The Chapters

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

“*26 May.*

“My dearest Lucy,--

“I have your two letters, and have read them over so often that I know them almost by heart. I shall not tell Jonathan of them, as you bid me keep your secret, though I am sure that if I did he would be as glad as I am. I think I shall never cease to wonder at your three proposals in one day. You must be very careful of your heart, dear, or it will be quite worn out by so much kindness. I am glad that you have Arthur, and I trust that he knows what a treasure he has won.

“I have had no letter from Jonathan since the few lines I told you of. He said he would be back in about a week, and I have counted the days rather foolishly, I fear. I know that business sometimes holds a man longer than he expects, and I must not be anxious before there is reason. Still, I cannot help wishing he would write. I have taken to practising my shorthand in the evenings, and sometimes I write down little scraps of our talk together, as if he were here and I must keep it for him. It is a strange occupation when one is alone.

“Mr. Hawkins has been very good to me, and says that I must not trouble myself about business matters, as Jonathan will be able to explain everything when he comes. That is like a man, dear, to suppose that a thing can be put away merely because one is told not to trouble about it. I have been trying to be a sensible person, and to keep my mind busy. I have taken extra lessons at the school, and have begun to make a new copy of my journal in a more orderly hand.

“I wish you could come down to Exeter for a few days. We might take long walks and talk of all the things we used to talk of when we were girls. You could tell me all about Arthur, and I could tell you how much I miss Jonathan. I hope your mother is well, and that you will write me soon.

“Ever your loving,

“MINA.”

*Letter from Mr. Samuel Billington to Miss Mina Murray.*

“*Bistritz, 29 May.*

“Madam,--

“I trust you will pardon a stranger for writing to you. My name is Samuel Billington, and I am an Englishman at present employed in the office of Messrs. R. H. & Co., merchants, in Bistritz. I have lately received a letter from Mr. Jonathan Harker, whom I met here some weeks ago, and he asked me to inform you that he has been delayed in this country.

“He is not able to say when he will be able to leave, as business matters have detained him beyond his expectation. He is in good health, and desired me to assure you that he has not forgotten his promise to return. He said that he would write himself when he was able, but that I might give you this notice in case you were wondering why you had not heard from him.

“I am sorry to have so little to tell you, and I hope that my letter does not cause you uneasiness. Mr. Harker spoke of you with the greatest affection, and said that he had no wish to cause you anxiety.

“I remain, Madam,

“Your obedient servant,

“SAMUEL BILLINGTON.”

*Letter from Miss Mina Murray to Mr. Peter Hawkins.*

“*31 May.*

“Dear Mr. Hawkins,--

“I have received a letter from Mr. Samuel Billington, of Bistritz, saying that Jonathan has been delayed in Transylvania by business. He is well, Mr. Billington says, and hopes to write to me himself when he can. I should be grateful if you could tell me whether you have heard from Jonathan, or whether there is anything in the business at Carfax which would account for his delay.

“I know that you will not wish me to trouble you without reason. I am anxious, because I thought he would have been home by now, and his own few lines gave me no idea that his stay would be so long. I do not want to imagine things, but I cannot help feeling that his silence is unlike him.

“Please forgive me for writing on a matter which may be nothing. I should be thankful for even a short reply.

“Yours faithfully,

“MINA MURRAY.”

*Dr. Seward’s Diary.*

*(Kept in phonograph)*

*26 May.*--Dinner with Quincey and Art at the former’s rooms. I thought to decline, but Morris would have it that work was the very thing I needed, and I suppose he was right. They were both in excellent spirits, though Art had the look of a man who had been living for several days upon a secret and could scarce wait to tell it. He was married to Lucy before dinner was over, at least in his own mind, and we made him confess as much.

Morris had done everything in proper style, though he affected to be careless about it. The table was laid with his usual taste, and there was a great bowl of roses in the middle of it. He had a fire though the evening was warm, and said that no honest dinner should be eaten without one. He gave us champagne, and afterwards a bottle of claret which he declared had been brought over the plains in a wagon, though I suspect he had got it from a more ordinary source.

The first health was to Arthur, and the second to Lucy. Morris made a speech about a girl whose honesty made a man proud to have loved her, and Art answered that he was the happiest fellow alive. I did not attempt to be witty. It seemed a sacred kind of happiness, and I was content to listen.

After dinner Morris produced an old cigar box and told us stories of his travels, and Art told us how he had first learned to love Lucy. There was more feeling in his account than I had ever expected from him. He spoke of her quiet ways, her quick kindness, and the way she looked at a person who was speaking to her, as if there were no other in the room. He did not make himself out a hero, but said plainly that he had been afraid she might not care for him. Morris listened without interruption, and when Art finished, he raised his glass and said, “Well, old chap, you’ve got her. That is all that matters.”

I felt very lonely for a little while. Then Morris said that a man may have his heart broken and still be glad that a good woman is happy. I am not sure that this is true, but he seems to believe it, and his belief did me good. I know that I have not been generous in my thoughts since Lucy refused me. I had fancied that I could put it away with a phrase, and go back to my work as if nothing had happened. But when Art spoke, I saw that my loss was small beside his gain, and that there was no dishonour in being glad for them.

We drank to the three of us being friends, and Morris made a joke about how there was no woman in the world worth quarrelling over. I told him he was wrong, and he laughed and said he would give me time to learn better. It was late when we parted. Arthur went home with a light step. Morris walked with me as far as the corner, then turned back to his rooms, whistling. I hope I may some day be able to do the same.

*2 June.*--Went down to see Renfield this morning. I found him quite composed, and he had asked for a little fresh air in the yard. I sat beside him and asked whether his appetite was better. He answered that it was, and then, quite suddenly, said, “Doctor, do you know Miss Westenra?”

I was so surprised that I did not answer at once. I asked him what he meant by the question. He said, “Miss Lucy Westenra. She is to be married to Mr. Holmwood.” There was no confusion in his manner, and he spoke as if he were repeating something he had heard from me. I told him that he had never heard me mention her. He smiled and replied that a man in his position hears a good many things. He asked whether she was happy. I said that I believed she was.

He looked at me closely, then said that he wished her every happiness. I asked how he came to know her name. He said he had seen it written in a newspaper, but could not tell me which one, nor when. He seemed to lose interest in the matter at once, and began talking about his own health, asking for more exercise and a book of mathematics.

I have noted it because it was unexpected. There was no sign of agitation, and his question did not appear to be connected with any of his fixed ideas. I shall ask him again when the occasion offers.

*Letter from Hon. Arthur Holmwood to Dr. John Seward.*

“*3 June.*

“My dear Jack,--

“I ought to have written sooner, but I have been too happy to settle to anything. Lucy is well, and her mother has given us her blessing. We are to be married as soon as her arrangements permit. You and Quincey must come to dinner again, but this time I shall not let either of you drink my health till you have told me that I have not become unbearable.

“I shall never forget the kindness you both showed me on the night of the dinner. I know what it cost Quincey to speak so cheerfully, and I know what you had to put aside in order to sit with me and be glad. I cannot repay you, but I shall remember it always.

“Lucy sends her love, and says she hopes you will come to see us when you can. She says she has no patience with your habit of making everything a medical case, and that you must come prepared to talk of something else.

“Your affectionate friend,

“ARTHUR.”

*Telegram from Mr. Peter Hawkins to Miss Mina Murray.*

“*London, 4 June.*

“Mr. Harker’s delay is unexplained. No further word has reached me. I have wired Bistritz for particulars.”

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

“*5 June.*

“My dearest Lucy,--

“I am very glad that you are happy with Arthur. His letter to Dr. Seward found its way into my hands, as Mr. Hawkins asked me to copy some business papers and I saw it on the desk. I was not meant to read it, but I did, and I hope you will forgive me. It was a very sweet letter, and I think you must be proud of Arthur.

“I have heard again from Mr. Hawkins. He has had no word from Jonathan, and has sent a telegram to Bistritz. Mr. Billington’s letter was kind, but it gives me no comfort. I am sure Jonathan is well, and yet I should like to hear from him in his own hand. I try not to be foolish, but the days seem very long.

“Your loving,

“MINA.”

*Telegram from Mr. Samuel Billington to Mr. Peter Hawkins.*

“*Bistritz, 8 June.*

“Harker left town weeks ago. No present address known. Letter I sent was based on message from hotel clerk.”

*Telegram from Mr. Peter Hawkins to Miss Mina Murray.*

“*London, 9 June.*

“Billington cannot confirm Harker’s present whereabouts. Keep calm. I shall make further enquiries.”

*Telegram from Mr. Hawkins to Miss Mina Murray.*

“*London, 12 June.*

“Jonathan Harker has arrived in Budapest. He is alive, and has asked that no letters be sent to Transylvania.”

I closed the medical book with a snap, and went out into the hall. The household seemed strangely quiet. Here and there I passed a white-faced servant, moving softly and with averted eyes. The tragedy had already laid its hand upon Styles.

I let myself out by the front door. The morning was hot and still, and the sky had the sullen look that often comes before a storm. As I hurried down the drive, the events of the night kept crowding upon my mind. Mrs. Inglethorp’s terrible death; the doctors’ suspicions; the absence of her husband; and, above all, those last strangled words—“Alfred—Alfred——”

Poirot’s cottage was a little way beyond the village. I found him in the garden, trimming a rosebush with a pair of scissors. He looked up at my approach, and his face grew grave.

“Ah, mon ami. You come from Styles.”

“You know?”

“Certainly. Miss Howard has just been here. She told me of the death of Mrs. Inglethorp.”

“Miss Howard!” I exclaimed. “But she left the house yesterday.”

“She has returned this morning. She was much distressed. She told me that the old lady had died in the night, and that the doctors were asking for a post-mortem.”

“Then you know why I have come,” I said eagerly. “I want you to come back with me at once. There are circumstances—strange circumstances. I believe—”

“Do not tell me what you believe, Hastings. Tell me what you know.”

I checked myself. “Mrs. Inglethorp died in convulsions. Dr. Bauerstein says they were tetanic in character. Dr. Wilkins will not give a certificate.”

“Good. And Mr. Inglethorp?”

“Not in the house. He was absent all night.”

Poirot laid down his scissors. “Then we will go to Styles.”

He changed his coat and hat, and we set out together. On the way, I told him what I could of the events of the night, including the locked doors, the broken door into Mrs. Inglethorp’s room, and Lawrence’s strange expression as he stood with the candle in his hand.

Poirot listened attentively, but asked few questions. When I mentioned the way the room had been locked, he stopped me.

“Every door was bolted from within?”

“So we were told.”

“And the window?”

“I don’t know. I saw nothing of it.”

“Then we shall see. And this young lady, Miss Murdoch, who was awakened?”

“She was sound asleep. Mrs. Cavendish had to shake her.”

“Ah!” He gave a little nod, but did not explain it.

We had nearly reached the house when a motor-car swung round the bend in the drive and came towards us. The man at the wheel was Alfred Inglethorp. His black beard seemed more striking than ever against his pale face. He looked tired, but perfectly composed.

He stopped the car and got out.

