there was a general confusion. Two labourers dragged him out. The skin of his palm and fingers had whitened instantly, and then reddened in patches; he shook his hand and cursed and sobbed like a child. My wife turned pale. A doctor from Chertsey, who had arrived among the later sightseers, took charge of him, wrapped the hand in a wet handkerchief, and led him away.

The incident produced a temporary sobriety. The constables stretched a rope between stakes, and people became willing to remain behind it. Ogilvy, though shaken, used the accident to support his argument.

“You see,” he said to me. “Retained heat. Nothing could be more characteristic of a large meteorite.”

“Nothing,” I replied, “except the sound it made.”

He pretended not to hear me.

It was now near eleven. The sun beat upon the common, mingling the smell of crushed bracken and hot sand with the burnt, mineral odour from the pit. The crowd had grown to several hundreds and was increasing every minute. Vehicles stood three deep along the road. There were tradesmen from Chertsey, clerks and artisans from Woking, gardeners and servants from the villas, mothers with children, bicyclists, loafers, and a sprinkling of well-dressed people who had come out of curiosity after breakfast. A photographer had planted his camera upon a folding tripod, and a man was already offering printed handbills purporting to describe the “Meteoric Wonder of Ottershaw,” though he could have known no more of it than we did.

Rumour, checked at one point, broke out at another. Someone said the Admiralty had claimed the object; someone else that it contained a new explosive. Henderson had gone to telegraph his paper, and Ogilvy was trying to organise men and ropes for an examination when the heat should abate. Through all the noise the object lay immovable, its lower half drowned in brown water, while the last wisps of steam faded above it.

My wife had recovered from the sight of the burned man, but I saw that the press of people troubled her. Boys were scrambling in the trees, horses shied at the smell, and each new arrival forced the spectators nearer the rope. I urged her to return home.

“At least come with me,” she said.

“I shall stay only a little longer. Ogilvy may discover something as soon as it cools.”

She looked down at the great grey curve, and then at me.

“I do not like it,” she said.

I laughed, though I shared more of her feeling than I admitted. I told her that in broad daylight, with half Surrey gathering round it and two constables on guard, there could be no conceivable danger. After some persuasion she consented to go. I watched her pass out of the crowd and cross the sunlit common towards the Ottershaw road. Once she turned and raised her hand to me; then the moving people hid her from sight.

The clocks of Chertsey were striking noon. I remained beside the rope, with Ogilvy below me upon the sand and the crowd thickening continually at my back.

Mr. Franklin’s seven-and-sixpence carried me back, at one jump, to the time when he was a little boy at school, and when I had supplied him, unknown to his father, with the money necessary to repair a window which he had broken, unknown to his schoolmaster. The debt had been standing between us for something like fifteen years. There are men who forget a kindness in fifteen minutes, and there are men who remember a loan in fifteen years. Put that down in Mr. Franklin’s favour, and don’t interrupt me.

“You have grown, sir,” I said, when he had left me breath enough to speak with.

“And you haven’t,” says Mr. Franklin. “There is the advantage of beginning at the right end, Betteredge. You were old when I was young, and you are old still.”

Being reminded by this foreign way of putting it that I was sitting on the sand, I held out my hand. Mr. Franklin pulled me up as if I had been a child, and brushed the back of my coat with his gloves.

“You expected me at six,” he said. “And here I am at two. Do you know why?”

“I know why most young gentlemen come four hours before they are wanted,” I answered. “A woman is at the bottom of it.”

“Wrong for once,” says Mr. Franklin. “A letter is at the bottom of it.”

He put his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat, and drew out a folded sheet of paper. The outside had been directed to him at his hotel in London. The inside was written in a cramped hand, without date, and without any signature at the end. He gave it to me to read. Here it is, copied word for word:

“SIR,—If you still purpose travelling into Yorkshire on Thursday, you are advised to alter the hour of your journey, and to reach Lady Verinder’s house before the time named in your arrangements. You have been watched in London, and you will be watched on the road. The thing committed to your charge is known to have left the keeping in which it has remained since the death of its former owner. Do not part with it. Do not trust it to any person on the journey. Place it, immediately on your arrival, under lock and key in the strongest room in the house. Above all, let no delay which you can prevent leave it exposed after nightfall.

“This warning is given by one who has no claim on your confidence, and who asks for none. Whether you profit by it or neglect it is your own affair.”

“There!” says Mr. Franklin, when I had done. “What do you think of that?”

I handed the letter back to him. “It’s written in good English, sir,” I said. “And that is more than can be said for most letters.”

Mr. Franklin laughed. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” I said. “The person who wrote it has a remarkable dislike to signing his name.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Here I behaved with a discretion which I recommend to all old servants who find themselves suddenly trusted with the secrets of young gentlemen. I asked no questions. Whether I felt any curiosity is another matter. A servant who has lived in a family for fifty years may be compared to a well in the courtyard. Everybody drops things into him, and nobody thinks of looking to see what is at the bottom.

Mr. Franklin folded the letter and put it back in his pocket.

“You remember my uncle Herncastle?” he said.

At that name, the thought of Penelope’s story, and of what she had heard on the terrace, came into my head. I looked hard at Mr. Franklin. He looked hard at me.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well, sir,” I answered, “I remember Colonel Herncastle. And I remember something else which happened this morning.”

I told him, as shortly as I could, what my daughter had reported to me. When I came to the words used by the little boy—about the English gentleman travelling to the house, and having It about him—Mr. Franklin’s face changed. His smile went away, and he laid his hand, for a moment, on the breast of his coat.

“You are sure Penelope repeated the words correctly?” he said.

“My daughter has her faults,” I answered. “But inventing lies is not one of them.”

“And the people who made the boy speak—where are they?”

“Gone, sir.”

“Which way?”

“I don’t know.”

He turned and looked out over the sea. The tide was creeping smoothly into the bay, and the last of the trembling was passing away over the surface of the Shivering Sand. Mr. Franklin stood silent, with his back towards me.

Now, if you suppose that I connected the warning in the letter with the language repeated by Penelope, you suppose quite right. If you suppose that I knew what the connection was, you suppose quite wrong. There is a great difference between seeing two ends of a string and knowing what knot has tied them together. I saw the two ends. Mr. Franklin, as I privately believed, had the knot in his pocket.

He turned round again, with the careless look restored to his face.

“Betteredge,” he said, “you have a plate-room at the house?”

“Of course we have a plate-room.”

“Strong door?”

“Strong enough to keep honest people out.”

“Good lock?”

“Good enough to keep dishonest people in—if you once catch them there.”

He laughed again, but not so readily as before.

“Come back to the house,” he said. “I have something which I want you to lock up for me till tomorrow morning.”

On our way through the plantation, I asked him the question which had been waiting at the end of my tongue ever since I had read the letter.

“What made you take the warning, sir?”

“I had arranged to leave London by the afternoon train,” he answered. “That letter was put into my hand last night. I slept on it, and started this morning instead.”

“You believed what it said?”

“I believed that the safest course was to act as if it might be true.”

This sounded like foreign caution. An Englishman either believes a thing or doesn’t. When he occupies the middle ground between the two, he has been corrupted by the Continent.

At the edge of the plantation, Mr. Franklin stopped me.

“One word more, Betteredge. My aunt knows that I am bringing something to her house. She doesn’t know that I have received this warning, and I don’t wish her to know it—yet.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And you will say nothing of what Penelope has told you?”

“Very good, sir.”

“And you won’t ask me what you are going to lock up?”

“Sir,” I answered, “when you were ten years old, you trusted me with the schoolmaster’s window. When you are five-and-twenty, I suppose I may be trusted with your parcel.”

He took my arm in the old affectionate way, and we went on together.

We had hardly reached the back court before Penelope came hurrying out to meet us. She made her curtsey to Mr. Franklin, and welcomed him home. Having done that, she looked at me with a face which plainly said, “I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s Rosanna,” says Penelope. “She hasn’t come back.”

“Not come back?”

“No. Nancy saw her at the turn beyond the plantation. She wasn’t coming towards the house. She had taken the path to Cobb’s Hole.”

This was strange enough. Rosanna had left us, to all appearance, in a hurry to get indoors; and Rosanna had gone the other way.

“Did Nancy speak to her?” I asked.

“She called after her. Rosanna never turned her head.”

Mr. Franklin, who had been listening, looked towards the plantation.

“Is that the girl we saw at the sands?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” answered Penelope.

“Perhaps she has gone to see a friend,” I suggested. “She has leave to go to Cobb’s Hole when her work permits.”

“Her work doesn’t permit,” says Penelope. “And she has had no dinner.”

“Then keep hers hot,” I said. “A woman may forget her duty, and a woman may forget her dinner; but she seldom forgets both for long.”

Penelope looked as if she had more to say. Catching Mr. Franklin’s eye, she thought better of it, and went back into the house.

I took our young gentleman round to the front. His luggage had not yet arrived; he had travelled faster than his portmanteaus, which is a thing I have always considered to be against nature. A man’s shirts and stockings are part of the man, and ought to keep up with him.

My lady had returned by that time. I found her in the small morning-room, looking over some letters which had arrived in her absence. She rose, with that hearty grace of hers which made a welcome from Lady Verinder worth having, and held out both hands to her nephew.

“My dear Franklin!” she said. “This is a surprise. We didn’t expect you for hours.”

He kissed her, and answered that a change in his plans had brought him down by an earlier train.

“I am glad of anything that brings you sooner,” says my lady. “You look well, Franklin—and terribly foreign.”

“That is Betteredge’s opinion too,” he said. “Between you, I shall be made an Englishman again before the week is out.”

