The Chapters

She was awakened by Mrs. Medlock's hand upon her shoulder and by the sound of a porter calling out something she could not understand.

"Here we are," said Mrs. Medlock. "Wake up and mind your things. You've slept through the last two stations."

Mary sat up and looked about her. The window was black now, and there were drops of water upon it which shone when a lamp passed outside. Her feet felt cold and her hat had slipped over one ear. She would have liked some one to put it straight for her, but Mrs. Medlock was gathering up the bags and did not seem to think of doing it.

When she stepped down upon the platform the cold air made her draw in her breath. There was a roof over part of the station, but the rain blew beneath it, and beyond the lamps everything looked wet and dark.

A man stood a little apart from the porter who was taking their luggage. He wore a long dark coat and held his head bent. At first Mary scarcely looked at him, because she supposed that he was another person waiting for a train. Then Mrs. Medlock stopped so suddenly that Mary almost walked against her.

"Mr. Craven, sir!" she exclaimed. "I hadn't expected to find you here yourself."

The man glanced at Mary.

"This is the child?"

"Yes, sir. Miss Mary Lennox."

He looked at her for a moment longer. She saw a thin face with deep lines in it and eyes which seemed to look at her without wishing to see her. One of his shoulders was higher than the other. He was not at all like the creature she had made for herself out of Basil's talk and the French fairy story. He was a man who looked tired and displeased, and Mary thought that he was displeased because she had come.

She waited for him to say something to her. People generally asked if she had had a pleasant voyage or if she was tired. She did not like answering them, but she noticed that he asked nothing.

"The carriage is outside," he said to Mrs. Medlock, and turned away.

Mrs. Medlock followed him at once, and Mary followed Mrs. Medlock. There was something about his turning away which made it quite impossible to stand still and expect him to come back.

The carriage lamps threw two bright patches upon the wet ground. A man in a thick coat opened the door, and Mrs. Medlock helped Mary up the step. Mr. Craven got in after them and sat opposite, with his face partly hidden in the shadow. The door shut, the horses moved, and the little station disappeared.

For some time they drove between houses. Mary could see a lighted window now and then, and once a woman standing in a doorway with a shawl over her head. Then the houses grew fewer. The wheels made a different noise, and there were no more windows.

She tried to look out, but chiefly she saw her own small pale face in the glass.

"Are we nearly there?" she asked at last.

"We've the moor to cross yet," Mrs. Medlock answered.

"What is a moor?"

Mrs. Medlock glanced toward Mr. Craven before she replied.

"A great stretch of land where very little grows but heather and gorse. There are miles of it hereabouts."

Mary looked out again. She could not see the heather or the gorse, but she could see that there were no trees close to the road. The darkness seemed to spread a long way on either side. The wind struck the carriage in gusts, and sometimes she heard it quite plainly above the wheels.

She did not like it. In India the night had never seemed like this. There had nearly always been people somewhere near, even when she did not want them. Here she thought that if the carriage went away and left her there would be nobody at all.

Mr. Craven had not moved or spoken. Once the light from a lamp fell across his face as the carriage turned, and she saw that his eyes were shut. She could not tell whether he was asleep.

Presently the horses stopped so sharply that Mary slipped forward upon the seat.

Mrs. Medlock caught at one of the bags.

"What is it now?" she said.

The coachman called to somebody outside. There was an answering voice, and then the carriage door opened.

"A cart's broke down, sir," the coachman said. "There's peat across the road. We shall have to shift some of it before we can pass."

Mr. Craven got out. A gust of wet air came in with the opening of the door, and Mary could hear the horses moving their feet.

"Stay where you are," Mrs. Medlock told her. "I must see that your box is covered. This rain gets into everything."

She stepped down and went toward the back of the carriage. She had left the door open, and Mary leaned forward to look through it.

A lantern moved a little way ahead. By its light she saw a wheel tilted at a queer angle and a dark heap lying in the road. Two men were stooping over it. One of them lifted something and carried it away. Mary had never seen peat and wanted to know what it looked like.

She waited for Mrs. Medlock to come back and tell her. But Mrs. Medlock was talking to the coachman, and no one took any notice of Mary.

So she put one foot upon the step and got out.

She did not step into the road. She stepped upon the rough ground beside it, and her thin shoes sank into something soft and wet. There was a prickly little bush against her skirt. She drew back from it and found herself beyond the light of the carriage lamp.

For a minute she stood upon the moor in the dark.

The wind was much stronger than it had seemed inside. It pulled at her hat and blew her hair across her face. There was a smell she did not know, a cold, earthy smell, and when she looked away from the lantern she could see nothing which told her where the moor ended.

She had meant to be angry because nobody would show her the peat, but she forgot about being angry. The black space made her feel very small. She could hear the men speaking, yet their voices sounded as if the wind were carrying them away.

Then the lantern turned toward her, and Mr. Craven was standing between her and the broken cart.

"Get in," he said.

He did not offer her his hand or ask why she had come out. Mary went back to the carriage and climbed into it by herself. When Mrs. Medlock returned she found her sitting very straight, with her wet shoes tucked beneath the seat.

"You've been out!" she said. "I told you to stay where you were."

"I wanted to see," Mary answered.

"You'll have enough to see by daylight. You might have stepped into a bog."

Mary did not know what a bog was, and she would not ask. She was afraid Mrs. Medlock would think she had been frightened.

The peat was moved at last. Mr. Craven took his place again, and the carriage went slowly past the cart. Mary saw the man who belonged to it standing with the lantern beside his horse. Then he, too, was left in the darkness.

After that she did not ask how far they had to go. She watched for lights.