“Mr. Hastings,” he said, “and Monsieur Poirot, I presume? I am glad you have come. This is a terrible business. I have been away all night, and only heard the news a few moments ago.”

His tone was one of deep concern. For an instant I felt ashamed of the suspicions that had crossed my mind. Then I remembered the empty bed in his room, and the dying woman’s cry.

“Where have you been, Mr. Inglethorp?” asked Poirot.

“I spent the night at the Railway Hotel in Tadminster. I walked there after seeing Dr. Bauerstein off last evening. It was too late to trouble the household, and I thought it best to stay in town. I came back by the first car I could get.”

“The first car?” I repeated. “You came by the six o’clock train?”

“No. I hired a motor from the hotel. It was quite impossible to get a train at that hour.”

Poirot’s eyes rested on him for a moment.

“I see. You saw Dr. Bauerstein off, you say?”

“Yes. We walked to the village together. He had been kind enough to call, and I accompanied him part of the way. I then continued to Tadminster.”

“By the road past the lodge?”

“Yes. I suppose so. I did not pay much attention to the route.”

We had reached the front door. Alfred turned to the maid who had opened it.

“Is Mr. Cavendish in the house?”

“I think he is in the dining-room, sir.”

“Then I will go to him.”

He moved away down the hall. Poirot and I followed at a little distance. In the dining-room, John and Lawrence were seated at the table. They rose as Alfred came in.

“John, I have only just heard,” he began. “I can’t tell you how shocked I am.”

John looked at him steadily. “Where have you been, Alfred?”

“I have told Monsieur Poirot. I spent the night at the Railway Hotel in Tadminster. I thought it best not to return here so late.”

John’s face tightened, but he said nothing.

At that moment Dorcas came in with a tray. She stopped short when she saw Alfred.

“Why, Mr. Inglethorp!” she cried. “You’re back, then.”

Alfred turned towards her. “Yes, Dorcas.”

“I thought you’d gone on to Tadminster, sir. I saw you come in by the side door at half-past one. I was just coming down to see if the kitchen fire had gone out.”

There was an awkward silence. Dorcas looked from one face to another, plainly conscious that she had said something amiss.

Alfred’s expression did not change. “You must be mistaken, Dorcas. I was in Tadminster all night.”

“I’m sure I saw you, sir,” she said, faltering. “You had your latch-key in your hand. But perhaps it was someone else.”

John’s eyes were fixed on Alfred. Lawrence had turned very pale. Poirot, however, appeared to be studying the pattern of the carpet.

“It is possible,” said Alfred, with a faint smile. “The house has been full of confusion this morning. You may have seen one of the other gentlemen.”

Dorcas murmured an apology and withdrew.

Poirot glanced at me. I thought I understood the look in his eyes, but I was not sure. He addressed Alfred in a courteous tone.

“Monsieur, I should like to see the room in which Mrs. Inglethorp died.”

“Certainly,” said John. “I have the keys.”

He took them from his pocket. Alfred made no objection. We went upstairs together, and John unlocked the door. The room had been left exactly as it was when the doctors had withdrawn. The bed stood in disorder, the covering twisted and thrown aside. The table beside it lay on its side, and the shattered remains of a glass were scattered near the carpet. The air had grown close and heavy.

Poirot paused on the threshold. His eyes travelled over the room, taking in each detail.

“Do not touch anything,” he said quietly. “We will look first.”

He went in, moving with care. He examined the bed, the table, and the floor about it. He looked at the window and tried the fastening. He studied the door by which we had entered, then the broken connecting door that led to Mr. Inglethorp’s room.

“Who broke this door?” he asked.

“We did,” said John. “We couldn’t get in any other way.”

“And the other door?”

“That one was bolted from the inside,” I said. “We forced this one instead.”

Poirot bent to inspect the broken wood. Then he stood up and looked towards the mantelpiece. His gaze moved along the row of ornaments and came to rest upon a small object near the clock. He took it up between his fingers.

“What is that?” I asked.

He turned it over once, then closed his hand around it. For a moment I thought he meant to put it in his pocket, but instead he held it out to me.

“Look, Hastings.”

I examined the object. It was small and ordinary, and I could see nothing remarkable about it.

“What is it?” I asked.

Poirot took it back. “That, mon ami, I shall not explain.”

“Why not?”

“Because I do not yet know what it means.”

“But you have some idea?”

He smiled faintly. “I have many ideas. That is not the same thing.”

John had remained by the door. “Is there anything you need us to do?”

“Only to leave the room as it is. It is important that nothing should be moved.”

“Of course,” said John. “The doctors have the keys.”

Poirot looked towards him. “You have one key. I have the other. We shall keep the room locked.”

Alfred had not followed us in. He stood farther along the passage, silent and grave. As we came out, his eyes met mine. There was no anger in them, only a kind of weary sorrow. I remembered Dorcas’s words, and felt again the painful uncertainty that had beset me since the night before.

Poirot locked the door. Then he turned to John.

“May I speak with Miss Murdoch?”

“She is in the morning-room, I believe,” John replied.

We found Cynthia there with Mary. She was sitting by the window, her hands clasped in her lap. She looked pale now, and very quiet. Mary stood beside her, one hand resting on the back of the chair.

Poirot greeted them both, and then addressed Cynthia.

“Mademoiselle, did you sleep soundly last night?”

“Yes,” she said. “I slept very soundly. I did not wake until Mrs. Cavendish came to me.”

Poirot bowed. “Thank you.”

That was all. He asked no further question, and did not tell her why he had asked it. Mary looked at him with a searching glance, but he had already turned away.

We left the morning-room and went downstairs. The house seemed full of whispers. Servants came and went with lowered voices; each time a door opened, I caught a glimpse of a drawn face or a hurried glance. Outside, the heat had increased. The storm still threatened, though not a breath of air stirred the trees.

Poirot asked me to walk with him in the garden. For a while he said nothing, and I found myself unable to bear the silence.

“Well?” I demanded at last. “What do you make of it?”

“Of what?”

“Of the whole thing. The locked doors, Mr. Inglethorp’s absence, Dorcas’s statement, the peculiar violence of the attack.”

Poirot’s eyes rested on me, amused.

“You ask me to make a conclusion before I have collected the facts. That is not the way of Hercule Poirot.”

“But surely you must have some theory.”

“I have several. They do not agree with one another.”

“And the object you found?”

“That is one of the facts.”

“But you would not explain it.”

“I told you why. I do not know its meaning yet.”

He paused by a bed of flowers and bent to inspect a drooping rose. “There is a difference between seeing and understanding, Hastings. Many people see. Few understand.”

“I suppose you are thinking of something you saw in the room.”

“I am thinking of many things.”

His manner was so irritatingly calm that I could have shaken him. Yet beneath it I sensed a keen excitement, held in check by discipline. I had known him long enough to recognise that stillness in him.

At eleven o’clock a message came from John asking us to return to the house. The doctors wished to speak with him about the arrangements for the post-mortem. Poirot declined to join them. He said that he had no business with the doctors until he had seen the room again, and that, for the present, he wished to be left alone.

We went upstairs once more. John handed him the keys, and Poirot unlocked the bedroom. He asked me to follow him in, then shut the door and turned the key in the lock.

We were alone together in the room where Mrs. Inglethorp had died. The little object lay between us on the table.

Poirot looked down at it, and then at me.

“Now, Hastings,” he said, “we must consider what is absent.”

“You owe me seven-and-sixpence, sir,” I said, when I had got my breath again. “And I have a right to know whether you mean to pay it before or after you have squeezed the life out of me.”

Mr. Franklin laughed, and gave me the hand I wanted for getting up. “I’ll pay it this minute, Betteredge, if you can give me change for a sovereign.”

“I can give you change for a hundred sovereigns, sir; but you are four hours before your time, and that is a matter I must have explained.”

“I’ll explain it on the way to the house. Have you seen my mother?”

“No, sir. Her ladyship and Miss Rachel are still away from home.”

He looked towards the sandhills by which he had come. “And that young woman?”

“Rosanna Spearman, sir. She went off just now, without waiting to make her curtsey.”

“I hope I didn’t frighten her.”

“I hope not, sir. She’s apt to be a little unaccountable, is Rosanna.”

Mr. Franklin took his hat off, and wiped his forehead. The warmth of the day had put a colour into his face; but something in his eyes, when they turned again towards the hills, told me there was another cause for his quickness in coming. “Betteredge,” he said, “I’ve had a letter. That’s why I’m here four hours early. I came down in a hurry, and I haven’t even stopped to eat.”

“A letter from my lady, sir?”

“From my uncle.”

I beg you to observe, good reader, that the name of Herncastle was not one I liked to hear. It brought back the family paper with which this story began, and the odd reserve that had always hung about the gentleman. Mr. Franklin, however, did not seem inclined to keep his news to himself. He took a folded letter from his breast-pocket and held it out to me.

“Read it,” said he. “You’ll understand why I came.”

“I’m not much of a hand at reading other people’s letters, sir,” I said. “But if you wish it—”

“I do. And there’s no secret in it.”

I took the paper from him. The seal had been broken; the writing was small and close, in a hand that seemed to take care of every inch of the paper. I read as follows:

“London, May 24th, 1848.

“Dear Franklin,

“I am informed that you leave London to-morrow for Yorkshire. Before you go, I ask you to do me the favour of carrying a packet to your aunt, Lady Verinder. You will find it enclosed with this letter. Keep it in your own custody until you reach the house, and then place it in her hands, unopened. Do not speak of its contents to any person. I have particular reasons for making this request, which I shall explain to you when we meet.

“Your affectionate uncle, “John Herncastle.”

I turned the paper over, and found no more. Mr. Franklin watched me while I read, with an anxiousness that sat strangely on his usually easy face.

“Now,” he said, “you see why I came early.”

“I see that your uncle has sent a packet, sir. I don’t see why that should bring you down four hours before your time.”

“There’s more to it than the letter. It came by a messenger who said I was to start at once if I could. My uncle was in a state of great agitation, and the man had orders to wait for my answer. I sent one back to say that I would come. I don’t know what he means by ‘particular reasons’; I don’t know what I’m carrying. But I thought it best to get here without delay.”

“Did you tell my lady, sir?”

“No. I thought I would tell her myself, and hand over the packet. Here it is.”

He put his hand into the inner pocket of his coat and drew out a small parcel, wrapped in paper and sealed. He held it for an instant in his palm, looking down at it as if he expected the seal to explain something. It did not. The packet remained closed, and I knew no more of its contents than I knew of the contents of the moon.

“I’ll take it to her ladyship,” said I.

“No,” said Mr. Franklin. “I’d rather keep it safe till I can give it to her in person. Could you lock it away in the plate-room tonight? I’ve had a long journey, and I don’t want to carry it about. I’ll give it to my aunt as soon as she comes home.”

I looked at the little packet, and then at him. It was an odd request, but a reasonable one. The plate-room was secure, and it was my business to keep the keys.

“Certainly, sir. I’ll put it in the iron cupboard, and lock it up. You can give it to my lady in the morning.”

“Thank you, Betteredge. And don’t open it, of course.”