My lady’s face grew grave.

“There is one thing,” she said, “which we must understand before you have been an hour in the house.”

Mr. Franklin bowed.

“You are here in consequence of Colonel Herncastle’s will,” my lady went on. “I know that. But Colonel Herncastle himself is a subject which I forbid to be discussed under my roof. Whatever business his death has imposed on you may be done. His name, his life, and the causes which separated him from his family are to remain untouched. I have reasons for this which I shall not explain, and which I expect you to respect.”

Mr. Franklin took her hand again.

“My dear aunt,” he said, “your wish is enough. Colonel Herncastle shall not be discussed by me in your house.”

My lady thanked him. The cloud passed off her face, and she began asking him a dozen questions about his father, his travels, and his plans, all in a breath. Seeing that I was no longer wanted, I slipped away.

Five minutes afterwards Mr. Franklin joined me in my sitting-room. He had a small packet in his hand, wrapped in stout paper, tied crosswise with string, and sealed at the knots. It was flat enough to lie easily in his palm, and small enough to go into the inner breast-pocket of his coat. Beyond that, I can tell you nothing about it. I never handled a thing which told me less of itself.

“Here is what I spoke of,” he said. “Will you lock it in the plate-room, and keep the key yourself?”

“Till tomorrow morning?”

“Till I ask you for it tomorrow morning.”

I took the packet. It was heavier than I expected; but many innocent things are heavy, including suet pudding, when you have had too much of it.

“Would you like to see it put away, sir?” I asked.

“No. I trust you.”

There are compliments which make a man proud, and compliments which make him uncomfortable. That one did both.

I led the way to the plate-room. The door opened out of the passage beyond the servants’ hall, and was of solid oak, iron-bound. Inside, the family plate stood in baize-lined drawers and cupboards, under the protection of locks enough to have satisfied the Bank of England. I opened the innermost cupboard, cleared a place behind a chased salver, put the packet down, shut the cupboard, locked it, shut the outer door, locked that, and placed both keys on the ring which I carried in my trousers-pocket.

There the matter ended, so far as my hands were concerned. I had received the packet sealed, and I had locked it away sealed. I had not learnt what was in it; and if I had been offered five pounds to guess, I should have kept my character for honesty by refusing the money.

At dinner-time Rosanna’s place in the servants’ hall was still empty.

Penelope came to me again afterwards. No message had arrived from Cobb’s Hole. Nancy had kept the dinner warm until the meat dried at the edges and the pudding became fit for building purposes. Still no Rosanna.

“Shall I tell my lady?” Penelope asked.

“Not yet,” I said. “Rosanna is five-and-twenty years old. Give her till dark.”

The afternoon wore on. Mr. Franklin’s luggage arrived, and Mr. Franklin himself moved about the house with all his old restlessness, now talking to my lady, now examining the pictures, now appearing at the stable, and now vanishing nobody knew where. Once he met me in the hall and asked, “All safe?” I touched the key-ring in my pocket. He nodded and passed on.

At sunset I sent the boy as far as the first houses of Cobb’s Hole. He came back with word that Rosanna had been seen in the village, going in the direction of the cottage belonging to the fisherman’s wife whom she sometimes visited. That relieved Penelope. It did not altogether relieve me. A person who goes to see a friend commonly says so before starting—unless the friend is an excuse and not a reason.

The evening closed in quietly. The sea-wind dropped; the windows stood open; and the house, after the bustle of Mr. Franklin’s arrival, settled down into its customary ways. Ten o’clock came, and no Rosanna. Half-past ten, and no message.

I made my last round, tried the doors, looked to the windows, and stopped at the plate-room. The key turned firmly; the door was fast. I felt the smaller key on the ring, and knew that the inner cupboard was fast too.

After that I went out to the back court, carrying my old friend Robinson Crusoe under my arm. The moon was rising over the roof, and my beehive chair stood waiting for me in its accustomed place. I sat down, opened the book at random, and found Crusoe keeping watch, with his powder dry and his guns ready, against dangers which had not yet shown themselves.

There I was, late that evening, with Robinson Crusoe on my knee, and the sealed packet locked away in the plate-room behind me. The house was quiet; the night was quiet; and Rosanna Spearman was still not back.

When she awakened the train had stopped, and Mrs. Medlock was shaking her by the arm.

“Come, wake up!” she said. “We’re here, and there’s no time for sitting and dreaming. Get your feet down and let me put your cloak about you. It’s cold enough to freeze an Indian child to the bone.”

Mary stood up stiffly and allowed the cloak to be fastened. The lamp in the railway carriage burned dimly, and beyond the wet window all was blackness, except where two or three lights shone upon the little station platform. The rain had ceased, but the wind made a rushing sound about the roof and shook the doors in their frames.

Mrs. Medlock gathered together her parcels and called sharply to a porter. Then she stepped down, and Mary followed her.

There was scarcely any one upon the platform. A porter with a lantern was taking out the luggage, and a tall man stood a few yards away beneath one of the lamps. He wore a long dark travelling coat, and the brim of his hat was pulled low over his face. At first Mary noticed only that one of his shoulders seemed higher than the other. Then Mrs. Medlock saw him and gave a start so sudden that she nearly dropped the parcel she carried.

“Mr. Craven!” she exclaimed.

The man turned his head.

“Yes,” he said.

His voice was low and tired, and he spoke as if even the one word had cost him some effort. He came nearer, and the light fell upon his face. It was not an old face, but it looked worn and unhappy. It was colourless, and the dark eyes seemed much too large because they were sunk deep under the brows. Mary knew at once that this was her uncle. She looked at the crooked line of his shoulders with grave curiosity, though she remembered that she had been taught it was rude to stare.

Mrs. Medlock seemed quite flurried.

“We did not expect you, sir,” she said. “They told me you were to be away until Thursday.”

“I returned sooner,” answered Mr. Craven.

He looked at Mary then. It was not an unkind look, but it was such a strange, absent one that she felt he scarcely saw her at all.

“This is the child?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. This is Miss Mary Lennox.”

Mary waited. She thought perhaps she ought to make a curtsey, but no one had told her to do it, so she merely stood still with her thin hands under her cloak.

Mr. Craven’s eyes rested upon her for another moment.

“You are tired,” he said.

“I was asleep,” Mary answered.

He made a slight movement which might have meant anything, and turned away.

“The carriage is outside,” he said to Mrs. Medlock. “Bring her.”

That was all. He did not kiss Mary or put out his hand to her or say that he was glad she had come. She had not expected him to do any of these things, and if he had attempted them she would probably have drawn back stiffly; but for some reason she felt rather angry when he walked away without looking at her again.

“He is queer,” she thought. “And he is not polite.”

The carriage was a large closed one, and two strong horses stood before it, tossing their heads when the wind swept across the open space beyond the station. Mr. Craven entered first and took the corner farthest from the lamp. Mrs. Medlock pushed Mary in after him and then climbed in herself. The luggage was fastened behind, the door was shut, and they drove away.

For some time no one spoke. Mr. Craven sat with his face turned toward the window, though there could have been nothing to see but darkness. Mrs. Medlock sat very upright and seemed less inclined to talk than she had been in the railway carriage. Mary sat opposite her uncle and watched the vague outline of his bent figure whenever the carriage lamps threw a faint reflection through the glass.

They passed through a little village where a few windows glimmered yellow and where the wet stones of the street shone as the horses’ hoofs struck upon them. Then the last house was left behind, and the road seemed to run out into a great black emptiness.

The wind sounded louder there. It did not merely rush and sigh as it had done about the station; it came in long, strong sweeps which made the carriage rock and filled the air with a deep roaring. Now and then something brushed against the wheels or the lower part of the door with a dry scratching noise.

“What is that?” Mary asked suddenly.

“It’s only the heather,” said Mrs. Medlock. “We’re on the moor now.”

Mary pressed her face close to the cold pane, but she could see almost nothing. Sometimes the carriage lamps showed a strip of pale road and low, dark-growing things bending beneath the wind. Beyond them the blackness rose and fell in strange shapes. There appeared to be no trees and no houses and no people. There was only the vast darkness and the sound of the wind moving over it.

“Is it always like this?” she asked.

“It’s not always night, if that’s what you mean,” Mrs. Medlock answered. “And it’s not always raining. The moor has a look of its own, and some folk think it fine.”

“I don’t,” said Mary.

“You’ve not seen it yet,” said Mrs. Medlock.

Mr. Craven did not move or speak. He seemed to have forgotten that they were there.

They had driven a long way when one of the horses suddenly shied and the carriage gave a violent lurch. Mrs. Medlock caught Mary by the shoulder, and the coachman shouted. The horses stamped and snorted, and then the carriage stopped.

“What’s amiss, Robert?” Mrs. Medlock called, letting down the glass.

“Summat i’ th’ road,” the coachman shouted back through the wind. “Hold fast a bit.”

Mr. Craven leaned forward as if listening, but he said nothing. The coachman climbed down with his lantern. Its light moved across the road, disappeared, and then showed itself again farther ahead.

Mary was curious. She had never liked being told to keep still when something was happening, and the black moor seemed less dull now that it had hidden something in the road. While Mrs. Medlock was craning her head through the window and calling another question, Mary pushed open the opposite door and slipped out.

“Miss Mary!” cried Mrs. Medlock. “Come back this instant!”

But Mary had already set her feet upon the moor.

The wind almost took her breath away. It seized her cloak and blew it out behind her, and the wet earth felt soft beneath her shoes. For one minute she stood quite alone beyond the square of light cast by the carriage lamps. The darkness seemed enormous. It was as if the whole world had become black and empty and as if she were the only small creature left in it. Yet it was not like the silence of the deserted bungalow. That had been dead silence. This darkness was alive with rushing air and the bending and whispering of a million low stems.