It was a long time before she saw any. First there was one which disappeared as they passed it. Then the wheels turned upon gravel, and something very large and black rose before them. Mary had to lean close to the window to see the lighted windows in it, because they were so far apart.

The carriage stopped before a great doorway. A man with gray hair stood inside, holding the door open.

Mr. Craven passed him without looking back.

"Take her to her rooms," he said to Mrs. Medlock.

The gray-haired man followed him across the hall, and Mary saw them disappear through another door.

"That was Pitcher," said Mrs. Medlock, in a lower voice than she had used before. "Come along now."

The hall seemed enormous to Mary. There was a fire at one end of it, but the light did not reach all the corners. She saw faces in pictures upon the walls and a suit of armour which startled her because at first she thought a man was standing inside it.

Mrs. Medlock went up a broad staircase. Mary's legs were stiff with sitting, and she had to hold the rail. They passed along a passage where their footsteps sounded very loud, and then through another which was narrower and had a lamp at the end.

Mrs. Medlock opened a door.

"This is your sitting-room," she said. "Your bedroom's through there. These are the rooms you are to use."

A fire burned in the sitting-room, and there was a small table laid with a white cloth. The curtains were drawn. Mary liked the fire better than anything she had seen since leaving the train, and she went and stood close to it.

Mrs. Medlock took off her own bonnet and looked at Mary's feet.

"Sit down and take those shoes off. I'll have dry stockings brought. Your luggage will be up directly."

She went away, and Mary sat in a chair which was too large for her. She had never been obliged to take off her own wet shoes before. The buttons were troublesome, and she grew very cross over them, but there was nobody to be cross with.

She had just pulled off the second stocking when the door opened.

It was a man who came in, carrying a tray. He had a broad face, gray whiskers, and a clean white neckcloth. Mary stared at him. She had expected a woman.

He set the tray upon the table and uncovered a dish.

"Now then, miss," he said. "Here's summat that'll do thee good. Tha mun eat it while it's hot."

Mary continued to stare.

"There's fowl, an' a bit o' potato. Wilt tha have thy tea poured?"

"What?" she said.

He repeated the question, rather more loudly.

"I cannot understand what you say," Mary told him. "You don't speak properly."

The man looked at her for a moment. Then his mouth widened into a smile.

"Nay, it's Yorkshire I speak. Tha's happen not heard much on it."

"I don't know what that means either," said Mary.

He took up the teapot and pointed to her cup.

"Tea, miss?"

"Yes," she answered stiffly.

He poured it and put a chair at the table for her. She did not like his having smiled, but the hot food smelt pleasant. When he had gone she began to eat, and found that she was hungrier than she had supposed.

Mrs. Medlock came back with dry stockings over her arm.

"The man talks so queerly," Mary said. "I couldn't understand him."

"You'll hear plenty of Yorkshire here," Mrs. Medlock answered. "He asked you about your supper, I expect."

"He called me something."

"He called you 'thee,' most likely. That means you. Finish your supper. It's time you were in bed."

The bedroom had a fire also. There were heavy curtains about the bed, and the bed itself was so high that Mary wondered how she was to get into it. Mrs. Medlock showed her a little step beside it, helped her undress, and put her nightgown over her head with brisk hands.

Mary was standing beside the bed when she heard the sound.

It seemed to come from beyond the bedroom wall. There were two dull knocks, with a little space between them, and then a long scraping noise. Mary turned her head.

"What is that?" she asked.

Mrs. Medlock was folding the black dress.

"The wind," she said.

"It sounded inside."

"In a house this size the wind makes all sorts of noises. Get into bed."

Mary climbed the step. Mrs. Medlock drew the clothes over her and took the candle from the dressing-table.

"You've everything you want," she said. "Go to sleep."

When she went out, the door shut firmly behind her.

At first the room was not quite dark, because a little red light came from the fire. Mary could see the nearest bed-curtain and the corner of a chair. She lay looking at them until the fire sank and they disappeared.

She was tired, but she did not go to sleep.

The wind blew against the window. That was a rushing sound, and she knew where it came from. She listened to it for a while. Then, in a quiet space between the gusts, she heard the scraping again.

She raised her head from the pillow.

Mrs. Medlock had said it was the wind. Mrs. Medlock had also told her not to wander about the house, and Mary remembered the shut rooms and the long passages through which they had come.

She lay down again and drew the clothes up to her chin. She did not believe that the wind had made that sound. Nobody would tell her anything unless she asked, and when she asked they seemed to wish she had held her tongue.

Very well, she would find out for herself.

She lay awake in the dark, listening for it to come again.

Lady Russell came to Kellynch the next morning with a paper in her hand, and a degree of hope which she had taken some pains to justify to herself. She had considered, calculated, and considered again; she had allowed for every claim which rank could reasonably make, and for several which it could not; and she believed that she had at last contrived an economy which Sir Walter might practise without feeling himself reduced to the condition of any body whom he despised.

Mr Shepherd was already there. He had brought his own statement of the family expenses, folded very small, as if its being less conspicuous might render it less offensive; and was listening to Sir Walter's observations on the impropriety of sending a bill twice in the same quarter.

Anne, who had been desired to find a letter among her father's papers, was at a little table near the window. The letter was found, but nobody had asked for it. She remained, therefore, with sufficient occupation to excuse her presence, and sufficient knowledge of the subject to make her unwilling to go.