“Not if you were to ask me on your knees, sir,” I said. “A sealed packet is a sealed packet, and I have never yet had a desire to find out what somebody else has chosen to hide.”

Mr. Franklin smiled, though his thoughts seemed elsewhere. “You’ve changed very little.”

“And you, sir, have changed a good deal, since the last time you had the kindness to owe me seven-and-sixpence.”

He took out a sovereign and gave it to me. I offered him the change. He waved it away. “Keep it. You may need it for the next time I arrive unexpectedly.”

“I’ll keep the seven-and-sixpence, sir, and return you the rest when you ask for it.”

“That is why I like you, Betteredge. You never take a sovereign without making it awkward.”

We set off together towards the house. He asked me if all was well at home; and I told him my lady was well, and Miss Rachel was well, and the servants were as troublesome as usual. He asked after Penelope, and I said she had not yet reported whether the Indians had left the neighbourhood. I had promised her I would speak to him about the boy’s strange words, and now seemed as good a time as any.

“Did the boy tell you anything more?” I asked.

Mr. Franklin stopped short. “What boy?”

“The little English boy who came with the Indians this morning. Penelope saw the chief pour ink into his hand and put him in a trance. The boy said you were coming today, and that you had got ‘It’ about you.”

Mr. Franklin’s face changed. He looked at me with more attention than he had shown since arriving. “What did he say exactly?”

I repeated Penelope’s account as she had given it to me. Mr. Franklin heard me out, and then asked, “Did he say what ‘It’ was?”

“No, sir. He couldn’t tell her. He said only that the English gentleman would travel to this house today, and had got It about him.”

Mr. Franklin looked down at the packet in his hand. His fingers closed over it, and his manner altered again.

“Is there anything strange in the packet, sir?” I asked.

“I don’t know what is in it,” he said. “I’ve told you that.”

“Of course, sir. I only thought—”

“You thought of the same thing I did.” He gave me a quick, uneasy smile. “It’s nonsense, Betteredge. It’s a trick, or a coincidence. And yet it’s a curious coincidence.”

I saw that he did not believe it nonsense, whatever he might say. But I did not press him. I had my own opinion of the whole affair, and it was not made stronger by seeing that my young gentleman had an opinion of his own.

We reached the house. The front windows were open, and the sun fell across the hall floor. I took Mr. Franklin into the library, where he sat down and asked for water. I rang for it, and while we waited he leaned back in his chair and looked about him.

“Nothing has changed,” he said.

“Things do change, sir,” I replied. “But the old walls don’t take much notice of it.”

He drank his water, and asked me to leave him alone for a few minutes. I went to the plate-room with the packet, unlocked the iron cupboard, and placed it inside. The seal remained whole. I turned the key, locked the door, and put it in my pocket. There was no reason to know what lay within, and I went away knowing no more than before.

As I came back through the hall, Penelope met me. “Father,” she said, “have you seen Rosanna?”

“No. I thought she would have come in by now.”

“She hasn’t come back to the house. Nancy says she saw her go on to Cobb’s Hole.”

“Did she say why?”

“No. She just went on. I asked Nancy to call after her, but Rosanna didn’t hear, or wouldn’t answer.”

I considered this news, and did not like it. Cobb’s Hole was a good walk from the sands, and Rosanna had not taken her dinner. Still, she had her own reasons for being solitary, and I could not force a sensible explanation out of every wayward action.

“She may be with her friend,” said Penelope. “The woman she sometimes visits.”

“Very likely,” I answered. “Don’t trouble yourself, my girl. She’ll be back when she’s ready.”

Penelope looked doubtful. “I wish she would tell someone when she goes so far.”

“So do I,” said I. “But she has a mind of her own, and we must make the best of it.”

My daughter went away, and I returned to the library. Mr. Franklin was still there, standing by the window. He had the air of a man whose mind was travelling along some road his body had not yet followed.

“My lady has come home, sir,” I said.

He turned quickly. “Where is she?”

“In the morning-room. She has just arrived.”

“Then I’ll go to her at once.”

I had time to tell him that her ladyship was tired after her drive, and might be glad to sit quietly for a little while. But Mr. Franklin was in no humour to wait. He went to the morning-room, and I followed him at a respectful distance.

My lady was seated by the window, with her bonnet laid aside. She looked worn, but there was no illness in her face. When Mr. Franklin entered, she rose and gave him both hands.

“My dear Franklin! You’re here already!”

“Four hours early, Aunt,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I hope I haven’t alarmed you.”

“Not at all. I’m delighted to see you. But why have you come before your time?”

He told her of the letter from Herncastle and of the packet. I saw her expression change when he named her brother. She did not interrupt him. When he had finished, she held out her hand for the packet. Mr. Franklin said that it was locked away in the plate-room, and that he would give it to her later.

“You did right,” she said. “I shall see to it when I have leisure.”

Then she sat down again, and looked at him with a seriousness that I had seldom seen in her. “There is one thing, Franklin, that I must ask of you. Your uncle has been the cause of a great deal of trouble in our family. I do not wish to hear him discussed in this house. You understand me?”

Mr. Franklin stood silent for a moment. Then he bowed his head. “I understand, Aunt. I will not speak of him under your roof.”

My lady gave him her hand. “Thank you, my dear. I know I may depend on you.”

“Yes,” he said. “You may.”

I could not help wondering at the suddenness of the prohibition. There was something behind it, I felt sure; but family matters are not for a servant to question, even when the servant has been in the family longer than some of the family themselves. I had learnt that lesson from Sir John Verinder, whose few words had often conveyed more than a whole morning of explanations.

Her ladyship then asked Mr. Franklin about his journey, and he answered with the easy good humour that belonged to him when no subject troubled his mind. He spoke of the crowded train, of a delay on the road, and of a gentleman who had insisted on talking politics the whole way from London. My lady laughed at the tale, and the conversation became more cheerful. She told him that the rest of the family would be glad to see him when they returned, and he asked after everyone without naming the person whom I had been forbidden to name.

I left them together, and went to see that his room was ready. There was nothing wanting, except his luggage, which had not yet arrived. I sent one of the stable lads to ask after it, and then gave orders for Mr. Franklin’s tea. By then the day had begun to draw in, and the sun had lost the boldness it had shown at noon.

The servants had their own talk of Rosanna. Nancy said that the girl had no business roaming the coast on an empty stomach. The cook said she had never known anyone with such a fancy for the sands. The housekeeper wondered whether she would be home in time to lay the supper cloth. I told them all to mind their own work, and not to talk about their fellow-servant as if she were a ghost in the passage.

“She has gone to Cobb’s Hole,” I said. “She is no doubt visiting the woman she knows there. If she is late, she is late. It is no reason for making a scandal.”

I knew the girl was not a favourite among them, and I knew also that a few words from me could do no harm. Her past was hidden from the servants, but her loneliness was plain enough, and that ought to have been reason for kindness.

At tea, Mr. Franklin was quieter than usual. He asked whether I had locked away the packet, and I told him it was safe in the iron cupboard. “Good,” he said. “I shall give it to my aunt tomorrow.” He did not ask what I thought of the boy’s prophecy. I did not ask what he thought of it either.

After tea, her ladyship sent for me. She wanted to know if Mr. Franklin had everything he needed, and whether I had heard anything more about Rosanna. I told her what Penelope had reported. My lady looked concerned, but said nothing beyond asking me to have word sent to Cobb’s Hole in the morning if the girl did not return by then.

“Do you think she is safe, Betteredge?” she asked.

“I think she is with a friend, my lady. Rosanna is a strange girl, but she has sense enough to take care of herself.”

“I hope you are right.”

I went back to my sitting-room after the evening meal, and found the house quiet. Mr. Franklin was in the library with a book; her ladyship had retired early. I had no more news of Rosanna. No one had seen her return. The servants had finished their work and gone upstairs, and the halls stood empty under the lamps.

I took Robinson Crusoe from its place, and settled myself in my beehive chair. The book opened of its own accord to a passage I knew well. I read it twice, then let the pages rest on my knee. Outside, the night had come down over the coast, and the wind moved softly around the house. The packet remained locked away in the plate-room, its seal unbroken; Rosanna was still not back in the house.

It was not long before the two counsellors came to Kellynch Hall, each with a plan which he hoped might prove acceptable. Lady Russell arrived first, bringing with her the composure which she could not communicate to her friends. Mr Shepherd followed, with papers in his hand and the air of a man who had found his way through an embarrassment by making it a matter of figures.

They were received in the drawing-room, where Sir Walter had placed himself at a table with the Baronetage open before him. Elizabeth sat near the window, and Anne, who had been there when the gentlemen were announced, took a seat a little apart. She knew that her presence was not desired by her father, but there had been no order for her to withdraw, and it was always easier to remain unnoticed than to provoke a request.

Lady Russell spoke first. She had taken pains to frame her counsel with every respect to Sir Walter’s feelings, but there was no disguising its meaning. The establishment must be reduced at once. The number of servants might be lessened; the household expenses brought within a fixed limit; the horses and carriages cut down to what was necessary; and every purchase, whether for the house or for the family, considered with regard to its use rather than its appearance. She proposed that they begin with the stables, where two horses could be dispensed with, and that the expenses of the household be entered and examined each week. The changes, she believed, might be made without any loss of proper comfort, if carried out with judgement.

Sir Walter listened with an expression of increasing gravity. At the mention of the horses he glanced, almost involuntarily, towards the window, as though their reduced number might already be visible in the stable yard.

“My dear Lady Russell,” he said, “you are too well aware that I have never been a man to indulge in anything unreasonable. I must maintain the station which belongs to Kellynch Hall. A baronet’s establishment cannot be conducted on the footing of an ordinary country gentleman’s.”

“No one wishes you to do so,” said Lady Russell. “I am asking only for a careful reduction, such as your income requires.”

“The income of Kellynch,” said Sir Walter, “is a very different thing from the income of many of those who would presume to advise me. It is the expenditure which has been forced upon me by the demands of my situation.”

He turned to Mr Shepherd, as if for confirmation. Mr Shepherd had been waiting with a paper ready in his hand. He was a cautious man, who would rather have avoided giving offence, but he had come prepared to speak plainly.

“Sir Walter,” he said, “I have considered the accounts as far as the information has allowed. The sums are considerable, and the payment of the interest on the mortgages leaves you little room. Lady Russell’s plan is a good one, but I fear it will not answer the whole purpose. If the bills are to be cleared, and the yearly expenses kept within the income, we must make a more decided reduction.”

Sir Walter’s mouth tightened.

Mr Shepherd continued. “The establishment may be brought down to fewer servants. The London expenses must be limited to a shorter stay, and the household at Kellynch must be managed with the greatest care. I would also suggest that certain articles of furniture be sold, and that no new expenses be undertaken until the accounts are in a better state.”

“Sell the furniture!” cried Sir Walter. “The furniture of Kellynch Hall? I cannot conceive a proposal more unworthy of consideration.”

“I meant only such pieces as might be spared,” said Mr Shepherd. “There are—”

“Not one,” Sir Walter interrupted. “The house has been furnished in a manner suited to its owner, and I will not see it stripped of its proper contents. Nor can I consent to a reduced establishment. A smaller number of servants would be remarked upon in every house in the neighbourhood. The talk would be endless.”