Then the coachman’s lantern shone upon a woolly back and two curved horns. A large moor sheep had strayed into the road and stood stupidly facing the horses, as if it had as much right there as they had. The coachman waved his lantern and shouted, and the creature bounded aside and vanished into the heather.

“Get into the carriage!” Mrs. Medlock commanded. “You’ll be blown away or lost before you’ve been in Yorkshire an hour.”

Mary climbed back. Her cheeks felt cold and wet, and her heart was beating faster than usual. She had only stood on the moor for a minute, but she felt as if she had seen something, though she could not have said what it was.

Mr. Craven had turned toward her. His sombre eyes looked at her face and then beyond her to the open door.

“Shut it,” he said.

Mrs. Medlock shut it quickly, and the carriage went on.

After that Mary did not ask any more questions. The darkness and the wind had made her feel very small, and she disliked feeling small. She curled herself into her corner and wondered how much farther they had to go. At last the horses slowed, there was a sound of wheels passing beneath an archway, and the black bulk of an enormous house rose before them. Here and there a light shone from a high window, but most of the windows were dark.

The great entrance door opened before the carriage stopped. A man came down the broad steps, and another servant stood waiting in the hall. Mr. Craven descended without assistance, though slowly. When he had reached the doorway he paused.

“Medlock,” he said, without turning, “see that the child has what she needs.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then he went into the house and disappeared through a door at the farther end of the hall.

Mary was taken upstairs by Mrs. Medlock. They passed along corridors which seemed to turn in unexpected directions and to go on forever. There were pictures upon the walls, but Mary could see only dark faces and pale hands in the candlelight. Their footsteps sounded muffled upon the thick carpets, and now and then a door creaked somewhere far away.

At last Mrs. Medlock opened a door and led her into a room where a fire burned on the hearth. It was a large room, but the heavy furniture and dark hangings made it seem close. A smaller room opened from it, and Mary caught sight of a high bed with white coverings.

“These are your rooms,” said Mrs. Medlock. “You’re to stay in them tonight, and tomorrow you’ll be told what’s expected of you. Sit by the fire till your supper comes.”

“Aren’t you going to stay?” Mary demanded.

“I’ve plenty to see to,” answered Mrs. Medlock. “You’re not a baby, and you’ll not come to harm sitting in a chair.”

She went away, and Mary was left alone.

Presently the door opened and a square, heavy manservant entered carrying a tray. He had grizzled hair and thick eyebrows and wore a black coat which was a little shiny at the seams. He put the tray upon a table and looked at Mary as if he had never before been asked to bring supper to a child.

“Tha’ll be t’ little lass fra India, then,” he said. “Tha mun get summat warm inside thee. It’s a cowd neet out ower t’ moor.”

Mary stared at him.

“What did you say?”

The manservant stared back.

“Ah said tha mun eat thy supper while it’s hot. There’s broth an’ a bit o’ fowl, an’ Mrs. Medlock says tha’s to ring when tha’s done.”

“I can’t understand you,” said Mary haughtily. “You speak so strangely.”

A slow grin spread over the man’s broad face.

“Nay, lass, it’s thee as speaks strange here. We understand one another well enough i’ Yorkshire.”

“I don’t,” said Mary. “And I wish you would speak properly.”

He gave a short chuckle, though not an ill-natured one.

“Tha’ll happen learn,” he said. “Or happen tha won’t. Ring t’ bell when tha’s finished.”

Mary understood only the last sentence, because he pointed to the bell as he spoke. Then he went out and closed the door behind him.

The broth was hot and good, and Mary discovered that she was hungry. She ate more than she intended and sat staring at the fire until Mrs. Medlock returned. The housekeeper helped her undress, complaining all the while of the trouble caused by journeys, late trains, and children who stepped out of carriages upon moors in the dark.

When Mary was in bed and Mrs. Medlock had taken up the candle, a low, far-away sound passed through the house. It rose, died, and came again, so faintly that Mary could not tell whether it was above her or beyond the wall.

“What is that?” she asked.

Mrs. Medlock stood still for a second.

“It’s the wind,” she said sharply. “It gets into the passages of an old house and makes queer noises. You’ll hear plenty of it on stormy nights.”

“It did not sound like the wind.”

“Then you don’t know what the wind sounds like here,” said Mrs. Medlock. “Go to sleep.”

She carried the candle away and shut the door.

Mary lay in the great bed in the darkness. The sound came once more, distant and secret, and then all was still. She kept her eyes open and listened. Mrs. Medlock had said it was the wind, but Mary did not believe her. She had never been obedient when she could help it, and she did not intend to begin by believing everything she was told.

Whatever the sound was, she decided she would find out for herself.

The First National Bank was a squat gray building with bronze doors, marble floors and enough iron grillwork to make money seem dangerous.

A long-faced man behind an information desk listened to me say I wanted to know about a check drawn yesterday by Donald Willsson. He listened without helping. When I showed him my Continental card he read both sides of it and rubbed a thumb over the photograph.

“You’ll have to see Mr. Albury,” he said.

Mr. Albury was assistant cashier. He was a dry little man with a dry little office behind ground glass. His collar was too large for his neck and his cuffs were too large for his wrists. He held my card between the tips of two yellow fingers.

“You understand,” he said, “that a bank cannot disclose a depositor’s affairs to every person who asks.”

“I understand you’ve got a murdered depositor, a five-thousand-dollar check that may have had something to do with his murder, and a police department the murdered man’s paper accused this morning of being mixed up in the murder.”

His fingers stopped playing with my card.

“What check?”

“One he wrote a little before three yesterday afternoon. The last stub in his book. Five thousand dollars. No payee’s name on the stub.”

“You have seen the check?”

“No. That’s why I’m here.”

He looked at me, at the card, and at a bronze clock on the wall.

“If such a check had been paid,” he said carefully, “it would be part of the bank’s confidential records.”

“If it had been paid, the bank wouldn’t want to be caught hiding the fact after the police came around with papers.”

His dry face became a shade drier.

“What precisely do you wish to know?”

“Whether it was paid, presented, or certified.”

He put my card on his desk, went out, and left me with the bronze clock. It clicked off seven minutes. Then he came back carrying nothing.

“No check for five thousand dollars drawn by Donald Willsson was paid yesterday,” he said.

“Presented?”

“No.”

“Certified?”

“No.”

“This morning?”

“No such check has been presented or certified up to this moment.”

“Did he come in yesterday afternoon?”

Mr. Albury’s eyes went blank.

“You said you wanted information about a check.”

“I changed my mind. Now I want information about Willsson.”

“I cannot give it to you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both.”

“Did he draw five thousand in cash?”

“No.”

“Buy a draft?”

“No.”

“Open a safe-deposit box?”

“I have told you all I intend telling you.”

“You’ve told me the check didn’t get here. That’s something.”

I picked up my card. He said:

“Mr. Willsson was a valued customer of this bank.”

“Yesterday he was. Today he’s a newspaper picture.”

Mr. Albury pressed a button on his desk. I went out before anybody answered it.

I ate luncheon in a Broadway restaurant and spent the next two hours trying to find out where Donald Willsson could have gone in twenty minutes with a five-thousand-dollar check. Nobody at the bank admitted seeing him. Nobody around the Herald building remembered seeing him get into a car. A cigar clerk thought he had seen him walking east at about three, but wasn’t sure it had been yesterday. A bootblack was sure it had been yesterday, but wasn’t sure it had been Willsson. Between them they got me nowhere.

At three-thirty I went back to the Great Western.

The clerk stopped me at the desk.

“There’s a lady waiting for you.”

“What lady?”

“She wouldn’t give her name.”

“Where?”

“In the parlor.”

The parlor had red plush chairs, a brass cuspidor and a rubber plant that looked as if it had been punished. Mrs. Willsson sat straight-backed in one of the chairs. She wore black now, with a small black hat pulled down over her yellow hair. Her face was white and composed. The green slippers had been replaced by black shoes.

She stood up when I entered.

“You are surprised to see me?”

“I didn’t expect you.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It’ll do.”

She looked past me at the open door.

“Could we go somewhere less public?”

“My room.”

She hesitated, then nodded.

Upstairs I unlocked the door and let her in. She went to the window, looked down at the street, and kept her back to me.

“You told my father-in-law that I had blood on my slipper.”

“I told him it looked like blood.”

“It was blood.”

I sat on the edge of the bed.

“Your husband’s?”

“Yes.”

“How did it get there?”

She turned from the window. Her face was still composed, but she had to take a breath before saying:

“I went to him in Hurricane Street.”

“Alive?”

“No.”

“Who told you to go there?”

“A telephone call.”

“At ten-twenty?”

“Yes.”

“Who called?”

“I do not know.”

“Man or woman?”

“A man. He said my husband wished me to come at once to Hurricane Street, to the eleven-hundred block. He said Donald had been hurt.”

“What kind of voice?”

“A low voice.”

“Whisper’s?”

She looked at me without blinking.

“I do not know Mr. Thaler well enough to know his voice on the telephone.”

“But you know him well enough to receive him at your house the morning after your husband’s murder.”

Her hands moved together and became still.

“You saw him?”

“I saw him go in.”

“He came to tell me that he had not killed Donald.”

“That was thoughtful.”

“He knew I might think so.”

“Why should you?”

She came away from the window and sat in the chair beside the writing table.

“You are trying to make me say things in the wrong order.”

“Any order will suit me.”