Lady Russell was soon seated beside Elizabeth, and the business began. Her plan required the relinquishment of the annual journey to London, a considerable reduction in the number of dinners given at Kellynch, and a limitation of the expenses of dress to what she was persuaded the existing wardrobes would make perfectly easy. Some unnecessary attendance might be dispensed with; the carriage might be less frequently used; and the whole domestic establishment, without any violent change, might be brought within a fixed allowance. A stated portion of the income was then to be applied to the debts, and no new expense incurred till its means of payment had been ascertained.

She explained every article herself. There was nothing hurried, nothing imperious in her manner. She spoke of the comfort of independence, the satisfaction of seeing every just demand answered, and the respect which must attach to a gentleman who preferred the preservation of his estate to any temporary gratification.

“With steadiness,” she concluded, “I should hope that six or seven years would remove the principal difficulties. They would be years of some restraint, undoubtedly; but I cannot think them years of hardship.”

“Six or seven years!” cried Sir Walter. “My dear Lady Russell, you cannot have considered what you are proposing. Elizabeth is to be shut up here for six or seven years, wearing the same gowns, and seeing nobody. I am to give no dinners, and scarcely to have a carriage. It would be a very singular return for the attention which this family has always received.”

“I do not propose that you should give no dinners.”

“But you propose that I should give fewer than other people. The distinction would be observed immediately. I cannot consent to any part of it. We must think of something else.”

Lady Russell's paper was laid down. She had expected objections, and had prepared herself to answer them; but there was some difficulty in answering an objection which comprehended every thing she had said, and several things which she had not.

Mr Shepherd now ventured to unfold his statement. His plan had, he assured Sir Walter, been formed with particular attention to the establishment of a gentleman of his consequence. He would not interfere with the proper reception of company. Kellynch Hall ought always to be known for hospitality; but he thought that some of its expenses might be reduced without the smallest injury to its character.

There were more horses than were wanted. The coach-horses might be retained, while the others were sold; the business of the stable would then require fewer hands. Several servants might be dismissed, and their duties divided among those who remained. A part of the house, seldom used, might be shut up. The accounts of the housekeeper and steward should be examined monthly, and purchases made under an allowance which neither could exceed. By these means he hoped to obtain a larger annual saving than Lady Russell had calculated, with less interference in Sir Walter's own habits.

He placed the paper before him, and pointed to the several sums. Sir Walter looked at the first, but would not proceed to the second.

“Dismiss servants! Shut up my own house! I should like to know what is to become of my consequence, if I am to have fewer servants than the Musgroves. And as to selling horses, there is not one in the stable which I would choose to part with. No, Mr Shepherd; this will not do at all. I reject it entirely.”

Mr Shepherd withdrew the paper with an air of having only wished to ascertain Sir Walter's sentiments. He had ascertained them often enough before, but they had never yet paid a bill.

For a short time nobody spoke. Elizabeth examined Lady Russell's calculations; Lady Russell looked towards Anne; and Anne, who had more than once raised her eyes without finding courage to do more, at last ventured to put aside the forgotten letter.

“If we are to remain here,” said she, “might we not begin by determining what sum can really be spent, and oblige every thing else to conform to it? The interest, the necessary expenses of the estate, and what is due to those who depend upon us, must be provided for first. Of the remainder, I think nearly half ought to be given to the debts. We should then know what was left for ourselves.”

Sir Walter turned towards her with the surprise which any proposal of Anne's was apt to excite, and which a proposal concerning his own expenditure could only increase.

“That would be a much greater reduction,” said Mr Shepherd.

“Yes; I mean it should be. I would give up the carriage, and keep only what is necessary for the business of the place. I would have no large parties till the bills were paid, and use only so much of the house as a very small establishment could attend to. There should be nothing bought for ourselves which we could do without. If the allowance proved insufficient, we must lessen our wants again. We must not make up the difference by owing it.”

She spoke with increasing steadiness, though the colour rose in her face. It was painful to appear to prescribe where she had so little authority; but the distress was real, and she could not persuade herself that it would become less real by being gently treated.

“And the charities?” said Elizabeth.

“I would preserve them. They are a small part of the expense, and to some of those who receive them, the loss would be a very great one. We can do without a carriage better than they can do without bread.”

“Upon my word!” said Sir Walter.

“I think Anne is right,” said Elizabeth.

The surprise was universal. Mr Shepherd, who had taken up his pencil, stopped in the middle of a figure. Lady Russell turned to her with an expression of pleasure which she could scarcely restrain; and Sir Walter looked as if some mistake in the speaker must account for the words.

“I think she is right,” Elizabeth repeated. “If we must retrench, there is no use in doing it by little alterations which every body will remark upon, and which will leave us with all the trouble at the end of the year. I am willing to give up the carriage. I am willing to have no dinners. We have clothes enough, and furniture enough. There can be no occasion for buying any thing.”

“My dear Elizabeth!”

“I do not like these bills coming again and again. I do not like being obliged to avoid a shop because we owe money there. If we owe it, we ought to pay it.”

There was more feeling in this than Elizabeth commonly allowed any matter unconnected with her own consequence to excite. Yet her consequence had helped her to it. The last visit to London had included two interviews which she did not wish to repeat; and she had lately discovered that a tradesman's civility could be more disagreeable than another person's rudeness.

She could submit to a great sacrifice, provided she announced it herself, and nobody mistook it for an unsuccessful attempt to live as before. A reduced dinner offended her more than no dinner; and the loss of a servant, while the same duties remained, seemed to her a daily confession of inferiority. Anne's proposal offered the dignity of a resolution, and Elizabeth, who had long suffered from having nothing effectual to propose, was glad to adopt one.