“Talk is not the chief danger,” said Lady Russell, with a firmness which she seldom used towards him. “The danger is that the debts will continue to grow.”

Sir Walter looked wounded. “I do not need to be reminded of my own affairs.”

Mr Shepherd lowered his paper. He had expected resistance, but not so entire a rejection. Lady Russell, who had spent the morning arranging her thoughts, looked at him with a discouragement which did not escape Anne.

There was a silence. Anne had listened with a beating heart. She could not mistake the failure of both plans, nor the ease with which her father had dismissed proposals that might have made a real difference. Her own ideas had been forming since Lady Russell began to speak. She had been unwilling to offer them at first. She feared to be thought officious, or to add to the impatience which Sir Walter was already feeling. But it seemed to her that silence now would be a kind of consent to the continuance of a distress which none of them could afford to ignore.

“If I might say what I have been thinking,” she began, “there are some reductions which seem to me possible without bringing any discredit upon the family.”

Every face turned towards her. Sir Walter’s astonishment was not softened by the civility with which he received her words.

“What can you know of these matters, Anne?”

“I know very little of the accounts,” she answered; “but I know that several expenses are not necessary. The horses need not be kept in the same number. The household might be smaller, and the London visits fewer. We might also give up some of the entertainments here, and avoid every expense that is not required for the proper keeping of the house. If each of us were to give up something, instead of expecting the whole reduction to be made by others, I think the sum might be considerable.”

She had spoken more quickly at first, but by the end her voice had grown steady. She did not look at her father. She knew that her plan was stricter than Lady Russell’s, and would require more of all of them. She had not mentioned the drawing-room or the gifts to Mary, for these had already been proposed and found insufficient. She had thought of the carriages, the servants, the costly annual trips to town, and the habits of hospitality which were pleasant but not essential. It seemed to her that they might begin at once.

Mr Shepherd listened with respect. Lady Russell’s countenance had warmed with approval. Elizabeth, to Anne’s surprise, did not look offended.

“I think Anne is right,” Elizabeth said. “We have spoken of retrenchment as if it were to be accomplished by some small alteration, but we have not been willing to consider what the expense of our usual way of life amounts to. There is no reason why we should keep more horses than are needed, or go to London as often as we have done. We might also receive fewer people at Kellynch until matters are easier.”

Sir Walter stared at her. “Elizabeth, I cannot understand how you can join in such a proposal. You know the appearance of our family must be maintained.”

“I know that it must,” she replied, “but there is no appearance to maintain if our affairs are spoken of throughout the county. It is better to make a change of our own accord than to have it forced upon us by circumstances.”

That speech, coming from Elizabeth, had more effect than all that had been said before. Sir Walter’s displeasure was plain, but he could not immediately find an answer which would contradict her without seeming to deny the condition of their affairs. He looked from her to Anne, and back again to Lady Russell, as if to discover whether they had all been persuaded by some common mistake.

“I have no intention of living in a manner beneath my station,” he said at last. “I have heard your plans, and I reject them. No reductions of the kind you propose can be adopted.”

Anne felt a flush rise in her face, but Elizabeth did not retreat.

“Papa, we cannot continue as we have done.”

“We shall continue as we have done until some course is found which does not compromise the dignity of the family.”

Mr Shepherd took advantage of the opening. “There may be another course, Sir Walter, though I would not urge it without your consent. If Kellynch Hall were let for a term, the income might be applied to the debts, and a smaller house taken for the present. The arrangement might be made without any sale of the estate.”

The word had scarcely left his mouth before Sir Walter rose from his chair.

“Let Kellynch Hall!” he cried. “You cannot mean to propose that I should let my own house to a tenant.”

“I meant only to suggest—”

“I will not hear the word again. No tenant shall be named in my presence. Kellynch is my home, and the seat of my family. I shall not have strangers installed in it while I am living.”

Mr Shepherd bowed, and Lady Russell looked distressed. Anne was silent. Her father had rejected the plan before anyone could explain its terms, and she could not imagine any other proposal which he would receive more kindly. Elizabeth had turned away from the window. Her agreement with Anne had not made her indifferent to the shock of Mr Shepherd’s words; she seemed to be considering whether the subject might still be brought back to Sir Walter in some less offensive shape.

“It was no more than a possibility,” said Mr Shepherd. “I am sorry if I have been too bold.”

“You have,” Sir Walter replied. “I must ask you to understand that there are limits to what can be suggested to me.”

The conversation ended soon afterwards. Mr Shepherd put away his papers. Lady Russell remained for a few minutes, trying to restore the subject to a calmer footing, but Sir Walter would not be persuaded to revisit it. She said that she would think again, and that perhaps a means of reducing the expenses without any sacrifice of consequence might yet be found. He thanked her with a dignity which implied that he could not be expected to acknowledge her advice as necessary.

When they were gone, Sir Walter complained that his friends had chosen to make his embarrassments more difficult by dwelling on them. He said that he had never asked for anything unreasonable, and that every suggestion seemed to begin with a sacrifice of his comforts. Elizabeth did not answer. Anne withdrew to another part of the house, where she might be of use without remaining within hearing of the conversation.

The afternoon passed without bringing any change in their affairs. Elizabeth spoke little, but she did not withdraw her support of Anne’s plan. Sir Walter had returned to the Baronetage, though the page remained open for some time without being turned. Anne wondered whether he was thinking of what had been said, or only waiting for the displeasure of it to pass.

A servant brought in a letter before the lamps were lit. It was addressed to Anne in Mary’s hand. She recognised it at once and opened it as soon as it was brought to her.

“MY DEAR ANNE,

“I hope you will come to me directly, for I have been very unwell all day. I am sure there is something wrong, though Charles says I am only tired, and nobody seems to understand how much I suffer. I have a pain in my side and feel so weak that I can hardly bear the children’s noise. You know I never like to complain without reason, but I cannot help thinking I ought to have someone with me who understands how I feel. I shall be very glad if you can come to Uppercross tomorrow, or even tonight if it is not too late. Pray do not put it off. I am sure a little of your company would do me good.

“Your affectionate sister,

“MARY.”

Anne read the letter again, and then carried it to Elizabeth. She could not help smiling at the familiar turn of its complaints, though she felt no less ready to answer them.

“Mary is unwell,” she said. “She wants me at Uppercross.”

Elizabeth glanced over the letter. “She says she has been unwell all day. You must go to her.”

“I should like to go in the morning,” Anne said. “It would be too late to set out tonight.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth replied. “We have no reason to keep you here.”

Sir Walter was less ready to approve. “Must you go at once whenever Mary sends for you? She has a husband and a household of her own.”

“She asks for me,” said Anne. “I shall go tomorrow.”

He made no answer, and Elizabeth did not press him. The question of Anne’s going was settled as easily as so many of her wishes, not because they mattered, but because no one thought it worth the trouble of opposing her.

The rest of the evening was spent in a quiet which had little comfort in it. Sir Walter remained with his book, and Elizabeth read without attending to her page. Anne sat alone in her room after the others had withdrawn. She folded Mary’s letter and placed it where she might find it in the morning. Then she began to consider what would be needed for the journey to Uppercross.

The family’s debts remained, and the day had brought no plan which her father would accept. Her proposal had been heard, and for a moment supported, but nothing had been settled. Anne resolved to go to Mary as soon as she could. The rest must wait.

When Eve Halliday came down the steps of the Ada Clarkson International Employment Bureau, the rain had stopped. The London sky, which had been behaving with the usual summer caprice, now wore an expression of injured innocence, as if surprised that anyone should have doubted it. Eve paused on the pavement and looked at the umbrella in her hand.

It was a very good umbrella. She had known it from the first. It was also somebody’s, and the somebody had plainly intended her to keep it. Such a gift was a little difficult to accept from a young man whose face she had seen for only a moment, and whose name she did not know.

She could hardly take it home. Nor could she leave it at the employment bureau, where its presence might lead to an inquiry and the discovery that she had appropriated it. The club across from Thorpe & Briscoe seemed the obvious place. She had seen the young man go in there, and a porter would know how to deal with the matter.

Eve crossed Piccadilly and entered the club. A man in a doorway, whose manner suggested that he had been placed there to prevent the building from being carried off by strangers, looked at her with mild surprise.

“Could you tell me where I might leave an umbrella for a member?”

“Certainly, miss. Do you know the gentleman’s name?”

“No. He lent it to me outside, in the rain. He went in here.”

The porter considered this. “I couldn’t say who it was, miss. You might leave it with me.”

Eve handed over the umbrella, then took a small envelope from her handbag and wrote on it: “To the gentleman who lent me his umbrella. Thank you very much. I am returning it through the porter.” She slipped the note under the strap.

“Would you see that he gets it?” she asked.

“I’ll do my best, miss.”

“Thank you.”

Eve went out again. The porter looked after her for a moment, then placed the umbrella behind the desk, where it would be safe from the weather and, one hoped, from the club’s less scrupulous borrowers.

* * * * *

Psmith had returned to the smoking-room and resumed his occupation of the window, which consisted chiefly in looking out of it and allowing the rest of the world to believe that he had thought of something. The rain had ceased, and Thorpe & Briscoe’s awning had been rolled back with the briskness of a shop that had seen too many umbrellas sheltered beneath it.

He was wondering whether the young woman with the hat had reached her destination without further hardship when a stout member, with a red face and a damp moustache, entered the room and halted before him.

“Smith,” he said.

Psmith turned with an air of genial inquiry.

“Good morning, Walderwick.”

“Where’s my umbrella?”

Psmith glanced towards the window. “You will find the elements in a less unsettled frame of mind.”

“Don’t be funny. I left it in the cloak-room. It’s gone.”

“Is it?”

“I’ve asked the attendant. He says you took it.”

“The attendant is an observant man.”

“Then what have you done with it?”

Psmith put up his monocle. “I regret to say that I have no information to offer.”

Walderwick’s face reddened further. “You took the thing out of the club and you don’t know where it is?”

“I know where it was.”

“And where is it now?”

“That, my dear Walderwick, is one of the mysteries which lend interest to life.”

The other stared at him. “I suppose you thought it a joke.”

Psmith considered. “The word ‘joke’ is too lightly used. I should call it an act of chivalry, though I admit that it was performed at your expense.”

“You can’t walk off with my umbrella and call it chivalry.”

“I accept your correction. What sum would induce you to forget the incident?”

Walderwick’s expression altered. He had come prepared to be angry and had not yet decided what to do with the offer.

“What do you mean?”

“Quite simply. I should be sorry to think that I had brought distress into your morning. Name your price for the umbrella.”

“It’s a good one. I paid thirty shillings for it.”

Psmith took a bank-note from his pocket. “Will five pounds meet the case?”

Walderwick blinked. “Five pounds?”

“Unless you consider that inadequate.”

“Good heavens, man, I’m not going to refuse five pounds for a thirty-shilling umbrella.”

“Then we are agreed.” Psmith handed him the note. “You are now a richer man by five pounds, and I am the proprietor of an umbrella.”

Walderwick looked at the note, then at Psmith. “You’re a queer fellow, Smith.”