“No. If I tell you, I must tell you in my own way.”

“Go ahead.”

She looked at her black gloves.

“Donald was jealous of Mr. Thaler.”

“Was he right?”

“No.”

“That answer came fast.”

“It is the truth.”

“What did Donald think?”

“He thought—” She stopped, frowned, and began again. “Mr. Thaler had been attentive to me. Donald knew it. There had been quarrels.”

“Between you and Donald?”

“Yes.”

“Between Donald and Thaler?”

“I do not know. Donald said he had spoken to him.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

“And last night somebody telephoned you in a low voice and sent you to where Donald was lying dead.”

“Yes.”

“What did you find?”

“My husband on the sidewalk. A man was bending over him.”

“What man?”

“I could not see his face.”

“Thaler’s size?”

“Perhaps.”

“His clothes?”

“Dark. Everything was dark.”

“What did the man do?”

“He stood up when I came near. I asked what had happened. He did not answer. He ran into the alley.”

“You didn’t follow him?”

She gave me a cold look.

“I went to my husband.”

“That’s where the blood came from?”

“I knelt beside him. There was blood on the pavement. I touched his face and his breast. Then I heard people coming from a house. I was frightened.”

“So you ran too.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I knew what they would say.”

“What would they say?”

“What you are saying now.”

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You think I killed him.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

She said it quietly. I believed she had said it quietly to herself often enough to have it perfect.

“Why tell me this?”

“Because my father-in-law will tell the police about the slipper.”

“Maybe he has.”

“I do not think so. He hates me, but he hates scandal more.”

“He was yelling for jail when I left him.”

“He yells many things.”

“That’s right. Why didn’t you tell the police last night?”

“I have told you.”

“You were afraid they’d suspect you. You went home and left your husband in the street. Then you told me he wouldn’t be home. That doesn’t improve it.”

“I did not know what else to do.”

“You could have tried the truth.”

“In Personville?”

That was good enough to make me grin.

She watched the grin and asked:

“What are you going to do?”

“Find out who killed him.”

“And if you think it was I?”

“Find out a little harder.”

She stood up.

“You are an unpleasant man.”

“Now and then.”

At the door she stopped.

“Mr. Thaler did not kill Donald.”

“He tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe him?”

“Yes.”

“Then we can cross off two of you. Who’s left?”

Her white face tightened.

“You should be careful.”

“In Personville?”

“Especially in Personville.”

She went away.

I smoked a cigarette at the window. Below, Broadway traffic dragged dust through the afternoon. Mrs. Willsson came out of the hotel, turned left, and disappeared without looking up.

Five minutes later the telephone rang.

The voice said:

“Got a message for you.”

“What message?”

“You’re to lay off Mrs. Willsson.”

“Who says so?”

“Max.”

“Max who?”

“You know Max.”

“Tell him I don’t.”

“He says you saw him this morning.”

“He saw me?”

“No. He says you saw him.”

“What else does he say?”

“That’s all.”

“Where can I find him?”

“You can’t.”

“Can he find me?”

The voice laughed once.

“He has.”

The connection went dead.

I called the desk and asked who had put the call through. The clerk said it had come from outside. He didn’t know where. I asked if the caller had given a name. He hadn’t.

I went down to the lobby and spent half an hour watching people come and go. Nobody paid enough attention to me to be interesting. I went out the side entrance, walked around two blocks, came back through the dining room, and found nothing but an appetite.

At dinner I put the day’s pieces in a row.

Donald Willsson had called me in from San Francisco. After talking to me he had received a telephone call from a woman and promised to meet her at ten, though he already had a ten-o’clock appointment with me at his house. Soon after that he had written a five-thousand-dollar check and gone out for twenty minutes. The check hadn’t been paid, presented or certified. At ten-forty he had been shot in Hurricane Street. His wife had been sent there by a man with a low voice. She had found one man bending over the body, or said she had. Max Thaler had visited her in the morning to deny killing Donald. In the afternoon he had warned me away from her.

There were plenty of pieces. They didn’t make a picture.

After dinner I found Bill Quint in a back room off a beer parlor. He had the same gray clothes and red tie, but less whiskey in him.

“Know anything about Donald Willsson flashing a five-grand check yesterday?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Who in town could cash one that size without taking it to the bank?”

“Pete could. Yard could. Whisper could. Noonan could, if it wasn’t his own dough. Old Elihu could cash a dozen.”

“Anybody else?”

“Half a dozen loan sharks, maybe. What’s the angle?”

“I haven’t got it yet.”

“You think the check bought him his killing?”

“It might have bought something he didn’t get.”

Quint pulled his red tie straight.

“If Whisper’s in it, watch your step.”

“He sent me word to lay off Mrs. Willsson.”

Quint whistled softly.

“Then you’ll lay off her?”

“Certainly. I always do what strange voices tell me over the telephone.”

“You’re going to stir this burg up.”

“It needs stirring.”

“It’ll boil over.”

“That’s probably what stirring is for.”

He looked at me for a while, shook his head, and ordered another whiskey. I left him with it.

It was dark when I returned to the hotel. No messages waited at the desk. Nobody followed me into the elevator. My room had not been disturbed enough for me to prove it had been disturbed at all. A drawer I thought I had left shut stood open half an inch, but I could have left it that way.

I locked the door, wedged a chair under the knob, and took my portable code book from the bottom of my bag. At the writing table I put the day into agency language, cutting out guesses and leaving in facts.

Then I went downstairs and sent this wire:

CONTINENTAL DETECTIVE AGENCY SAN FRANCISCO

DONALD WILLSSON MURDERED BEFORE CONTACT COMPLETED. INVESTIGATION CONTINUING. WIDOW ADMITS VISITING BODY BEFORE DISCOVERY AND CONCEALING FACT. MAX THALER CONNECTED WITH WIDOW AND HAS ORDERED ME THROUGH THIRD PARTY TO LEAVE HER ALONE. WILLSSON DREW FIVE THOUSAND DOLLAR CHECK YESTERDAY AFTERNOON FOLLOWING TELEPHONE CALL FROM WOMAN. FIRST NATIONAL BANK STATES CHECK NEVER PRESENTED OR CERTIFIED. PAYEE AND PRESENT WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN. POLITICAL ANGLE ACTIVE. EXPECT EXPENSE AND TROUBLE.

I signed the agency name, paid for the wire, and went back upstairs.

The chair went under the knob again. I turned out the overhead light, leaving the table lamp burning, and sat by the window with a cigarette. Personville’s lights made a dirty yellow smear against the night.

The wire was on its way to the Old Man. Mrs. Willsson had gone home. Max Thaler was somewhere else. The five-thousand-dollar check was somewhere too.

I didn’t know where.

Outside the offices of the Ada Clarkson International Employment Bureau the rain had stopped with that air of injured innocence which the English weather assumes after behaving badly. The sun shone apologetically on the wet pavement, and a small but earnest breeze, springing up from nowhere, began to make tentative dashes at Eve’s bird of Paradise feather.

She stood for a moment considering the umbrella. It was an excellent umbrella, broad, glossy, and furnished with a massive silver knob which seemed to suggest that its owner was a man accustomed to having the best of everything. A less honest girl, faced with a walk across London and the possibility of further showers, might have argued that Providence had plainly intended her to keep it. Eve, however, possessed that inconvenient sort of conscience which is silent when one backs a horse at ten to one and clamorous where umbrellas are concerned.

She boarded a bus and returned to Dover Street.

The porter of the Drones Club received the umbrella with professional calm. Strange young women did not often enter his life bearing the property of members, but his was a trained imperturbability.

“A gentleman from this club lent it to me,” explained Eve. “At least, I suppose he belonged here. He ran in immediately afterwards.”

“Yes, miss?”

“He was very tall and thin, with a monocle.”

The porter’s expression did not change, but inwardly he ceased to grope. Description had narrowed the field.

“He did not tell me his name,” said Eve. “Could you give him this?”

She produced a page torn from her pocket-book, folded it, and placed it beside the umbrella on the porter’s desk.

“Yes, miss.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you, miss.”

Eve departed. The porter picked up the umbrella and examined the little ivory disc attached to its handle.

“Mr. Walderwick,” he murmured.

Then, having placed both umbrella and note in a corner reserved for matters which could be attended to later, he was called away to a telephone. Life at a London club is full of these cross-currents.

* * * * *

At twelve-fifteen precisely the Honourable Hugo Walderwick entered the smoking-room of the Drones in a state of emotion which, though not violent enough to inconvenience his breathing, was sufficiently acute to make him decline a cocktail. He was a large, pink young man, and he had been looking for his umbrella.

“Hi!” said the Honourable Hugo.

Psmith, reclining in a deep chair with the air of a Roman emperor resting after a satisfactory morning at the Coliseum, looked up from his paper.

“You spoke?” he said courteously.

“That umbrella.”

“What umbrella?”

“My umbrella.”

“The world,” said Psmith, “is full of umbrellas. The historian who attempted to trace the owner of each would find his task a lengthy one.”

“The cloak-room fellow says you took mine.”

“Comrade Walderwick,” said Psmith, “these are grave allegations.”

“Well, did you?”

Psmith removed his monocle and polished it thoughtfully.

“It is possible,” he said. “At that hour of the morning the human mind has scarcely shaken off the mists of sleep. One moves like a somnambulist. One performs actions which in a brighter light might seem inexplicable.”

“You pinched it.”

“Let us not introduce the ugly word ‘pinched.’ Say, rather, that I became associated with it for a brief space.”

“What did you want it for? It wasn’t raining when you came in.”

“It was raining when the umbrella went out.”