Lady Russell warmly approved the principle, though she doubted whether so severe an allowance could be maintained. Mr Shepherd began a fresh calculation. Anne listened with an astonishment in which gratitude had a greater share than hope. To be supported by Elizabeth was so new, that for a moment she could scarcely attend to the support itself.

Sir Walter allowed them to proceed till the pencil had nearly completed its work. He then moved the paper farther from him.

“You are forgetting that I have not agreed to any of this. Elizabeth may dislike a bill; so do I. But I do not see why the remedy must be to deprive me of every comfort in my own house. A carriage is necessary. Servants are necessary. Company is necessary to people in our situation. If half my income is to be put away where I can have no benefit from it, I might as well have no income at all.”

“It would discharge your obligations,” said Lady Russell.

“I am perfectly aware of my obligations. Nobody can be more so. But there are obligations attached to my rank, as well as to these accounts; and I cannot allow one set to be forgotten because Mr Shepherd has brought the other upon a sheet of paper.”

Elizabeth would not withdraw her assent; but she could not obtain his. Anne's scheme remained beside the other two, distinguished only by having met with an unexpected advocate.

Mr Shepherd had now reached the point at which all his caution could no longer preserve him from giving unwelcome advice. He cleared his throat, and observed that, if the expense of residing at Kellynch could not be sufficiently reduced, there was one other possibility which it might be his duty to mention.

“The house itself, Sir Walter, might produce a considerable rent. A suitable tenant could perhaps be found.”

“A tenant!”

Sir Walter rose.

“I will not hear of it. I will not have the word spoken again in my presence. Whatever else you may have to propose, Mr Shepherd, you will remember that. Kellynch Hall is my house. I have no intention of making it another man's.”

Mr Shepherd bowed, and said no more. Lady Russell, who saw that further discussion could only strengthen his resistance, began to collect her papers. Elizabeth sat in offended silence; and Anne felt that all the speaking of the morning had brought them no nearer to a determination.

The arrival of a letter was welcome to Sir Walter. A servant brought it to Anne, and the direction, in Mary's hand, supplied him with a subject upon which no calculations were necessary.

“Mary is always writing. I suppose she has a cold again.”

Anne opened it.

“My dear Anne,

“I have been very unwell all the morning, and nobody here seems to think any thing of it. Charles said at breakfast that I looked as well as usual, which was particularly unkind, for I had told him how badly I slept. I have a pain in my head, and am quite unequal to being left alone; but he went out directly afterwards, and I dare say will not be back till dinner.

“I wish you would come to me to-morrow. You can have nothing particular to do at home, and I am sure I want you more than any body there can. I cannot bear another day like this. Send me word when I may expect you, and come as early as you can.

“Yours affectionately, “Mary Musgrove.”

Anne read aloud as much as was necessary to explain the request. Elizabeth declared that Mary always thought every body else's time at her disposal; Sir Walter hoped she did not expect his carriage to be going backwards and forwards to Uppercross; and Lady Russell, after looking at Anne, said that a few days with her sister might be useful to both.

Nothing was settled, even as to this. Sir Walter had begun to complain of the draught from the window, and Mr Shepherd took the opportunity of folding his accounts. He promised to reconsider the whole subject. Lady Russell promised herself another conversation, when the first irritation had subsided. They departed with their plans in their hands, and left behind them every expense which those plans had been intended to remove.

The rest of the day passed with little reference to the consultation. Elizabeth spoke once of the horses, but her father would not pursue the subject. At dinner he found fault with the attendance, and wished that another man had been in the room. Anne was silent.

By evening she had ceased to expect any further discussion. She went to her own room, and read Mary's letter again. Its complaints were familiar; they did not convince her that her sister was seriously ill, but they convinced her that she was unhappy, and Anne knew that she could be of use.

She resolved to go to Uppercross the next morning. Whatever difficulty might attend the arrangement, she would make it; and the thought of having one practicable duty before her was a relief. Alone at her little table, she began her answer to Mary, while below stairs the papers lay untouched, the bills remained unpaid, and no part of the family's expenditure had been relinquished.

Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Miss Lucy Westenra.

"27 May.

"My dear Miss Lucy,

"Art delivered your message last night, and I thank you for it. A man does not always find it easy to take the place which is offered him, even when he knows it is the best place he can have; but you have made mine easier. I shall try to be the sort of friend you believe me.

"We had our dinner, and a very good dinner it was, though I fear my cook would not have thought us fit judges of her work. Jack arrived first, with an apology for being early, and Art came afterwards with an apology for being late; so I told them that between the two I had received a guest precisely to the minute. We began very properly with the soup and the weather. There was enough weather discussed to last us through a winter on the plains.

"It was Art who put an end to that. He laid down his spoon and said that he had brought a message from you, and that he meant to give it before either of us could make a speech. I shall not set down all he said. You know it already, and some things are better kept in a man's memory than copied upon paper. But when he had finished, Jack reached across the table and shook his hand. I did the same.

"After that we could talk.

"We drank your health standing. Jack proposed it, and I wish you could have heard him. He is a quiet fellow, but there was nothing wanting in his words. Art tried to answer, and made a poor business of it, which pleased us both mightily. I have heard him give orders when a boat was filling under us, without a tremor in his voice; but last night he could hardly get through a dozen words.

"We stayed together till after eleven. There were some old stories told, and one dispute over an affair which each of us remembered differently. Jack declared that he had dressed Art's hand, Art maintained it was mine, and I knew that neither of them had been hurt. We settled it by agreeing that Jack should have credit for the surgery, whichever of us had supplied the patient.

"When they went away, Art remained a moment at the door. He said that he hoped nothing would ever divide us. I told him there was no division in the business, unless he wanted to divide his happiness, and that was more than either Jack or I would allow.