“I have been told so by persons whose judgment I value.”

Walderwick went away, still holding the note and still unsure whether he had been insulted or had made a remarkably good bargain. Psmith watched him disappear through the door.

He then went downstairs and asked the porter whether anything had been left for him.

“A young lady brought an umbrella back, sir,” said the porter. “There’s a note with it.”

Psmith’s eyes brightened. “A young lady?”

“She said you’d lent it to her in the rain.”

“Ah. Then I am the recipient of a communication from the heavens. May I see it?”

The porter produced the envelope. Psmith opened it and read the few words within. His face grew thoughtful.

“Did she leave her name?”

“No, sir.”

“Ah,” said Psmith. “That is a pity.”

He folded the note and put it in his pocket. The umbrella, meanwhile, had been placed in the rack behind the desk. Psmith lifted it out and examined it with care.

The canopy was of dark green silk, with a polished handle of twisted horn. It was a satisfactory umbrella, though not one that could honestly be called his. He had acquired it by handing its owner five pounds, which was a procedure that might be defended in a court of law and would certainly be approved by the owner. Still, it carried with it a slight confusion of identities. It was Walderwick’s umbrella until the moment of purchase; then it had become Psmith’s; and, for a brief but important interval, it had sheltered a lady who had not asked for it.

Psmith returned to the smoking-room with the umbrella under his arm and put it beside his chair.

* * * * *

At half-past twelve Eve came out of a small restaurant in St. James’s Street, where she had eaten a modest lunch and calculated with care how much remained in her purse. She had left the umbrella with the porter, and felt that a burden had been lifted. A rather agreeable young man had lent it to her. She had returned it. The business was done.

She turned towards Piccadilly and found herself face to face with the same young man.

He was walking with his head slightly bent, absorbed in thought. He saw her at the same moment, and his expression was one of unmistakable pleasure.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

Eve looked at him, then laughed. “You are the gentleman who gave me the umbrella this morning.”

Psmith’s face remained solemn. “I am afraid I cannot claim that distinction.”

“You can’t?”

“I have no recollection of giving an umbrella to anybody.”

Eve smiled. “Then perhaps I have mistaken you for someone else.”

“It is always possible. I have a face which, I am told, gives rise to confusion.”

“But I was quite sure. You were standing outside Thorpe & Briscoe, and you gave me the umbrella and went straight into the club opposite.”

“An interesting story.”

“It is not a story. I have just returned the umbrella to the porter.”

Psmith’s expression did not change, though a faint glimmer appeared in his eye. “Then the porter is a fortunate man. He has acquired a very fine umbrella.”

“And you are not the owner?”

“I did not say that.”

Eve laughed again. “You are determined to be mysterious.”

“I have been accused of worse.”

She glanced at the street, then back at him. “Well, whether you are the owner or not, thank you. It was extremely kind of you to lend it to me.”

“Not at all. I hope it served you well.”

“It kept my hat dry, which was more than I could say for the weather.”

“Then it has fulfilled its mission.”

A cab went by, splashing through a puddle at the kerb. Eve stepped back, and Psmith moved aside to give her room.

“Are you going far?” he asked.

“To Bond Street.”

“May I walk with you?”

“If you like. I am not going anywhere in a hurry.”

They set off together. Eve wondered if she ought to ask his name, but something in his manner made the question seem unnecessary. He appeared to prefer that she should not know it. For her part, she could not remember seeing him before that morning, and had no reason to make a ceremony of a short walk.

“I have been to see Miss Clarkson,” she said. “She has no work for me, which was disappointing, though I had expected it.”

“Perhaps she may yet discover something.”

“She won’t. She looked through her books. But I have an appointment this afternoon with a gentleman who wants someone to catalogue a library. I am to be interviewed.”

Psmith gave a small, respectful nod. “A worthy employment.”

“It sounds rather pleasant. I like books. I hope the gentleman is not too frightening.”

“Is he?”

“I have never met him. I only know that the library is at Blandings Castle, and that I shall have to go down there if I get the place.”

“Blandings Castle,” said Psmith, with interest. “A considerable distance from Bond Street.”

“I know. The appointment is in town, though. I was told to call at an address in Berkeley Square.”

“Then I trust the gentleman will be civil.”

“So do I.” Eve paused. “I am not very good at interviews. I tend to say the wrong thing.”

“Then you are in a large and respectable company.”

She smiled at him. “I have once or twice said something I did not mean. But I usually manage to get out of it.”

“An excellent quality.”

At the corner of Bond Street she stopped.

“This is where I leave you. Thank you for the walk.”

Psmith bowed. “The pleasure has been mine.”

Eve moved off towards the shops. Psmith watched her for a moment, then turned towards the Drones.

* * * * *

At three o’clock Eve stood in the hall of a house in Berkeley Square and watched a butler disappear through a door. The house had a quiet, expensive air, and its occupants seemed to have arranged their furniture so that it could not be accused of making a noise. The butler returned and led her to a small drawing-room, where a tall, elderly gentleman sat at a desk covered with papers.

He rose when Eve entered.

“Miss Halliday?”

“Yes.”

“I am Lord Emsworth. I understand you are seeking employment as a cataloguer.”

“I am, my lord.”

“Your references are satisfactory. Miss Clarkson speaks well of you, and I am told that you have some experience with books.”

“I have always liked them.”

“Quite. My library is a large one, and its arrangement has suffered from neglect. I have been told that a catalogue would help me to find what I want.”

Eve thought of the framed testimonials at Miss Clarkson’s office and the worry in Phyllis’s voice when she spoke of money. She also thought of the opportunity to work in a library, and of how pleasant it might be to leave London for a while.

“I should be very glad to undertake the work, my lord.”

“Good. The matter is straightforward. You would come to Blandings and begin next week. The salary is—” He turned over one of the papers. “—a hundred and fifty pounds a year, with board and lodging.”

Eve’s heart sank a little. One hundred and fifty pounds was precisely what Uncle Thomas had left her. It would be very agreeable to earn the same sum, though it would not make her wealthy. She nodded.

“That sounds very fair.”

Lord Emsworth peered at her. “I hope you understand that I shall expect the work to be done with care.”

“I do, my lord.”

“I am not a difficult man to please,” he continued. “I only want the books put in order. Baxter has been after me to have a catalogue made for years.”

“Mr. Baxter is your secretary?”

“An extremely efficient man. Too efficient, perhaps. He can find one’s spectacles even when one does not remember losing them.”

Eve smiled. “That sounds useful.”

“It is, of course. Still, there are times when a person wishes to mislay something in peace.”

Lord Emsworth shuffled his papers, then looked up again. “Now, Miss Halliday, before we settle anything, I should like to know how you would set about the catalogue.”

“I would first examine the shelves, then make a list of the books, with their titles and authors, and arrange them by subject.”

“By subject? Yes, I suppose so. But you would not separate the books?”

“No, my lord. I should keep them in the order that seems most convenient.”

“Quite. Well, I must confess, I do not know much about catalogues myself. I shall leave the details to you.”

He searched the desk for a sheet of paper, pushing aside a letter and a small pile of envelopes.

“I have been meaning to ask you something. You are acquainted with my niece, Mrs. Jackson?”

Eve stiffened. “Yes, my lord. Phyllis is a dear friend.”

“Ah. I have just had a letter from her.” He found it at last and looked at it with a puzzled frown. “She asks whether I can help her husband find a position.”

Eve felt her cheeks grow warm. “I am sorry, my lord. I did not know she had written.”

“Oh, there is no harm in it. She is perfectly entitled to ask. I do not know that I can do anything, but I shall consider the matter.”

“I hope you will, my lord.”

Lord Emsworth put the letter down. “You would not regard it as a condition of your appointment that I should find Mr. Jackson a position?”

“No, my lord. It had nothing to do with my application.”

“I am glad to hear it. You see, I do not wish to be unfair. I have had quite enough of my sister’s arrangements without being drawn into another.”

Eve did not know how to reply. She had come to be interviewed for a cataloguing post, and suddenly she seemed to be standing in the middle of a family matter. She tried to explain.

“I only want the work, my lord. Phyllis did not ask me to say anything.”

Lord Emsworth looked relieved. “That is very good. Very good indeed. I shall be happy to give you the place.”

Eve smiled. “Thank you, my lord.”

“You may begin on Monday. I shall have Baxter write to you with the details.”

He rang for the butler, who came in at once. As Eve rose, Lord Emsworth returned to his papers, already looking for something he had laid down a moment before.

“I hope I have not kept you too long,” he said.

“Not at all, my lord.”

“Good. And if you see Mrs. Jackson, you may tell her that I shall think about what she wrote.”

“I will.”

The butler conducted Eve to the door. She descended the steps with her thoughts in a whirl. The interview had gone wrong in a way she had not foreseen. She had not been rejected, though. She had got the place, and Phyllis might yet receive help.

* * * * *

By evening Psmith was alone in the smoking-room at the Drones. The rain had begun again, tapping at the windows with a steady, persistent hand. The green umbrella stood beside his chair, and the note from the unknown young woman lay on the table.

A member had come in a short while before and mentioned that Lord Emsworth had been in town that afternoon, interviewing a young lady for the library post at Blandings.

“Miss Halliday, I think her name was,” he had added. “Eve Halliday.”

Psmith leaned back in his chair and looked at the umbrella.

“Eve Halliday,” he murmured.

Then he reached out and ran a finger along the smooth horn handle.

“Most satisfactory,” he said.

I did not answer. The taxi went along the boulevard, and Brett kept her eyes shut. The driver looked at me in the glass.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Montmartre.”

“Where in Montmartre?”

“Chez José.”

I told the driver. Brett opened her eyes.

“You needn’t come in,” she said.

“I know.”

“Don’t be an ass, Jake.”

“I’m not.”

The taxi turned up the hill. The streets were quieter here, and the lamps made a yellow shine on the pavement. Brett sat forward and looked out.

“Did you have a good time?” I asked.

“Lovely.”

“Which one was the tall one?”

“Lett. He’s very nice.”

“He looked it.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“I’m not being like anything.”

The driver stopped in front of a café. Brett paid him and got out. I followed her in. There were a few people at the tables, and a man behind the bar. Brett spoke to him in French. He nodded and brought two brandies.

“I thought you weren’t going to get tight any more,” I said.

“I’m not. This is only one.”

She drank hers quickly. I drank mine.

“I met a man last week,” she said. “His name is Hugh Pilkington. He has a lot of money.”

“I never heard of him.”

“Why should you?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“He’s very kind. He took me to dinner.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere in the Bois. It was very grand.”

“Was it?”

“He has a house in the country, and a motor.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It was.”

She looked at me. “You don’t like him.”

“I don’t know him.”

“That’s no reason.”

“No.”

She smiled at the man behind the bar and ordered another brandy. He brought it.

“He wants to take me to Biarritz,” she said.

“Will you go?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s nice there.”

“Have you been?”

“Yes.”

“He asked me to go next week.”

“Then you’ll go.”

“I may.”

The brandy came. She held it without drinking.

“You have no right to tell me what I’ll do,” she said.

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I said you’d go.”