“Well, where is it?”

“At the moment,” said Psmith, “I cannot say. It has passed from my keeping. Like some gay adventurer of the Middle Ages, it has gone out into the world to seek its fortune.”

The Honourable Hugo stared at him.

“That umbrella cost me seven guineas.”

“Never let it be said that I cannot sympathise with honest distress. I will buy it from you.”

“It isn’t for sale.”

“Everything,” said Psmith, “is for sale. The problem is merely one of adjustment. I offer ten pounds.”

The Honourable Hugo blinked. He had been prepared to quarrel, but not to conduct high finance.

“Ten pounds?”

“Ten of the crispest and most companionable. A sum which should enable you to purchase an umbrella of such splendour that people will follow you in the street.”

“But why the devil do you want to buy an umbrella you’ve lost?”

“The question,” said Psmith, “opens up avenues of speculation into which I do not propose to wander. Let us say that I have taken a fancy to the object. Its austere lines appealed to me. Ten pounds, Comrade Walderwick, and I take over all liabilities, moral and financial.”

“Make it fifteen.”

Psmith sighed.

“This haggling spirit,” he said, “is unworthy. Nevertheless, rather than permit a rift in the lute of our friendship, I consent.”

He produced a note-case. The Honourable Hugo, examining its contents over his shoulder, observed that fifteen pounds appeared to represent practically the entire sum within it. His respect for Psmith’s sanity, never robust, became feebler.

“Here you are,” said Psmith.

“Thanks.”

“Not at all. And should conscience ever whisper to you that you have taken advantage of a trusting nature, crush it down.”

At this moment the porter entered, bearing the umbrella.

“This has just been returned, sir.”

Psmith rose and received it with cordiality.

“Ah! The wanderer restores itself to the fold. Excellent.”

“There was a note with it, sir,” said the porter, searching his pockets. “I put it down somewhere. I’ll find it, sir.”

“Do so, Comrade Robinson. There is no hurry.”

The Honourable Hugo looked from the umbrella to the bank-notes in his hand. A feeling that life had treated him well descended upon him.

“Well, so long,” he said.

“Good-bye, Comrade Walderwick. Use the money wisely. Invest it. Do not fritter it away on mere pleasure.”

The door closed.

Psmith stood gazing at the umbrella with a meditative eye. Then he placed it carefully against the wall and rang for a modest luncheon.

* * * * *

The interview arranged for Eve Halliday took place at three o’clock in a private sitting-room at the Senior Conservative Club. Lord Emsworth, detained at Paddington by an absorbing patch of moss on a station wall, arrived at twenty minutes past the hour, and entered with an air of mild surprise, as if he had not expected to find anybody there.

Eve rose.

“Miss Halliday?” said Lord Emsworth doubtfully.

“Yes.”

“Quite. Quite. To be sure. My secretary told me. He tells me everything. Most useful fellow. Miss Halliday, yes.”

He shook hands and sat down. Eve resumed her seat. There followed a silence.

Lord Emsworth looked at Eve. Eve looked at Lord Emsworth. Lord Emsworth’s gaze wandered from Eve to the window, through which a pigeon could be seen walking importantly along a parapet. The pigeon interested him greatly.

“You wished to see me?” he said at length.

“I understood that you wished to see me.”

“Did I? Ah, yes. Very possibly. My secretary would know.”

“It was about the library at Blandings Castle.”

“The library?”

“I am to catalogue it.”

Lord Emsworth brightened. He had got his bearings now.

“Capital. Capital. Nothing like a catalogue. Keeps everything in its place.”

“Yes.”

“I once had a catalogue of roses. A green book. Or it may have been red. Most valuable. I have been looking for it since nineteen twelve.”

Eve waited.

“Have you had much experience of pigs?” inquired Lord Emsworth.

“Pigs?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

The Earl’s face fell.

“That is unfortunate.”

“I didn’t know that pigs entered into the work.”

“They enter into it very considerably,” said Lord Emsworth with decision. “You cannot catalogue a pig without approaching it. And some pigs are uncertain in temper.”

“But I thought it was books I was to catalogue.”

“Books?”

“The books in the castle library.”

Lord Emsworth stared. Then light broke upon him.

“Of course! Books. Yes, yes, yes. Baxter said books. I remember distinctly. I was thinking of something else.”

The interview had gone wrong, but it had at least become definite.

“Do you know much about books?” asked Lord Emsworth.

“I have read a good many.”

“Excellent. I never seem to find time. There is so much to do in the garden. Still, we have a great number. Baxter says they should be put in order, though they have always seemed to me quite comfortable as they are.”

“I am sure I can manage the work.”

“Capital. Then that is settled.”

He rose, shook hands warmly, and moved towards the door. With his fingers on the handle he paused.

“When would you be able to begin, Miss—Miss—?”

“Halliday.”

“Precisely. When would you be able to begin?”

“Whenever you wish.”

“Come down to Blandings to-morrow. Or the day after. Better ask Baxter. He arranges these things.”

He opened the door, allowing in a small, severe man with spectacles and a pile of papers.

“Ah, Baxter,” said Lord Emsworth, relieved. “This is Miss—this young lady. Everything is settled. She knows nothing about pigs, but that does not matter, because it appears to be books. Explain everything to her.”

And he drifted out.

Rupert Baxter’s examination was searching and metallic, but it ended in confirmation. Eve was to travel to Market Blandings on the following afternoon. She left the club at half-past four, conscious that she had secured the position but uncertain whether she had passed an interview or survived an accident.

* * * * *

Piccadilly at five o’clock was full of people going determinedly in opposite directions. Eve, threading her way eastward, stopped before the window of a bookshop. A moment later a voice spoke at her elbow.

“A singularly depressing display.”

She turned. Beside her stood the tall young man of the morning. He was wearing a hat now, but there was no mistaking the monocle and the grave, friendly face.

“Oh!” said Eve.

The young man inclined his head.

“You were saying?”

“You gave me an umbrella this morning.”

“Surely not.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are confusing me with some other member of the leisured classes. It is a common mistake. We resemble one another in many respects.”

“But I couldn’t possibly forget you.”

Psmith appeared pained.

“This is very flattering, but reflection will show you that it cannot have been I. Umbrella-giving is no part of my ordinary routine. I am not an umbrella philanthropist.”

“You ran across the road without a hat.”

“A hatless fellow? The plot thickens.”

“He wore a monocle.”

“Many of our younger dandies,” said Psmith, “have adopted the monocle. There is a feeling that it lends tone.”

“He was exactly like you.”

“Then he must have been a remarkably fine-looking man. But consider. Why should I give you an umbrella?”

“I wondered that myself.”

“There,” said Psmith triumphantly. “Your clear intelligence rejects the theory.”

Eve’s eyes danced.

“Perhaps you thought it was going to rain harder.”

“Even so, why select you from the millions of London? Why not equip the whole metropolis? No, the thing will not stand examination.”

“I returned it.”

“To whom?”

“The porter at your club.”

“My club?”

“The club you came out of.”

“You add detail with every moment. What did the porter say?”

“Nothing much. I left a note.”

“A note?”

“To the man who gave me the umbrella.”

Psmith looked thoughtfully at the traffic.

“He will value it,” he said. “In this harsh world a note of thanks falls like balm upon the wounded spirit. Was it a warm note?”

“Quite warm enough.”

“You signed it?”

“Naturally.”

Psmith’s monocle flashed, but his face remained composed.

“This unknown benefactor is fortunate.”

“You are sure you don’t know him?”

“I move in so wide a circle. Did he strike you as a man of unusual intellect and refinement?”

“He struck me as completely mad.”

“Then I fear I cannot place him.”

A taxi drew up beside the kerb. Eve glanced at the clock above a neighbouring shop.

“I must go.”

“Allow me to offer you this cab.”

“No, thank you.”

“You distrust gifts from strangers?”

“Especially after this morning.”

“A prudent rule. Then we part.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

She moved away. Psmith watched her until the crowd swallowed the black bird of Paradise feather. Then he entered the bookshop and remained there for some minutes without buying anything, a course of conduct which cast a gloom over the proprietor.

* * * * *

Evening had settled upon Dover Street when Psmith returned to the Drones. The smoking-room was empty. In its favourite corner the umbrella leaned against the wall, sleek and dignified. Psmith took it up, inspected it, and pressed the bell.

The porter appeared.

“You rang, sir?”

“The note, Comrade Robinson. The missive left by the young lady.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t put my hand on it. I think it must have slipped behind the desk.”

“A serious matter. Bend every energy to the search.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You observed the signature?”

The porter reflected.

“Yes, sir. I believe I did.”

“And the name was?”

“Halliday, sir. Miss Eve Halliday.”

The porter withdrew.

Psmith was alone. He stood for a while with the umbrella beneath his arm, gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

“Eve Halliday,” he said.

And the umbrella, which had cost him fifteen pounds, made no comment.

“Don’t,” I said.

“I can’t help it.”

The taxi went fast along the dark streets. The windows were open and the air came in warm. Brett sat up and looked out.

“Where are we going?”

“Parc Montsouris.”

“Why?”

“You told me to drive around.”

“I don’t want to go there.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Take me to the Closerie des Lilas.”

“All right.”

I leaned forward and told the driver. He nodded without turning and swung the taxi around. Brett put her hand on my arm.

“You’re not angry, are you?”

“No.”

“You sounded angry.”

“I’m not.”

“That’s good. I couldn’t bear you to be angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

I was angry and very unhappy.