"You have chosen a good man, Miss Lucy. I knew it before you did, though you know it better now.

"Your faithful friend,

"QUINCEY P. MORRIS."

Dr. Seward's Diary.

Kept in phonograph.

28 May.

Work has been easier since the evening at Quincey's. I had dreaded meeting Arthur, and found, when we met, that I had dreaded chiefly my own behaviour. He spared us nothing by pretending to be less happy than he was; and I am grateful to him for that. There would have been something intolerable in his pity.

Visited Renfield this morning. He had asked the attendant for a newspaper, and was sitting with it spread upon his knees. Before I had spoken, he looked up and asked me:

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

I was so little prepared for the name that I asked him where he had heard it. He pointed to the announcement in the paper. There it was, in half a dozen lines, with Arthur's name beside hers. I ought to have seen it before I entered his room.

"I cannot tell you the day," I answered. "Why do you ask?"

"Because there is no day put here. They tell us what is to happen, but leave out when. It is very careless."

He folded the paper along the column and smoothed it with the edge of his hand. I asked whether he knew either of the persons named.

"No. Do you?"

I said that I did.

"Then you might write to the editor. He would attend to a physician."

There was nothing strange in the enquiry. He had spent the morning comparing the announcements, and had marked those which supplied dates. Yet I resented his question as though he had opened a letter upon my desk. This is a useful warning. If I am to make observations worth keeping, I must distinguish the patient's disturbance from my own.

He has taken to making lists. Births in one column, marriages in another, deaths in a third; but he soon abandoned the division, because he could not ascertain whether the persons in one list had any connexion with those in the others. He complained that the newspaper gave him fragments.

"How can a man reach a conclusion when they will not give him the whole case?"

I asked what conclusion he wished to reach.

"That depends upon the case."

He then requested yesterday's paper and a pencil. I allowed both, with the usual precautions, and told the attendant to keep the sheets when he had finished.

His manner was unusually composed. He accepted my refusal to procure a complete month's newspapers without anger, though he returned to the request twice. I suspect that the labour of arranging particulars gives him relief from the necessity of deciding what they mean.

I might profit by the same occupation. There are facts which one can arrange for ever without making them more agreeable.

Letter, Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra.

"30 May.

"My dearest Lucy,

"Your little note came this morning, and I have read it twice between lessons. I am glad you have told your mamma, and gladder still that she is pleased. It would have been hard to keep such happiness folded away whenever you heard her step upon the stairs.

"I have had no further letter from Jonathan. I do not mean to make you anxious by saying so, for there must be many explanations which would occur at once to a person accustomed to travelling. Mr. Hawkins tells me that business abroad cannot always be finished as one would finish it in Exeter, where one knows the office hours and whom to ask for. Still, Jonathan thought he would be home much sooner.

"I find that I know a great deal about writing letters and very little about getting them delivered. Yesterday I asked at the post-office whether a letter might wait somewhere because its direction had been misunderstood. The clerk was patient with me, though I fear he thought that I expected him to know the whereabouts of every Englishman upon the Continent.

"I have written again to Mr. Hawkins. It seems foolish to trouble him, but Jonathan is his business as well as mine, and he has been so kind that I cannot feel afraid of him.

"Do not imagine me sitting idle over the letter-box. The girls would soon cure me of that. One of them brought me a composition to-day in which every sentence began with 'Then,' and when I asked her to alter it she said that everything had happened afterwards. I could not deny the truth of her defence.

"I am keeping up my shorthand, though I have begun to dislike the exercises which contain accounts of railway journeys. I want a real journey, with Jonathan at the end of it.

"Give my love to your mamma, and tell Arthur that I shall expect him to remember how long I have had a claim upon you.

"Your loving

"MINA."

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray.

"2 June.

"My dearest Mina,

"Arthur says that your claim is the oldest and must be honoured first. I think he is a little afraid of you, which is very proper, since I have told him that you know all my faults and have nevertheless undertaken to be my friend.

"We have put the announcement in the paper. Mamma wished it, and Arthur said there was no reason to wait. I had not thought that seeing one's own name in print could make one feel so foolish. It looked like another girl's name until I came to his, and then I wanted to cut out the paragraph and keep it. Mamma had already cut it out.

"I have had a letter from Mr. Morris about their dinner. I cried over it at first, and then laughed, for he told me how badly Arthur had made his speech. Arthur says that they treated him shamefully and would give him no assistance whatever. I believe they were all kinder than any of them will admit.

"Dr. Seward called yesterday. He was quite himself, and spoke to mamma for a long time about some alterations she wishes to make in the house. I was thankful that we could be together without my wondering every moment what I ought to say.

"You must come to us when your work allows it. I shall want help with so many things, and mamma says that no one has your good sense. We need not decide anything about the summer yet.

"I wish Jonathan would write. I am sure that if he knew how you look for his letters he would find time, however busy he might be. Arthur says that business papers have a way of making more business papers, and that Jonathan may have discovered this.

"Ever your loving

"LUCY."

Letter, Emil Hartmann to Miss Mina Murray.

"Klausenburg,

"18 June.

"Madam,

"Although I have not the honour of your acquaintance, I venture to address you upon a matter in which I believe you to have a close interest.

"Mr. Jonathan Harker, of Exeter, has been delayed in his return to England. I have undertaken to assist him with certain arrangements for his journey, and have learnt that the uncertainty of his movements may occasion anxiety to yourself and to his employer. I therefore write without waiting until those arrangements are complete.