“You make it sound as though I have no choice.”

“I thought you had.”

She drank the brandy. We went out and stood on the pavement. The taxi had gone. Brett looked up the hill and then down.

“Let’s walk,” she said.

We walked down toward the Boulevard de Clichy. She took my arm. The night was warm, but the breeze from the hill felt cool. Men stood under the lamps and girls went by in pairs. Brett did not speak. We went past a music-hall with a lighted entrance and a queue outside.

“Do you want to go in?” I asked.

“No.”

“You used to like them.”

“I used to do lots of things.”

We walked on. At the corner she stopped and looked back up the hill.

“Do you think I’m a bad woman?” she said.

“No.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I know.”

She looked at me, then began walking again. I was afraid that she would go away with a man who could give her what I could not, and I was ashamed of being afraid.

We walked as far as the boulevard and took a taxi. Brett gave the driver the address of a small hotel near the Opéra. She said she had been there before. I sat beside her and we drove down through the quiet streets.

“Will you come in?” she asked.

“No.”

“Good.”

She put her hand on my sleeve. “You’re a dear.”

“I know.”

The taxi stopped. Brett got out and I gave the driver a franc. She leaned down to the window.

“Good night, darling.”

“Good night.”

The taxi drove off. I stood for a minute under the lighted sign. Then I started back toward the river. I had forgotten the envelope at the bal musette.

The streets were nearly empty. A man swept the pavement in front of a shop. The cafés were closing, and chairs were being stacked inside. I crossed the river and walked up toward the Pantheon. The air had grown cooler. At the bal the door was open, but the room was dark except for a lamp over the bar.

The patronne was behind the zinc. Georgette sat at one of the tables with a glass in front of her. Her hat was on the bench beside her.

“Bonsoir,” she said.

“Bonsoir.”

“You have come back for me?”

“No. I left something.”

“Your money?”

“Yes.”

The patronne came over. “I have kept it, Monsieur.”

She went behind the bar and brought the envelope. It was still sealed. I put it in my pocket.

“You see,” Georgette said, “I did not go with one of them.”

“No.”

“They danced with me. That is all.”

“I see.”

“You were angry.”

“No.”

“You were angry at them.”

“Yes.”

She looked at me. “And at me?”

“No.”

“I think you were.”

“I wasn’t.”

She lifted her glass and drank. The patronne was wiping the bar.

“Do you want to go?” I asked.

“I have nowhere to go.”

“Do you want a taxi?”

“No. I am all right here.”

“You can stay?”

“Yes. I know the patronne.”

She smiled a little. “You were a good client.”

“I’m glad.”

“Were you going to bring me somewhere?”

“No.”

“Then why did you take me?”

“I was hungry.”

“You were not hungry.”

“I was.”

She laughed, but not much. “You are a strange man.”

“I suppose.”

“You have a wife?”

“No.”

“Then you are free.”

“I suppose.”

She looked down at her glass. I had not wanted her to go off with the young men. I had wanted her to stay where I could see her, though I had no claim on her and did not want her.

“Will you have a drink?” she asked.

“No. I must go.”

“You are going home?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, as though that explained something. I said good night to the patronne and went out.

The street was quiet. The dancing-club across the way had closed. A light showed in one upstairs window. I walked down the hill and toward the river. The cafés along the boulevard had shut their doors. A few taxis went by without stopping. The sky over the roofs had begun to pale.

At the quay I stopped and looked at the water. It was dark and smooth, with a little light moving on it from a bridge. I thought of Brett in the taxi, then of Georgette sitting at the table. The morning came up slowly. I began walking along the river toward home.

At that time the evening seemed to me to close upon us without a shadow. My wife and I went indoors, and presently I was asleep. I was wakened in the middle of the night by a bright flash upon the wall, and, sitting up, saw the room for an instant lit with a white and bluish glare. The light vanished, and there came a sound like the fall of a heavy body into water, followed after a little while by a dull rumbling. I got out of bed and went to the window. The sky was clear, and Mars, red and steady, was low over the roofs.

Then, looking towards the west, I saw a star fall. It was a greenish streak, very bright, that shot across the sky and seemed to plunge into the earth beyond the trees. I stood watching, half awake, until the darkness closed over the place where it had vanished. There was no second flash. I heard no report.

My wife had risen behind me. “What was it?” she asked.

“A meteor,” I said, though I had never seen one fall so near. “It must have fallen somewhere about Horsell Common.”

We went back to bed, but sleep would not come readily. I listened for some noise from the direction of the common, and once thought I heard a faint, continuous hissing. It might have been the wind in the trees, or the night’s many small sounds magnified by my attention. At last I slept.

In the morning I told Ogilvy what I had seen. He was much interested, and at once proposed that we should go out to the place. My wife insisted on coming with us. We set out soon after breakfast, and found the roads full of people going in the same direction. A cart passed us, its driver calling to those he met that a meteorite had fallen near the sand-pits. Other people, walking briskly, had heard that it had fallen into a pond. There were already several different accounts, none of them based on anything more than the flash and the noise.

The common was a broad stretch of heath, with a belt of pine-woods on its farther side. The sun shone warmly, and there was a thin haze over the low ground. We heard voices ahead of us, and, when we reached the edge of the woods, saw a crowd gathered near the old sand-pits. A policeman was trying to keep people from the bank. Beyond him, in a flooded pit, lay the object.

It had plunged into the water at an angle and was sunk halfway beneath the surface. The pit was not large, but the water stood deep in the middle, and the sides were steep and loose. The object was a great cylinder, dark and shining where the water touched it, and covered in places with wet sand. Steam rose from it in slow, white wisps. The water all around it stirred and bubbled, and a faint vapour drifted over the bank.

Ogilvy pushed through the crowd, with the authority of a man who expects to be listened to. “Keep back, please,” he called. “It may be hot.”

A little murmur went through the people. I saw the astonishment in their faces, and I felt it myself. I had expected a stone, perhaps a dark lump with its edges broken by the fall. This was too regular. Its curved side showed above the water in one long, smooth sweep. The upper end was partly buried in the bank, and the lower end disappeared beneath the surface.

“It is a meteorite,” Ogilvy said, turning to me. “There can be no doubt of that. A very large one, and still hot from its passage through the air.”

“But it is too regular,” I said. “Look at the curve of it. It has the appearance of a made thing.”

He looked at me sharply. “You have seen it for a minute, and already you are making a theory. A meteorite can take any shape. The heat has blackened it, and the earth has buried it. That is all.”

“Then why should it be so smooth?”

“The molten crust of a meteorite may be smooth. And the water has washed it.”

I remember that I felt an unreasonable irritation at his certainty. The whole scene was strange, and yet he was willing to fit it into an explanation before he had examined it. I was not prepared to say what the thing might be, but I knew that it did not resemble any meteorite I had ever imagined.

My wife stood close beside me. “Do you think it is dangerous?” she asked.

“Not if we keep away from it,” Ogilvy answered. “There is nothing to fear.”

The crowd kept pressing forward. The policeman, a broad-shouldered man, held out his arms and tried to make a clear space at the edge of the pit. A boy ran down the bank before anyone could stop him, but he slid on the loose sand and was pulled back by a man in a brown coat. A few people laughed. The laughter stopped when a thin hiss came from the water.

I thought then that the sound I had heard in the night had indeed come from this place. It was a small sound, almost lost in the noise of the crowd, but it continued without pause. A thread of steam issued from the side of the cylinder where it met the water.

Ogilvy looked towards it. “The air is escaping from some crevice,” he said. “That is to be expected. Do not go close.”

He went down the bank a little way, keeping to the firmer ground. I followed him. My wife came after us, and I turned to tell her to stay back. She did so, but watched us closely.

The lower part of the object was hidden by the dark water. Its visible length might have been thirty feet. I could see no seam, rivet, or mark upon it, only the great curve of its surface, which seemed to continue without a break. A few strands of weed had caught against it, and the water made little ripples where the steam touched.

“That cannot have been cast by any natural force,” I said.

“Why not?” Ogilvy asked. “You speak as if nature were bound to keep to the shapes familiar to you.”

“And you speak as if the word meteorite explains everything.”

He gave a short laugh. “The simplest explanation is almost always the best. A mass of iron or stone falls through the atmosphere at an enormous speed, heats on the outside, and buries itself in the ground. The water here has quenched the crust. We are looking at a rare but ordinary event.”

I could not answer him. I had nothing to put in place of his account, only the feeling that it was wrong. He seemed to think that my objection came from a wish to make the occurrence more remarkable than it was. Perhaps it did.

Near the edge of the crowd, a man with a red scarf around his neck was trying to get a better view. He was one of those who look at every warning as an invitation to test it. He stepped down the bank, with his hands out to steady himself.

“Come back!” the policeman called.

The man turned and smiled. “It is only a stone.”

Before Ogilvy or I could reach him, he bent and put his hand against the exposed side of the object. He jerked it away at once, crying out. His palm was blistered, and the skin had reddened across the fingers. He stumbled up the bank, shaking his hand and swearing.

A woman behind him shrieked. The crowd fell back in a sudden rush, and several people slipped in the loose sand. Ogilvy caught the man by the arm.

“Let me see it,” he said.

The man pulled away, still cursing. “It burned me!”

“It is very hot,” Ogilvy said. “You should have kept back.”

The policeman pushed forward, and this time the crowd obeyed him. The injured man was led away to the road, his hand held out before him. I heard him complain that the thing had taken the skin from his palm. The sight of his burned hand disturbed me more than anything I had yet seen. Until then the object had been a marvel. Now it had done harm.

My wife came to me. “We should go home.”

I looked at her and saw that she was pale. “You are right,” I said. “There is no need for you to stay.”

Ogilvy was examining the edge of the bank, still intent upon the cylinder. He had found a piece of iron fencing and was using it to measure the distance between the water and the place where the object entered the ground.

“Do you still call it a meteorite?” I asked.

“Certainly,” he said. “What else would you have it be?”

I looked at the black curve rising from the pit. Steam continued to curl from its surface, and the water around it quivered. “I do not know,” I said.

He seemed to take that as a concession. “There, then. We shall have it examined properly when it cools.”

The day grew warmer. People continued to arrive, in groups from Chertsey and Ottershaw, and from the smaller roads beyond. Some came on bicycles; others walked with their children. The accounts of the fall had spread through the neighbourhood. A man said that a house had been struck; another declared that the object had fallen from a burning cloud. No one seemed to know what had happened, but everyone wished to see it.

Ogilvy stayed at the pit, unwilling to leave the object unattended. The policeman sent a boy to fetch assistance, and tried to keep the crowd on the higher ground. I remained for a while beside my wife, answering her questions as best I could. She asked whether the object might break apart, whether it might sink farther into the water, whether we should send for a doctor for the burned man. I had no better answers than Ogilvy.

The hiss from the pit came and went beneath the voices. Sometimes the steam rose in a thin column; sometimes it drifted low over the water. I tried to account for it as Ogilvy had done, but the cylinder’s perfect curve stayed in my mind. I thought of it lying in the dark above us, crossing the vast gulf between the planets. I could not tell myself that it had been a random fragment of stone.