We drove past the dark wall of the prison and up toward the Boulevard Montparnasse. The air was cooler where the streets were wide. There were people sitting outside the cafés, and taxis moving slowly along the boulevard. The Closerie was lighted and there were a few tables occupied under the trees. The taxi stopped.

“Here we are,” I said.

“Pay him, darling. I’ve no money.”

I paid the driver and we went in. We sat at a table outside. The waiter knew Brett and brought two brandies and soda without our ordering them.

“Does every one know you?” I asked.

“Every one worth knowing.”

“And the others?”

“They know me best.”

She drank half the brandy and soda and put down the glass.

“That’s better.”

“You were miserable.”

“I was bloody miserable.”

“With your lovely crowd?”

“They’re not my crowd.”

“You came with them.”

“One comes with somebody.”

“You could come alone.”

“No. One can’t.”

The trees made the light from the globes look green. There was a man writing at a table with a stack of paper under his hand. Two girls sat with an old man who had a red ribbon in his buttonhole. The old man was talking and the girls were not listening. A taxi came up and a woman got out alone. She walked into the restaurant without looking at any one.

“I met a man last week,” Brett said.

“That’s something new.”

“Don’t be an ass, Jake.”

“What’s his name?”

“Arthur Wemyss.”

“I never heard of him.”

“You wouldn’t. He’s just come from Kenya.”

“What does he do there?”

“Nothing, I imagine. He has money.”

“That takes care of a good deal.”

“Rather.”

“Is he nice?”

“Awfully.”

“You like nice men.”

“Don’t.”

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You know damned well what you were doing.”

The waiter came over and Brett ordered another brandy and soda. I ordered a fine. The waiter took away the empty glasses.

“Is Wemyss in Paris?”

“He’s gone to Deauville.”

“Then you miss him.”

“Terribly.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, shut up, Jake.”

“All right.”

She looked across the boulevard. A tram went by with the windows lighted. The people inside looked tired and settled. The tram made a grinding sound and went on down the boulevard.

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

“To Deauville?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“That’s simple.”

“It isn’t simple.”

“No?”

“No.”

The drinks came. Brett stirred hers with the glass rod. She took out a cigarette and I lighted it for her. The match burned down and I dropped it in the saucer.

“You’re a good chap,” she said.

“So they tell me.”

“Don’t be bitter.”

“I’m not bitter.”

“You are a little.”

“Maybe it’s the fine.”

“You shouldn’t drink those things.”

“They’re good for you.”

“Nothing’s good for you.”

“Quite.”

We drank. The old man with the ribbon had gone inside with the two girls. The man writing gathered up his papers, tapped them straight on the table, and put them into a portfolio. He paid the waiter and walked away. The table looked very bare after he had gone.

“Are you going to marry Wemyss?” I asked.

“My God, no.”

“He has money.”

“So have lots of people.”

“You said he was nice.”

“He is nice.”

“That seems to settle it.”

“You want to hurt me.”

“No.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“That’s a filthy thing to say.”

“All right.”

“No, it isn’t all right.”

She finished her drink. I watched the bubbles run up the side of my glass.

“Jake,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Couldn’t we go somewhere?”

“We’re somewhere now.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

We looked at each other. Brett’s face was tired. Under the trees her hair looked very dark.

“It wouldn’t do any good,” I said.

“I know.”

“Then what’s the use?”

“There isn’t any use.”

“All right.”

“It’s ghastly.”

“Yes.”

She reached over and took my hand. We sat that way without talking. The waiter looked over from the door. I took my hand away to get money from my pocket.

“Don’t go,” Brett said.

“I’m only paying.”

“I thought you were going.”

“I’ve got to go back to the bal.”

“What for?”

“My fifty francs.”

“You’ll never get it.”

“I told the patronne to save it if Georgette went away with one of those gentlemen.”

“She won’t have saved it.”

“We might see.”

“Do you really want to go back?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll come.”

I paid and we walked down the boulevard. There were plenty of taxis now. Brett hailed one and told the driver the address. We got in. She sat in her corner and I sat in mine. The taxi went down the Boulevard Saint-Michel. The cafés were closing and waiters were stacking chairs under the awnings. At the corner of the Rue Soufflot a group of students stood singing. One of them waved his hat at the taxi. Brett waved back.

“You know him?” I asked.

“Intimately.”

“He looked nice.”

“Very nice. Probably has money.”

We turned up the steep street. The taxi stopped below the bal because there was another car in front of the door. The accordion was still playing. We got out and Brett waited while I paid.

“Still going,” she said.

“They last.”

Inside it was hotter than before. There were fewer people, but they danced as though the room were full. The policeman had gone. The proprietor was playing with his eyes half shut. The bells on his ankle sounded whenever he stamped his foot. His wife sat behind the zinc bar counting saucers.

Georgette was at a table with the tall dark young man called Lett and two of the others. Her hat was on the table. She was smoking a cigarette and drinking beer. When she saw me she lifted the glass.

“There’s my fiancé,” she said.

The three young men turned and looked at us.

“You’ve come back,” Lett said. “How terribly constant.”

“I came for an envelope.”

“How practical,” another said.

Georgette looked at Brett.

“You took him away,” she said.

“I did,” Brett said.

“Now you bring him back.”

“Yes.”

“You are his wife?”

“No.”

“His sister?”

“Almost.”

Georgette laughed with her mouth closed.

“He is sick,” she said.

“So are we all,” Brett said.

“That is what I told him.”

I went to the bar. The patronne saw me and reached under the zinc. She brought out the envelope. It was still sealed.

“The young lady did not go,” she said.

“I see.”

“She has drunk more than fifty francs.”

“That is different.”

“Entirely different,” the patronne said.

I put the envelope in my pocket and ordered a round of beers for Georgette’s table. Brett came over and leaned against the bar.

“You’ve got it.”

“Yes.”

“Miraculous.”

“Honesty.”

“No. Bad luck.”

The beers came and the daughter carried them over. Georgette called to me.

“You’re not drinking with us?”

“We’re going.”

“You always go.”

“Not always.”

“You went before.”

“That was once.”

“It was enough.”

The tall blond youth came up and asked Brett to dance. She looked at me.

“Shall I?”

“Go ahead.”

“Will you mind?”

“Why should I?”

“I don’t know.”

“Go ahead.”

She went out on the floor with him. He danced with his head to one side and made long sliding steps. Brett danced close and easily and did not look toward me. I stood at the bar and drank a beer. Georgette left the table and came over.

“You came back for the money,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Not for me.”

“I knew you were well taken care of.”

“These are funny men.”

“They’re all right.”

“They are women.”

“No.”

“Yes. They are women. Only they have money.”

“Some of them.”

“They bought me champagne.”

“That was nice.”

“They wanted to know everything.”

“Did you tell them?”

“I told them lies.”

“That was right.”

She drank some of my beer.

“Your friend is beautiful,” she said.

“Yes.”

“She is not happy.”

“No.”

“Neither are you.”

“You’ve learned a lot tonight.”

“I always know when people are not happy.”

The music stopped. Brett thanked the blond youth and came back. Her face was flushed from dancing.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Yes.”

I took out the envelope and handed it to Georgette.

“Here.”

She weighed it in her hand.

“You got it back.”

“Yes.”

“And now you give it to me.”

“That was what it was for.”

She opened the envelope and looked at the note.

“You are a fool,” she said.

“Good night, Georgette.”

“Good night, Jacob.”

Outside, the street was quiet. The taxi that had brought us had gone. We walked down the hill. Brett took my arm.

“That was rather decent of you.”

“It was her money.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It was intended for her.”

“That’s different.”

“Not very.”

At the bottom of the street we crossed toward the river. There were no taxis. A cart went past carrying vegetables, the driver asleep on the seat. The horse walked slowly and knew where it was going.

“Let’s go to the markets,” Brett said.

“All right.”

“I’m hungry.”

“You didn’t eat?”

“I never eat.”

“That’s why you’re hungry.”

“You’re very clever tonight.”

We walked along the empty streets and came into the light and movement around Les Halles. Carts stood backed against the curb. Men carried baskets and boxes across the wet pavement. Women in aprons were drinking white wine at the counters. It smelled of vegetables, wet straw, and coffee. We went into a small place where the door stood open.

We sat at a marble-topped table. A woman brought us onion soup and bread. Brett ate the soup quickly.

“This is good,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t we always do this?”

“We do sometimes.”

“Not enough.”

“We could do it every night.”

“That would spoil it.”

“Of course.”

She broke bread into the soup.

“Will you see that Wemyss chap?” I asked.

“Perhaps.”

“When he comes back from Deauville?”

“Perhaps.”

“You ought to.”

“Why?”

“He’s nice and he has money.”

“You’re damned persistent.”

“I want the best for you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“What do I want?”

“You want me to tell you something.”

“What?”

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

“Then I shan’t tell you.”

“That’s fair.”

Neither of us was being fair. I loved her and wanted her to stay with me.

The woman brought coffee. Outside, the sky over the roofs was growing pale. The men unloading the carts shouted to one another. A boy washed the pavement with a hose, and the water ran black along the gutter.

“We ought to go,” Brett said.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a good place.”

“Don’t start, darling.”

“I wasn’t starting.”

“You always sound as though you’re finishing something.”

We paid and went out. The morning air was cold after the restaurant. Brett shivered.

“You need a coat.”

“I need a great many things.”

“Wemyss could buy you a coat.”

“Damn Wemyss.”

“I thought he was nice.”

“He is nice.”

A taxi stood by the curb near the markets. The driver was wiping the wind-screen with a rag. Brett gave him an address. I had never heard it before.

“Whose place is that?” I asked.

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

“Then don’t look like that.”

“I’m not looking any way.”