"The delay concerns his papers and the payment of expenses incurred during his stay in this country. Such matters are troublesome to a traveller who does not speak the language, but they need not be regarded as serious. Mr. Harker is well. He has every expectation of returning when the necessary formalities have been fulfilled.

"I have been connected for several years with the business of forwarding luggage and procuring accommodation for foreign travellers. My office has frequent dealings with English visitors, and I understand that a plain statement of the circumstances will be more acceptable than assurances expressed in general terms.

"A remittance of twenty-four pounds sterling will enable me to discharge the outstanding expenses and obtain the tickets required. If you will procure a bank draft for that amount, payable to Emil Hartmann, and send it under registered cover to the address below, I will acknowledge it immediately. I will also forward a statement of the payments made on Mr. Harker's behalf.

"It is desirable that the remittance should come directly to me, as correspondence with several persons may cause further delay. Should you prefer to consult Mr. Hawkins, I beg that you will do so without loss of time.

"Until Mr. Harker's journey is settled, letters may be addressed to him in my care. I shall see that they reach him.

"I remain, Madam,

"Your obedient servant,

"EMIL HARTMANN.

"Poste Restante, Klausenburg."

Mina Murray's Journal.

23 June.

A letter about Jonathan at last, but from a gentleman whose name I have never heard. It arrived this afternoon, and I read it standing in the passage, with my hat still on. For a moment the words "Mr. Harker is well" were all that I could understand.

I have copied the letter into this book, and sent the original to Mr. Hawkins. I should have sent the money at once if it had been mine to send. Twenty-four pounds is a great sum to me, but it would be a small one if it brought Jonathan home.

Afterwards I read the letter again. Mr. Hartmann says that he has undertaken to assist Jonathan, but does not say that Jonathan asked him to write. Nor does he give the address of his office. Perhaps these things are quite usual. I must not suspect a man merely because he is a stranger and has written in a foreign country.

Yet why has Jonathan not sent me even a line? There is nothing here to say that he cannot write. If he has lost his papers, he can surely get a sheet of paper and a pen.

I began a letter to him, in Mr. Hartmann's care, and found that I was writing questions one after another. I tore it up and began again. I have told him only that I love him, that Mr. Hawkins will help with whatever is necessary, and that he must let us know where he is. There is no use adding my anxiety to his troubles.

I shall wait for Mr. Hawkins before posting it. He may know a better way to reach him.

I had thought that the first news would make the waiting easier. Now I have a place upon which to fix my thoughts, and cannot keep them here.

Letter, Peter Hawkins to Miss Mina Murray.

"Exeter,

"25 June.

"My dear Miss Murray,

"I have received your letter and its enclosure. Pray leave the question of the remittance in my hands. Any expenses properly incurred by Jonathan upon the business entrusted to him are my concern, and you must not distress yourself about providing the money.

"I do not know Mr. Hartmann. His omission of a business address may be innocent, but I should be failing in my duty if I sent a draft upon the information before us. Jonathan went provided with money, and any further sum could have been obtained by a direct application to me.

"I have written to a banking correspondent at Vienna, asking him to make enquiries at Klausenburg. I have also asked that, if Jonathan is there, a message may be placed in his own hands. You shall hear immediately upon the receipt of an answer.

"Meanwhile I advise you to retain your letter. There can be no harm in waiting a few days, and we may then have an address more satisfactory than a stranger's name at the post-office.

"I understand your impatience, my dear child. It is not easy for me either. Jonathan has never neglected a trust, and I cannot suppose that he has done so now. Whatever difficulty has arisen, we shall deal with it when we know its nature.

"Yours very faithfully,

"PETER HAWKINS."

Mina Murray's Journal.

3 July.

Mr. Hawkins has telegraphed that his correspondent's enquiry has reached Klausenburg. We ought soon to know something definite.

I have put my clothes in order, so that I may travel if there is any need. There is no reason yet to suppose that I shall be wanted abroad, but I cannot bear to think that, when a message comes, I might lose a day over little preparations which I could have made beforehand.

Lucy has written that she will come to me if I want her. I have answered that she must stay with her mamma and Arthur. To have her here would be a comfort, but I should be poor company; and I can work, which is better for me than talking over what neither of us understands.

To-night I have allowed myself to think of Jonathan arriving before any answer to the enquiry. Such things happen. He might be upon the railway while we are sending messages after him.

I have left his last letter beside my bed.

Telegram to Mina Murray.

4 July.

"Jonathan found in hospital. Hartmann arrested for fraud. Send no money.

"KLAUSENBURG POLICE."

"Do you want the window open?"

"No. I want to get out somewhere."

"We're going to the park."

"I don't want a park. Take me to the Place Saint-Sulpice."

I leaned forward and spoke to the driver. He slowed down and turned at the next street. Brett sat up in her corner. The light from a shop came across her face and then it was dark again.

"That's better," she said.

"We haven't got there."

"I know. It's better knowing where we're going."

She took off her hat and held it on her knees. There was a pin in the hat and she pulled it out and put it back in another place.

"Have you been there lately?" she asked.

"Saint-Sulpice?"

"Yes."

"I pass through it."

"That's a useful way of going to places."

"What do you want to do there?"

"Look at the church. You don't have to pay to look at a church."

"You've been paying?"

"Everybody's been paying. It's been a frightfully expensive week."

The driver had his collar turned up. I could see the back of his neck above it when he bent forward. We passed a lighted restaurant. The waiters were putting chairs on the tables and a woman sat at the desk with her head down over a book.

"I met a man last week," Brett said. "Lionel Bellamy. Do you know him?"

"No. I've never heard of him."

"He's got money."

"That's nice."