By noon the crowd had grown so large that the path through the pines was crowded with people. The policeman had sent for more help, and still they came, climbing over the bank and pressing one another for a view. My wife had stood beside me for hours, and I saw that the noise and heat were tiring her.

“You ought to go home,” I said. “I will come shortly.”

She looked towards the pit. “You will not do anything foolish?”

“No. I promise.”

She hesitated, then turned away. I watched her go up the path through the trees until the crowd hid her from sight. I stayed at the edge of the pit, among the people who had come to stare at the thing from Mars.

When Mary woke, the train was slowing down. The rain had stopped, but the sky beyond the window was still gray, and the fields looked wet and cold. Mrs. Medlock gathered her bags and told Mary to keep close to her.

At the station there was a man waiting by a carriage. He was tall and thin, and his shoulders were bent forward as if he had grown tired of carrying them. His face was pale, and his dark eyes looked as though they were far away from the place where he stood.

“This is Mr. Craven,” said Mrs. Medlock.

Mary looked up at him. He looked at her for a moment, then turned to the station porter.

“Have the luggage put in,” he said.

He did not ask Mary if she had had a comfortable journey, or whether she was tired. He did not seem to expect an answer from her about anything. Mrs. Medlock stood near him and spoke in a lower voice.

“The train was on time, sir.”

“Yes,” he answered.

That was almost all he said. He went to the carriage and got in, and Mrs. Medlock motioned to Mary to follow. There was a place opposite him. Mary sat down and folded her hands in her lap.

The carriage rolled away from the station. At first there were houses and lanes and little shops, but presently these were left behind, and there was nothing but open country. The rain had made the road shine darkly. Beyond it stretched a wide, empty land, with low hills and patches of heather. Mary watched it through the window.

“Is that the moor?” she asked at last.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Medlock. “That’s the moor.”

Mary had never seen anything like it. The land seemed to go on without end, with the sky lying low upon it. The heather looked black where the evening had fallen, and the wind moved over it in a way that made it seem alive. Mr. Craven sat with his eyes lowered. He did not look out of the window or speak.

The carriage had gone some distance when it suddenly slowed. The horses pulled up, and Mary felt the wheels stop.

“What is it?” Mrs. Medlock asked the coachman.

“Something in the road, ma’am,” he said. “I can’t see what.”

The coachman got down, and a man who had been riding behind the carriage came forward with a lantern. Its light swung over the wet road and the dark grass at the edge. Mary leaned toward the window, but she could see nothing clearly.

“Stay where you are, child,” Mrs. Medlock said.

Mary had never liked being told to stay where she was. She opened the door and stepped down before Mrs. Medlock could reach her.

The night air was cold on her face. She stood beside the carriage and looked out over the moor. It was so dark that the land seemed to have disappeared, leaving only the wind and a great stretch of sky. The lantern moved along the road while the men looked for whatever had stopped them. A dark shape lay ahead, and one of the horses stamped and tossed its head.

“Get back in,” Mrs. Medlock called sharply.

Mary did not move at once. She was looking at the moor, and for a minute she felt as if she had stepped out of the world she knew. Nothing stirred near her except the grasses shifting in the wind. Then the coachman and the other man pushed the shape away from the road. It was a fallen branch, torn from a tree by the storm. The driver climbed up again, and Mrs. Medlock put out her hand.

Mary climbed into the carriage. Her fingers were cold, and she rubbed them together in her lap.

Mr. Craven had not said anything. He had not even seemed to notice that she had got out. He looked ahead into the dark, and when the horses began to move again he leaned back in his seat.

The road grew rougher. Sometimes the carriage passed between low walls, and sometimes there was nothing beside it but open moor. The dark seemed to gather all around them. Mary saw no lights except the lamps on the carriage, which shone on the road just in front of the wheels. She thought that Misselthwaite Manor must be a very lonely place if it stood in such a country.

At last the carriage turned through a pair of gates and went along a drive. Mary could not see much of the house at first. It rose in front of them, large and dark, with a few lights showing in the windows. The carriage stopped under a porch. Mr. Craven got out and went inside without waiting for them.

Mrs. Medlock stepped down and helped Mary with her small bag.

“Come along,” she said. “We’ll get you settled.”

They went through a wide door and along a passage where lamps burned in wall brackets. The house felt very quiet. Their footsteps seemed louder than they ought to be. Mary glanced into a room with tall chairs and heavy curtains, but Mrs. Medlock hurried her past it.

“You’ll have your supper in your room,” she said. “Then you can go to bed. You’ve had a long day.”

Mary had been hungry for some time, but she did not say so. They went up a staircase and along another passage. The house was full of doors. Some were shut, and some stood open on dark rooms. Mrs. Medlock took Mary into a bedroom with a fire burning in the grate. A small bed stood beside the wall, and there was a table with a lamp on it.

“This is your room,” she said. “You’ll be comfortable enough here.”

Mary looked around. The room was larger than the nursery she had slept in at the clergyman’s house, and the curtains were thick and dark. She did not think it looked comfortable, but she said nothing.

Mrs. Medlock rang a bell and left her. A few minutes later a manservant came in carrying a tray. He was an old man with a thin face and gray hair, and he set the tray down on the table.

“Tha’ll find a bit o’ supper there, miss,” he said.

Mary stared at him. She had not understood what he said.

“What did you say?”

He looked at her and repeated it more slowly. “Tha’ll find a bit o’ supper there, miss.”

Mary frowned. “I don’t understand you. You speak so strangely.”

The man looked surprised. “It’s Yorkshire, miss. I said your supper’s there.”

Mary sat down at the table. “I can’t understand Yorkshire.”

The old man gave a short chuckle. “Nay, I reckon not. You’ll learn some o’ it, though.”

“I don’t want to learn it,” said Mary.

“That’s as may be,” he answered, and went out.

The supper was plain, but Mary was hungry enough to eat it. She had bread and butter, a dish of meat, and a little pudding. The food was warm. She ate in silence, listening to the sounds of the house. Once she thought she heard a door shut somewhere far away. Then there was a pause, and the quiet seemed to settle again.

Mrs. Medlock came in while Mary was finishing her pudding.

“Did you eat enough?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You’ll want to go to bed soon. It’s been a long journey. You’re to stay in this room, and you mustn’t go wandering about the house. There are plenty of rooms you have no business in.”

“I don’t want to wander,” Mary answered.

Mrs. Medlock looked at her. “You’ll find things different here from India.”

“I already do,” said Mary.

“That’s true enough.” Mrs. Medlock crossed the room to put a piece of coal on the fire. “You’ll get used to the house. It’s quiet at night.”

Mary looked at her sharply. “What was that sound just now?”

“What sound?”

“I heard something.”

Mrs. Medlock listened for a moment. Nothing came. “It’s the wind,” she said. “It gets about the house on nights like this.”

Mary was not sure that the sound she had heard was wind. It had seemed to come from somewhere inside the house, and it had sounded low and strange. But Mrs. Medlock was already smoothing the bedclothes and telling her where to put her things.

“You can ring if you want anything,” she said. “The bell is there. I’ll come in the morning.”

Mary did not answer. She did not think there was anything she wanted from Mrs. Medlock.

The housekeeper left her, and Mary listened to her footsteps going away down the passage. The door shut. The room was quiet again, except for the fire and the small ticking sound of a clock.

Mary undressed and got into bed. The sheets felt cool, and she drew them up to her chin. The room looked different in the dim light from the fire. The shadows filled the corners, and the tall curtains hung like dark walls beside the windows. She could see the glow of the coals, but little else.

For a while she lay still, thinking of the moor and the branch in the road. She had never been out alone in the dark before. The wind had been cold, but she had liked standing on the edge of the road and looking into the darkness. It had made her feel that something might be waiting there.

Then she heard the sound again.

It was not loud. It came from somewhere far off in the house, and it seemed to rise and fall. Mary sat up in bed and listened. It stopped. She waited, holding herself still.

After a little while it came again, a low, uneven sound that made her frown. It seemed to travel along the passage and then grow faint. Mary thought of Mrs. Medlock’s words. The wind gets about the house.

But the sound did not seem like the wind. It had something in it that made her want to know where it came from. She did not like mysteries, but she liked being told that there was nothing to find out when she knew there was something.

She lay down again and kept her eyes open in the dark.

“I shall find out for myself,” she thought.

I had got nowhere with the dead man’s desk, his switchboard girls, or the people who worked under him. I went back to the check.

The First National was a gray stone building with brass doors and a marble lobby. I asked for the cashier and was sent to a man named Dwyer, who had a narrow face and a green shade over his desk lamp. He took the check book stub from me and looked at it.

“Five thousand dollars,” I said. “Was a check for that amount presented yesterday?”

He ran a finger down a list. “No.”

“Certified?”

“No.”

“Could you tell from the stub who it was made out to?”

He turned the book toward himself, though I had already looked at the blank place where the name should have been. “Nothing here.”

“Would you look at the account?”

He regarded me, then took the book and went out through a door behind him. He was gone several minutes. When he came back he had a slip of paper in his hand.

“There was no check for five thousand dollars presented or certified yesterday,” he said. “There is no record of one today.”

“Could it have been cashed at another bank?”

“If it was drawn on us, it would have to be presented here for payment. If it was certified, it would be entered here.”

“Could it have been made out to cash?”

“It could. But we haven’t seen it.”

I thanked him and left with the check book stub’s blankness still in my mind. Donald had written a check, gone out for twenty minutes, and come back without it. It had not been cashed, certified, or presented. It could be in somebody’s pocket. It could be in a wastebasket. It could be in the hands of somebody who hadn’t yet decided what to do with it.

The city had a way of making a simple fact look crooked. I walked down toward the Herald and found the Lewis girl still at her desk. I told her the bank had no record of the check.

She looked relieved, then ashamed of being relieved.

“Perhaps Mr. Donald had not finished writing it,” she said.

“He took it with him.”

“Yes. I saw him put it away.”

“Where?”

She frowned. “In his pocket, I think.”

“Which pocket?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he usually carry a wallet?”

“I never noticed.”

I let her go back to her desk. There was no point in asking her to remember what she had not seen.

Outside, Broadway was full of streetcars and people going about their business. I took one to the Great Western and went up to my room. I had been there perhaps ten minutes when the telephone rang.

The desk clerk said a lady was asking for me. She had given no name.

“Send her up,” I said.

A little later there was a knock. Mrs. Willsson came in without waiting to be invited. She wore a dark suit and a small hat with a veil pinned back from her face. Her color was better than it had been the night before, but her eyes were tired and careful.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said.

“You aren’t.”

She sat down in the chair nearest the window. I stayed on the edge of the bed.

“I came because I thought you ought to know what my father-in-law said about me.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He called me a murderer, I suppose.”

“He said you killed his son.”

She took off one glove and folded it over the other. “And you believed him?”

“I don’t believe anybody until I get something to go with it.”

“That is a sensible answer.” She looked at me steadily. “I did not kill Donald.”

“You were out last night.”

“Yes.”

“Where did you go?”

“To meet someone.”

“Who?”

She looked down at her gloves. “I would rather not say.”