“You are, though.”

She stood with one foot on the running-board.

“Come with me a little way,” she said.

“No.”

“Quite right.”

“You’ll be all right?”

“Splendid.”

I helped her into the taxi. She settled back and looked out at me through the open door.

“Good night, Jake.”

“Good morning.”

“Yes. Good morning, darling.”

I shut the door. The taxi moved off through the carts and disappeared around the corner. I walked down toward the river. Dawn was coming up behind the Île de la Cité, and the water was grey under the bridges. The stone quay was cold and empty. I walked home along the river alone.

Robert accommodated his pace to Madame Ratignolle’s, which was languid and uncertain. The children had remained behind beneath the awning, where Mrs. Pontellier sat tracing figures in the sand with the point of her parasol. Once she looked after the retreating pair. Robert was bending his head to hear what Adèle said; the latter’s white draperies fluttered about him and caught against his legs.

“You have tired yourself carrying all those children,” she complained.

“Not at all. It is you who have been sitting too long in one position.”

“Perhaps. But Edna did not grow stiff. She could have sat there till sunset, looking at the sea and telling me strange things.”

“What strange things?” he asked, with quick interest.

“Things which would not interest you.”

“Everything that concerns Mrs. Pontellier interests me.”

Madame Ratignolle laughed, not loudly, and pressed his arm a little more heavily as they walked.

“She is not like us,” said Robert after a moment. “She seems sometimes to be listening to a voice that no one else can hear.”

“Indeed! You have become very discerning, mon ami.”

“I have always known it,” he replied, with some warmth. “Only she herself is beginning to hear it.”

Madame Ratignolle looked at him, but his face was turned toward the line of cottages showing white between the trees. She said nothing further upon the subject. The cramp in her limbs had abated before they reached the house, and she entered with her customary light step, calling at once for her children and inquiring what there was for luncheon.

Mrs. Pontellier remained upon the beach until the children grew fretful and hungry. The lovers had disappeared. The lady in black had closed her book and sat with folded hands, gazing before her. The stiff wind had fallen, and the water was smoothing itself into long, lustrous undulations that broke with a low murmur upon the sand.

Edna returned slowly with the children and the nurse. She felt no inclination to speak. The candor of the morning had left her with a sense of exposure, as though she had removed a garment in the presence of another and had neglected to put it on again.

At the cottage a yellow envelope lay upon the table, held down by Léonce’s silver match-box. It had been brought over from the main house during her absence. She opened it standing, while Raoul clamored for a drink of water and the other child disputed with the quadroon concerning a broken tin soldier.

“Business detains me. Cannot come Saturday. Expect next week. Love to all.”

She read the message twice. There was nothing extraordinary in Léonce’s being detained in the city; such things had happened before. Yet the words appeared to enlarge the empty spaces of the cottage. She laid the telegram beside the match-box and went to the window.

“Well!” exclaimed Madame Ratignolle, who entered a few minutes later, fresh and smiling, with her needlework in her hand. “You look as if some one had brought bad news.”

Edna handed her the telegram.

“Poor dear! And you had counted upon him?”

“I don’t know that I had counted upon him,” replied Edna. “But I supposed he would come.”

Adèle found in the message a dozen occasions for sympathy. Monsieur Ratignolle, she declared, would never permit business to interfere with his Saturday return if she were away from him. Then she recollected that Léonce was not Monsieur Ratignolle, and that men’s affairs differed. She seated herself, unfolded the little roll of muslin, and began to sew.

“Robert said something very curious about you as we walked home,” she observed presently.

“What did he say?”

“That you seemed to be listening to a voice no one else could hear; and that only now you were beginning to hear it yourself.”

Edna turned from the window.

“What nonsense!”

“Is it nonsense?” asked Adèle, smiling down upon her work.

“Of course. Robert is always saying things.”

But the remark pleased her. It touched some obscure consciousness which the morning’s confession had stirred and left trembling. She wanted Adèle to repeat the words, yet would not ask it. She took up Léonce’s telegram and folded it into smaller and smaller squares.

The day advanced heavily. After luncheon the guests disappeared into their rooms, behind lowered shades and closed shutters. Even the children yielded to the drowsiness which hung over the place. The quadroon lay upon a mat near their bed, fanning herself at intervals without opening her eyes.

Edna could not sleep. She removed her dress, bathed her face and arms, and lay for a time in a loose wrapper. The ticking of the little clock became intolerably distinct. Outside, an insect shrilled with a dry, persistent note. Her eyes rested upon the straw hat hanging from a peg, and suddenly she rose and dressed.

She went down to the beach alone. She encountered no one along the sandy path. The yellow camomile drooped in the heat, and the gardens exhaled a rank, sweet odor. At the bath-house she unlocked her compartment and put on her bathing dress.

The beach seemed abandoned. Far down toward the wharf a fisherman moved like a dark point against the glare. The lady in black sat in her accustomed place beneath the gallery, with her rosary slipping through her fingers.

Edna had passed her when the woman spoke.

“You should not go far out alone, Madame Pontellier.”

It was the first time the lady in black had ever addressed her. Her voice was low and unexpectedly agreeable.

“I shall not go far,” Edna answered.

“The water is quiet, but there is a current beyond the posts.”

“Thank you. I shall remember.”

The lady inclined her head and returned to her beads. Edna walked to the edge of the water, wondering why the simple warning had sounded like a prohibition. She had made many attempts to learn to swim. Robert, the children, Madame Ratignolle, and sometimes half the pension had offered instruction, encouragement and ridicule. But an ungovernable dread had seized her whenever she felt the support of a hand withdrawn.

She waded until the water reached her waist. It was warm and folded about her with a soft, close pressure. She bent forward, laid herself upon it, and struck out as she had been taught. At first her feet touched the yielding sand. Then, for an instant, they touched nothing.

She made one stroke, and another. The shore appeared to move backward. A little cry rose in her throat, but she suppressed it. She made three, perhaps four strokes before fear took possession of her and brought her upright, struggling for the bottom. It was there beneath her. She stood panting, with the water beating lightly against her breast.

No one had seen. The lady in black had gone into her bath-house, and the fisherman was no longer visible. Edna laughed softly. The achievement was pitifully small; a child might have done as much. But she felt as if some power had passed into her arms and remained there, tingling in the muscles.

She tried again, with less success. Her courage had become conscious of itself and was therefore less sure. She returned to the shore, dressed, and walked back through the heat. She told no one.

Toward evening the cottages awakened. Doors opened; voices sounded across the galleries; children emerged, refreshed and turbulent. Robert came to ask if Mrs. Pontellier would walk to the beach before dinner. She declined, saying the heat had tired her. He looked disappointed, and she was secretly gratified by his disappointment.

At dinner Madame Lebrun spoke of Léonce’s telegram, the news having circulated with the promptness peculiar to Grand Isle. Victor made a jest about deserted wives, for which his mother reproved him. Robert was unusually quiet. Once Edna found him looking at her, and the words Adèle had repeated came back with an effect out of all proportion to their meaning.

The evening was spent with music and desultory talk. The young people walked in couples beyond the circle of light. Madame Ratignolle played a little, but soon withdrew, remembering a child who had coughed twice during dinner. Edna went early to the cottage.

The children were asleep. The quadroon had gone to gossip with a servant at the main house. Edna sat alone upon the gallery. The night was soft and deep; the sea sounded far off, like a voice subdued by distance. Now and again she lifted her arms and felt in them the remembered movement of the water.

Léonce’s telegram lay within upon the table. She did not think of it. She thought of the few strokes she had made alone, with no hand beneath her and no eyes upon her. But beneath that thought, returning with the persistency of the sea, was Robert’s remark as Adèle had repeated it: that she seemed to be listening to a voice no one else could hear, and that only now she was beginning to hear it herself.

I compared the symptoms described with those I had witnessed. The resemblance was unmistakable. The terrible convulsions, the rigidity of the limbs, the arching of the body—all were there. I shut the book with a feeling of awe. There could be no longer any doubt in my mind.

At half-past six I started for the village.

The storm had broken during the night, and the air was fresh and cool. Everywhere the leaves glittered with rain, and little pools of water lay in the ruts of the road. The peaceful beauty of the morning seemed almost incredible. I found myself wondering whether the tragedy at Styles had really occurred, or whether it had been merely some hideous nightmare.

The cottage occupied by Poirot and his fellow-countrymen stood near the post office. As I approached it, the door opened, and Poirot himself appeared upon the threshold. He was as immaculate as ever. His neat little moustaches were carefully waxed, and his patent-leather shoes shone with their accustomed brilliance.

“Ah, mon ami Hastings!” he exclaimed. “I was expecting you.”

“You were expecting me?”

“But certainly. It is about the death of Madame Inglethorp that you come.”

I stared at him.

“You have heard already?”

He nodded gravely.

“Mademoiselle Howard told me.”

“Miss Howard! But she left Styles a fortnight ago.”

“That is true. Nevertheless she is in the village. She arrived by the early train, and came straight to me.”

“What extraordinary chance brought her here?”

“Not chance. She had a telegram.”

“A telegram? Who sent it?”

Poirot spread out his hands.

“That, my friend, you must ask Mademoiselle Howard. She was much agitated, and had but one thought—to reach Styles. I persuaded her to wait until I had seen you. Tell me now, what has happened?”

In a few words I recounted the events of the night. Poirot listened without interrupting, but when I described Mrs. Inglethorp’s last convulsions his face grew very grave.

“And the doctors?”

“They refuse to give a certificate. There is to be a post-mortem to-night.”

“Good.”