"He says it isn't. He says it's a nuisance."

"Has he tried getting rid of it?"

"He's doing his best. He took twelve people to dinner and didn't know half their names."

"Did he know yours?"

"He knew it by the end. He wrote it down."

"That was careful of him."

"He was very nice. You needn't make him sound an ass."

"I haven't met him."

"No. You haven't."

We stopped in the square. The church was dark except where the street lamps lighted the lower part of it. The fountain made a steady noise. I paid the driver and he went away. His taxi sounded very loud going out of the square.

Brett stood with her hat in her hand and looked up at the church.

"Well," she said. "There it is."

"There it is."

"Let's sit somewhere."

There was a bench near the fountain. We sat down. The stone round the fountain was wet and the water showed white where it fell. Across the square a man closed a shop shutter. He pulled twice before it came down and then we heard him fastening it inside.

"It's lovely here," Brett said.

"It's quiet."

"That's what I meant."

She put her hat on the bench between us.

"Bellamy wants me to go away with a party he's getting up."

"Where?"

"Somewhere on the coast. He hasn't decided. There's a motor-car and somebody with a boat."

"When?"

"Thursday, perhaps."

"You'll have good weather."

"Will I?"

"It ought to be good."

"You're quite a travel agent."

"You could do worse."

"I generally do."

She looked at the fountain. I looked across the square at the closed shop.

"Would you advise the boat?" she asked.

"If it doesn't leak."

"I'll ask him."

"You ought to."

"I shall say you were most particular about that."

"Tell him I like a good boat."

I wanted her to stay with me.

A taxi came into the square and stopped outside a house on the far side. A man got out and stood under the lamp counting money. The driver leaned down to watch him. They said something to each other and the taxi went on. The man remained under the lamp until he had put all his money away.

"That's one way to spend an evening," Brett said.

"We might get a drink."

"I thought you liked sitting here."

"I do."

"So do I. Only one gets cold sitting still."

It was still a warm night, but the back of the bench felt cool through my coat. Brett put her hat on. She did not use the pin.

"What time is it?"

I looked at my watch.

"Half-past eleven."

"Is that all? It seems frightfully late."

"The dancing will still be going."

"Do you want to go back?"

"I ought to see about my fifty francs."

"Your abandoned lady?"

"She may have gone."

"She'll have gone."

"Then I get the fifty francs."

"And if she hasn't?"

"I'll see her."

Brett got up.

"Come on, then. I should like to see how she's getting along."

We walked across the square and up the street. At a corner Brett stopped to look at some shoes in a window. They were on glass shelves and there was one silver shoe set apart from the others.

"That's a useful shoe," she said.

"You could wear it on the boat."

"Only one?"

"You'd have to sit down."

"I should be excellent at that."

We went on. There were people outside the cafés and the smell of coffee came out through an open door. Going up the hill we passed a man carrying a bicycle on his shoulder. He rested it against a wall and let us pass. Brett said good evening to him. He took off his cap.

"You see," she said. "People are nice when you catch them doing something difficult."

At the Bal the door was open and the accordion was still playing. There were fewer people on the floor. The air that came out into the street was hot and smelled of beer. Brett went in ahead of me.

Georgette sat at a table near the bar. Her hat was on and she had her bag in her lap. There were two empty glasses in front of her. She saw us come in and looked at the clock over the bar.

"You've come back," she said.

"Yes."

"You might have said you were going."

"I left something for you."

"I didn't ask for it. I thought you would come back."

Brett sat down opposite her.

"Have you had a good time?"

"I've danced enough."

"That's more than I have."

"You went away."

"Yes," Brett said. "We went away."

I went to the patronne. She reached under the bar and brought out the envelope. It was sealed as I had left it.

"The lady has not gone," she said.

"I see her."

"I kept it here."

"Thank you."

I took the envelope back to the table and opened it. The paper tore down one side. I gave Georgette the note.

"That's yours."

She looked at it and then at me.

"You think I waited for that?"

"No."

"Well, you can think so if you like."

She folded it and put it in her bag. I put the empty envelope in my pocket.

"What will you drink?" I asked.

"A beer."

"Brett?"

"The same. A large one."

The daughter brought the beer. She looked tired. One of her stockings had slipped down and she pulled it up while she waited for me to pay.

The proprietor finished playing. He lifted the strap over his head and set the accordion on a chair. Without the music we could hear the feet on the floor and the glasses at the bar. A woman laughed at the far end of the room. It sounded louder than it had with the music.

"Are they finished?" Brett asked.

"For a little," Georgette said. "He gets tired."

"He ought to. He's been at it all night."

"He gets paid."

"That helps."

"Sometimes."

Georgette drank her beer. Her lipstick had come off and she looked younger without it. There was a little mark on her forehead where the hat had pressed.

"Do you dance every week?" Brett asked.

"I don't come here."

"You dance very well."

"That's what they all said."

"They were right."

"They can be right without telling me all the time."

Brett laughed. Georgette smiled with her mouth closed.

A waiter from the restaurant came in and spoke to the patronne. He wore a grey overcoat over his black trousers and had a folded newspaper sticking out of his pocket. Georgette watched him.

"I know that one," she said.

"He was at the restaurant?"

"He brought the wine."

The waiter came over to our table. He bowed to Brett and to me and asked Georgette if she was ready.

"In a minute," she said.

He stood by the bar and waited. Georgette finished her beer.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Home. Where should I go?"

"Do you need a taxi?"

"He lives near me."

She got up and held out her hand to Brett.

"Good night, madame."

"Good night. I've enjoyed it."

Georgette looked at me.