“Was it a man?”

“Yes.”

“Was it Max Thaler?”

Her face changed very little, but her fingers closed on the gloves. “Why do you ask?”

“He was at your house this morning.”

“Was he?”

“I saw him go in.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Did you meet him last night?”

“No.”

“Did you go to Hurricane Street?”

“No.”

“Did you see your husband after ten?”

“No.”

She answered too quickly for me to like it, but a quick answer didn’t make it a lie. I watched her hands. They had stopped moving.

“What was on your shoe when you came back to the house?” I asked.

She lifted her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“It looked like blood.”

“I had not noticed it.”

“Did you step in something?”

“I may have.”

“You came back white-faced and said your husband wouldn’t be home that night.”

“I had received a message.”

“From whom?”

“I don’t remember the exact words.”

“You don’t remember who called?”

“I do remember. I don’t care to tell you.”

“Somebody told you Donald was dead?”

“No. Somebody told me to go home and wait.”

“That was all?”

“That was enough.”

“Who was it?”

She put the glove on again, drawing each finger into place. “You have no right to ask me that.”

“I’m asking because your husband was killed an hour after he made a date with you.”

“He did not make a date with me.”

“His secretary heard him arrange to meet a woman at ten.”

Mrs. Willsson looked at the floor between us. “It was not me.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I heard you. I said I don’t know.”

I let the silence sit there. She picked up the other glove, then put it down again.

“You think I killed him because there was blood on my shoe,” she said. “And because I left the house.”

“I think you may know something about the killing.”

She stood up. “You are like his father. You ask questions as if the answers belong to you.”

“His father thinks you killed him. I haven’t said that.”

“You don’t have to.” She walked to the window and looked down at the street. “Donald was not an easy man to live with. He did not trust me. He did not trust anyone here. But I loved him.”

“Did he trust Max Thaler?”

She turned around. “Why should you ask me that?”

“Because Thaler went to your house this morning.”

“You have told me.”

“And because the whole town says your husband was making trouble for him.”

“I don’t know what the whole town says.”

“Then you’re the only person in Personville who doesn’t.”

A faint smile touched her mouth and vanished. “I have been here long enough to learn not to listen to the whole town.”

She came back to the chair but didn’t sit. “I came to tell you I did not kill Donald. You may believe me or not. I cannot give you anything else.”

“Why come to me?”

“Because Mr. Willsson has accused me to you. And because if you are to investigate, you ought to know there are things you will not understand by asking questions.”

“What things?”

She shook her head. “I cannot explain them.”

“Is that because you don’t know them, or because you don’t want to?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

She had no more to say. I let her go. At the door she stopped.

“If you learn who called me last night, you will know why I went out.”

“That’s useful.”

“It is all I can give you.”

She went down the corridor. I stayed in the room until I heard the elevator start. Then I went downstairs and asked the clerk if anybody had called me while I was out.

“A boy left a note,” he said. “He’s gone.”

“Where is it?”

He handed me a folded square of paper. The message was typed on a narrow strip, without a name or address.

KEEP OUT OF THE WILLSSON BUSINESS. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

I turned it over. Nothing on the back. The clerk said the boy had brought it in and left before he could be asked who sent it.

“Did he say who it was for?”

“He asked for you by name.”

“Did you know the boy?”

“No.”

I took the paper upstairs and put it on the desk beside the check book stub. Max Thaler had a way of making people think of him without appearing where they could see him. The note might have come from him, or from any of the others who wanted me out of the way. It was no more evidence than the brown stain on a green slipper.

I went back to the Herald in the afternoon. Lewis had left, and there was nothing to be gained from bothering the other clerks. I tried to learn whether Donald had gone to the bank in person when he wrote the check. A man who had seen him leave said he had taken his hat and coat. Another thought Donald had gone out without his coat. Neither remembered seeing a check.

I spent the rest of the afternoon walking the blocks around the bank and the Herald, looking at doors and alleys as if a piece of paper might be waiting to introduce itself. The bank sat in the middle of a busy street. The Herald was close enough for Donald to make the trip in five minutes, as Lewis had said. There were plenty of places to stop between the two. There were plenty of people who might have met him. None of that put the check in any one place.

The evening papers had nothing new about the murder. The police still had no description of the man and woman who had bent over Donald’s body. The alley across from the place where he fell had a high brick wall on one side and the back of a warehouse on the other. Six shots had been fired. Two had missed. The police had their bullets and their guesses.

I ate at a lunch counter near the hotel and went back to my room. I took a telegraph blank from the desk drawer and wrote:

OLD MAN, SAN FRANCISCO. WILLSSON KILLED AFTER ARRANGING MEETING WITH UNKNOWN WOMAN AT TEN. WIDOW DENIES MEETING HIM OR GOING TO HURRICANE STREET, ADMITS BEING OUT AND RECEIVING MESSAGE TO GO HOME. SHE SAYS BLOOD ON SHOE UNKNOWN TO HER. FIVE THOUSAND DOLLAR CHECK WRITTEN DAY OF DEATH NOT PRESENTED OR CERTIFIED AT FIRST NATIONAL. THALER SEEN ENTERING WIDOW’S HOUSE THIS MORNING. RECEIVED WARNING TO KEEP OUT OF WILLSSON BUSINESS. NO IDENTIFICATION OF KILLER. ADVISE WHETHER YOU WANT ME TO CONTINUE.

I read it once, changed nothing, and sent it from the hotel desk.

Night came while I was upstairs. I shut the door, put the unsigned warning beside the check book stub, and sat alone in the room. The wire was sent. The check was still missing. Where it had gone was anybody’s guess.

Madame Ratignolle and Robert moved slowly along the sandy path, while Edna remained with the children beneath the awning. She watched them for a little while, the white folds of Adèle’s dress shifting in the sun, then turned her attention to Raoul, who had taken possession of a small wooden boat and was dragging it through the sand.

The nurse-maids had settled themselves under the tent. One of them was fanning herself with a piece of newspaper; the other had closed her eyes. Edna sat down upon the edge of the awning and let the children play about her. Their voices came and went with the wind, sometimes gay and loud, sometimes lost beneath the steady wash of the sea.

When the children had grown tired of the boat, they came to her for water. She gave them what remained in her flask, and watched them hurry back to the tent. The eldest nurse-maid rose at last and gathered them together. Edna let them go without protest. She was content to remain alone for a little while, with the salt air upon her face and the bright water in view.

At luncheon Adèle was not present. She had gone home with Robert, and Edna heard from one of the women that she was resting. The table was noisy with the usual talk of the guests. Some were speaking of a boat that had put in at the island; others discussed the weather and the state of the road to the city. Edna scarcely listened. She ate a little, then left the table before the others had finished.

That afternoon she received a telegram from Léonce. A servant brought it to the cottage while Edna was seated near the window, looking over a magazine without turning its pages. She tore open the envelope with some impatience.

“Business keeps me in the city. Shall not come out Saturday. All well?”

She read it twice, then laid it upon the table. It was a small disappointment, though she could not have said precisely what she had expected. She was accustomed to his absences, and the message contained nothing to trouble her. Still, she felt a little chill at the words, as if some pleasant prospect had quietly been withdrawn.

She had been sitting in the cottage for some time when she rose and went out. The sun was less fierce now, and a breeze had begun to stir the leaves of the trees. She walked down the path to the beach, taking no hat and carrying nothing with her.

The shore was nearly deserted. A few people were still in the water, far away from the bath-houses. The lady in black sat upon the porch of her neighboring bath-house, her prayer-book resting open in her hands. She looked up as Edna passed.

“You are going to bathe, Mrs. Pontellier?” she asked.

Edna stopped, a little surprised. The lady had never spoken to her before. Her face was grave, but not unfriendly.

“I think I shall try,” Edna replied.

“Then you must be careful of the tide. It turns quickly this afternoon.”

Edna glanced toward the water. “I shall not go far.”

The lady in black gave a slight inclination of her head and returned to her book. Edna moved on, thinking that the woman’s voice had the same stillness as her clothing.

She entered the Pontellier bath-house and changed. The bathing suit felt unfamiliar against her skin. She had seen the others go freely into the water, and had envied their ease, but there was something in the first step that had always held her back. She came out onto the gallery and stood looking at the sea.

The water spread before her, restless and shining. She walked down to the edge. It was cool about her ankles. A little wave broke against her legs and receded, drawing the sand away from beneath her feet.

She waited until the next wave came, then moved forward. The water reached her knees, then her waist. She turned her face toward the shore, afraid to look out too far. The surface lifted and fell around her. Her arms moved awkwardly at first, and she made a small sound of alarm when the water rose to her shoulders.

She had never learned to swim. She knew this, and it seemed a poor time to forget it. Yet she found herself striking out, one arm and then the other, and the water bore her for a moment. She pushed with her feet and moved a little farther. The strokes were clumsy, but they were strokes. She turned back toward the beach and reached it with a sudden, breathless laugh.

No one had seen her. The bath-houses stood quiet, and the lady in black was still bent over her book. Edna went inside and changed, her hands trembling as she fastened her dress. She did not tell anyone what she had done.

The sun had lowered by the time she returned to the cottage. The children were in the yard, and Raoul was crying because his brother had taken a toy from him. Edna separated them, gave each a word of reproof, and sent them off again. Their quarrel was soon forgotten.

Adèle came in later, carrying a small basket of sewing. She looked better than she had in the morning and spoke of the stiffness in her limbs as if it were already past.

“Robert walked with me as far as the house,” she said. “He was very quiet for a while, which is unlike him.”

“Was he?” said Edna.

“He told me that you seemed different to him. He said, ‘Mrs. Pontellier is beginning to look at the world as if it belonged to her.’”

Edna’s fingers, which had been sorting a pile of linen, became still.

“He said that?”

“Yes. He said it as though he had only just noticed it. I thought it was a pretty thing to say.”

Edna bent again over the linen. She was conscious of a quick flush, and hoped Adèle had not observed it.

“I do not know what it means,” she said.

“Perhaps he does,” replied Adèle, with a smile. “Robert is very fond of making remarks that sound more important than they are.”

Edna said nothing. She had no wish to discover what Robert had meant, and yet the words remained with her. She went about the ordinary duties of the afternoon, saw that the children were washed and fed, and listened to their chatter at supper. The telegram from Léonce lay on the table where she had left it. She glanced at it once, but did not pick it up.

After supper the children grew drowsy. Edna put them to bed and sat beside them until their breathing became quiet. She did not stay long. She closed the door softly and stepped out upon the gallery.

The night was warm and still. From the main house came the low murmur of voices, and beyond the cottages the sea made its steady sound against the shore. The lanterns threw patches of light upon the paths. Edna could see the dark shape of the bath-houses farther down, and a pale strip of water beyond them.

She leaned against the railing. The day returned to her in fragments: the telegram, Adèle’s hand over hers, the brief strokes through the water. Robert’s remark came back most clearly. She turned it over in her mind, trying to hear the tone in which he had spoken, trying to see his face as he said it.

Mrs. Pontellier is beginning to look at the world as if it belonged to her.

She remained alone on the gallery, with the children asleep behind her and the night spread out before her.