“You mean——”

“I mean that they have acted with prudence. And Monsieur John Cavendish permits me to examine the affair?”

“Yes. I have his authority to bring you back with me.”

“Excellent. I must make a little toilet first.”

I could not repress a gesture of impatience.

“My dear Poirot, you look as though you had just come out of a bandbox!”

He glanced down complacently.

“It is true that I am not entirely a scarecrow. But there are the little spots of mud upon the shoe, and my tie is one-sixteenth of an inch too much to the left. Order and method, Hastings! We must begin as we mean to continue.”

He disappeared into the cottage, leaving me to curb my impatience as best I might. In less than ten minutes he reappeared, carrying a small black case.

“You have breakfasted?” I asked, as we set off.

“A cup of chocolate only.”

“You will breakfast at Styles.”

“That will be agreeable. But first we shall see the room.”

We had not gone more than a hundred yards when Poirot stopped suddenly.

“Tell me, Hastings, did anyone touch anything in the bedroom?”

“I hardly know. There was great confusion. John lit the gas. Annie fetched brandy. Dr. Bauerstein ordered us all out almost immediately.”

“And afterwards?”

“The doctors locked both doors and gave the keys to John.”

“That is well. And Monsieur Inglethorp?”

“He has not returned.”

Poirot’s eyebrows rose.

“Ah!”

He said no more, but walked on with an expression of great preoccupation. At the entrance to the drive he stopped again.

“You will go on, my friend. I wish to speak for one moment with a person in the village. I shall follow you almost immediately.”

“Is it important?”

“Everything is important—or nothing. One cannot tell beforehand.”

Knowing from experience the futility of attempting to hurry Poirot, I left him and proceeded alone to the house.

As I entered the hall, I heard voices in the dining-room. The first was John’s. The second caused me to stop short. It was the voice of Alfred Inglethorp.

He stood by the window, still wearing the clothes of the previous evening. His face was pale beneath its dark colouring, and his black beard gave him, I thought, a peculiarly sinister appearance. John was facing him across the table.

“Ah, there you are, Hastings,” he said, with evident relief. “Mr. Inglethorp has just returned.”

Alfred turned towards me.

“This terrible calamity!” he murmured. “My poor Emily! I cannot realise it. I cannot believe that she is dead.”

“Where have you been?” I asked bluntly.

John frowned slightly at my lack of tact, but Alfred answered readily enough.

“I fear that my absence must seem most unfortunate. The explanation is quite simple. After leaving Dr. Bauerstein I walked on towards Styles St. Mary. I had intended to return at once, but I recollected a matter of business concerning some estate papers which I had promised to discuss with Mr. Denby. Thinking that he might still be up, I went to his house.”

“At that hour?”

“It was not so very late—scarcely half-past eleven. Unfortunately he had gone to bed. I then walked on, scarcely knowing what I did. I was upset by a painful disagreement which had occurred earlier in the evening.”

He paused, passing his hand across his forehead.

“When I came to myself, I found that I had reached Marston, nearly six miles away. The storm had begun, and I took shelter at a small inn there—the Feathers. The household had retired, but after some difficulty I succeeded in waking them. They gave me a room. I left at the first possible moment this morning and walked back.”

“You had the latch-key,” said John.

Alfred made a gesture of annoyance.

“That was another piece of ill-fortune. I discovered, when I reached Marston, that it was no longer in my possession. There is a hole in the pocket of my overcoat. It must have slipped through while I was walking. Otherwise, of course, I should have returned here.”

As he spoke, Dorcas entered with a tray. At the mention of the overcoat she looked up quickly.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, “but there isn’t a hole in that pocket.”

Alfred wheeled round.

“What do you mean?”

“I brushed the coat myself yesterday morning, sir. There was a loose thread at the seam, and I mended it. I’m certain sure there was no hole.”

A curious silence followed. Alfred was the first to recover himself.

“Then I am mistaken as to the pocket,” he said coldly. “Possibly I dropped the key when I took out my handkerchief.”

Dorcas set down the tray. Her lips were compressed, and I could see that she had more to say, but John gave her a warning glance.

“That will do, Dorcas.”

“Yes, sir.”

She withdrew.

Alfred looked from one to the other of us.

“I hope,” he said, with a dignity which sat rather strangely upon him, “that no one imagines my grief is less sincere because I was not present at the moment of my wife’s death. Had I known that she was ill, nothing could have kept me from her side.”

“No one has suggested such a thing,” said John stiffly.

At that moment Mary entered. She stopped on seeing Alfred, but her face betrayed nothing.

“You have come back,” she said.

“Yes, Mary. Too late, alas!”

She made no reply. Her eyes met mine for a moment, then fell. I remembered her agitation upon the stairs, and wondered what lay behind that calm exterior.

“Where is Cynthia?” asked John.

“In the morning-room. She is very much shaken.”

“And Lawrence?”

“He has gone into the garden.”

There was the crunch of footsteps on the gravel outside, and a moment later Poirot entered through the open French window. His appearance produced an effect which was almost ludicrous. Alfred stared at him in astonishment, Mary drew slightly back, and John looked uncomfortable.

I hastened forward.

“This is Monsieur Poirot. You remember, John, I spoke to you about him.”

“Yes, of course.” John shook hands with him. “I am very glad you have come, Monsieur Poirot. This is Mr. Inglethorp.”

Poirot bowed ceremoniously.

“Permit me to offer my condolences, monsieur.”

Alfred acknowledged the words with a sombre inclination of the head.

Poirot turned to John.

“If you please, I should like to see the room at once.”

“Before breakfast?”

“If it is not inconvenient.”

“Oh, certainly. I have the keys here.”

As we crossed the hall, Cynthia came out of the morning-room. She looked pale and heavy-eyed, but the unnatural flush had left her cheeks. Poirot paused before her.

“This is Miss Murdoch,” I explained.

He bowed.

“Mademoiselle, did you sleep well last night?”

Cynthia opened her eyes in surprise.

“Extraordinarily well. I never heard anything at all until Mrs. Cavendish came in and shook me. Even then she could hardly wake me.”

“Thank you, mademoiselle.”

That was all. He passed on without another word, leaving Cynthia staring after him.

John unlocked the door of Mrs. Inglethorp’s bedroom. The blinds were still drawn, and the room had a close, oppressive atmosphere. Poirot went first to the windows and opened them wide. Then he stood in the centre of the room, looking slowly round him.

Nothing had been disturbed since the doctors left. The bed presented a scene of disorder. The clothes were dragged from their places, and one pillow lay upon the floor. Near the overturned table were the fragments of a coffee-cup, a candlestick, some matches, a small medicine bottle, and a quantity of candle-grease. On the mantelpiece the clock had stopped at five minutes past five.

Poirot did not move for some moments. His eyes travelled from the bed to the fireplace, from the fireplace to the windows, and finally rested upon the door communicating with Alfred’s room.

“You broke in by that door?” he asked.

“Yes,” said John. “Hastings, Lawrence, and I.”

“And this door into the passage was bolted?”

“I unbolted it myself,” I replied.

“The door into Mademoiselle Cynthia’s room?”

“Bolted also. It has not been opened for years.”

Poirot nodded. He approached the bed and examined it minutely, even going down upon his knees to inspect the carpet beneath. Then he turned his attention to the overturned table.

I confess that his procedure disappointed me. I had expected something dramatic—perhaps the immediate discovery of a significant clue. Instead, he seemed to take an absurd interest in the most commonplace objects. He picked up the matchbox, counted the matches, and replaced it. He examined the candlestick, sniffed the medicine bottle, and studied the stains upon the carpet.

At last he straightened himself.

“The coffee-cup was broken when the table fell?”

“Yes,” I said. “At least, I suppose so.”

“Never suppose, Hastings.”

His reproof nettled me.

“It was certainly whole when Mrs. Inglethorp carried it upstairs.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it.”

“Good. That is evidence.”

John had been watching us with increasing restlessness.

“Is there anything else you require of me?”

“For the present, no. But I should be glad if no one entered the room.”

“It shall remain locked.”

“And the other door?”

“I will lock that also.”

“Excellent.”

John handed Poirot the keys and went downstairs.

For nearly an hour Poirot continued his search. He examined the grate, separating the ashes delicately with a pair of forceps from his case. He scrutinised the writing-table, the blotting-paper, and the closed despatch-case. He opened drawers, but displaced nothing without restoring it to precisely the position in which he had found it.

At one point he uttered a faint exclamation.

“What is it?” I cried.

He was standing near the wash-stand. Bending down, he picked from beside the skirting-board a very small object and placed it in the palm of his hand.

It was a tiny crescent of dark green material, scarcely larger than the paring of a finger-nail. One edge was smooth and glossy; the other appeared rough, as though it had been freshly broken.

“What is it?” I repeated.

Poirot held it towards the light.

“You see as well as I, my friend.”

“It looks like a bit of sealing-wax.”

“Does it?”

“Is it important?”

He slipped it carefully into a small envelope.

“I refuse to explain.”

“But why show it to me?”

“Because two pairs of eyes are useful, even when one pair belongs to Hastings.”

I ignored the gibe.

“Where could it have come from?”

“That is what we shall endeavour to discover.”

The breakfast-bell had rung long before, but Poirot remained indifferent to it. From below came the subdued noises of the household beginning its altered day. The sun had risen high, and the clock in the church tower struck eleven.

Poirot went once more to the door and turned the key. We were alone in the locked room. Then he brought the little envelope to the writing-table, shook out the green crescent, and laid it between us upon the polished wood.

He regarded it with his head on one side.

“At last, Hastings,” he said softly, “we have found something which was not lost.”