"You should have said good night before."

"I know."

"Well, good night now."

"Good night, Georgette."

She went out with the waiter. He held the door for her and then they were gone. The proprietor began playing again, but nobody got up to dance at first.

"She was decent about it," Brett said.

"Yes."

"You weren't."

"No."

Brett turned her glass round on the table.

"I liked her," she said.

"So did I."

"You have a funny way of showing it."

"I paid for the beer."

"Don't, Jake."

We sat until the proprietor stopped again. This time he folded the accordion and carried it behind the bar. The daughter began clearing the empty tables. Brett finished her beer and got up.

Outside, the street looked steep and empty. There was a light in an upper window and a woman leaned out to shake something. We waited until she had finished and then walked under it.

"Where now?" Brett asked.

"There's the station."

"What station?"

"The Gare d'Orsay. We can get coffee."

"All right. I don't want to go home yet."

We walked down toward the river. Brett took my arm on the steep part and kept it when the street became level. At the river we stopped and leaned against the parapet. The water was black and the lamps on the other side made long broken lines in it. There was a barge moored below us. A light showed through a small square window at its stern.

"People live there," Brett said.

"Yes."

"I always forget that."

There was a sound inside the barge and the light went out.

"They've gone to bed," I said.

"Lucky people."

We went on to the station. A porter showed us where to get coffee. In the buffet two men sat with their luggage under the table. One was asleep and the other was eating bread. The waiter wiped our table before he took the order.

Brett took off her hat.

"I look dreadful."

"You look all right."

"That's the station lighting. It's kind."

The coffee came in thick cups. Brett ate a piece of bread and asked for more. The waiter brought butter and a fresh roll. I had not known I was hungry until I began to eat.

"Bellamy wouldn't like this," she said.

"Has he tried it?"

"He likes places where they know him."

"They know us here now."

"He'd want them to know him before."

The man eating bread shook his companion. The sleeping man opened his eyes, looked at the clock, and went to sleep again. His friend went on eating.

"Are you going Thursday?" I asked.

"I don't know."

"You ought to decide."

"Why?"

"He'll want to know."

"He can wait."

I drank the coffee. It had grown cold.

"Do you want to go?" I asked.

"Sometimes I want to go anywhere. Then when somebody arranges it I don't."

"You could tell him that."

"I probably have."

She broke the rest of the roll into pieces and ate them one at a time.

"Don't be too nice to me, Jake."

"How nice?"

"You know."

"The coffee's only coffee."

"I know that too."

The two men left with their luggage. The waiter cleared their table and brought us more coffee without our asking. Behind the counter a man took off his white apron and another man put one on. The new man had a red face and wet hair.

Brett laid her hands flat on the table.

"I've kept you up all night."

"I wasn't asleep."

"You could have been."

"There's time."

"Yes," she said. "There's always that."

We stayed until the windows began to show grey. A woman came in carrying a child wrapped in a coat. She sat near the door and let the child's legs rest across her knees. The child slept while she drank her coffee. Brett watched them and then put on her hat.

"I must go."

I paid the waiter. Outside the station the air had cooled. There were taxis waiting and one driver stood beside his car eating something out of paper. He folded the paper when he saw us.

Brett gave him an address. I opened the door and she got in.

"Aren't you coming?"

"I'll walk."

"It's a long way."

"I like the river in the morning."

"All right, darling."

She held out her hand and I took it. Then she drew it back to pull her skirt clear of the door.

"Get some sleep," she said.

"You too."

I shut the door. The driver started the motor and the taxi went out past the station. Brett looked back once. I could see her hat through the rear window until the car turned.

I crossed to the river and started walking home. The sky was light behind the roofs and the lamps still burned along the quay. Below the wall a man came out of the barge with a bucket and stooped to fill it. I heard the bucket strike the water. I put my hands in my coat pockets and felt the torn envelope. It was dawn, and I walked on alone along the river.

The account I found agreed so closely with what I had witnessed that I shut the book with a feeling almost of triumph. Then the thought of the silent room upstairs checked me. This was no exercise in detection. A woman who had welcomed me to her house was dead.

I slipped out by the side door and took the short way across the park. The grass was wet with dew, but the promised storm had not broken, and the air was already heavy. Behind me, Styles looked curiously peaceful in the early sunlight.

Poirot and his fellow-countrymen occupied a small house at the further end of the village. I knocked, and presently heard a familiar voice raised in protest.

“But the door, my friend, the door! You will knock it down.”

Poirot himself admitted me. He wore a flowered dressing-gown, and his moustaches, even at that hour, were arranged with their customary precision.

“Poirot,” I began, “something dreadful has happened.”

“I know. Mrs. Inglethorp is dead.”

“You have heard already?”

“From Baily. I met him as he was driving Dr. Wilkins home. I had gone out for a little walk, and he stopped when he saw me.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That his mistress had died very suddenly, and that the doctors were not satisfied. He was much upset, the poor fellow. Come in, Hastings.”

I followed him into a small sitting-room. He indicated a chair, but I was too impatient to sit down.

“John Cavendish has given me permission to bring you to Styles. We want you to investigate.”

For a moment he said nothing. Then his expression changed.

“Mrs. Inglethorp was very good to us,” he said quietly. “Tell me what occurred.”

I gave him as exact an account as I could of the events of the night. He listened without interruption until I described our efforts to enter the bedroom.

“All three doors were fastened?”

“Yes.”

“And you broke the door communicating with her husband’s room?”

“Yes. The others were stronger.”

He nodded, and I continued. At the mention of Mrs. Inglethorp’s last words, his eyes rested on me with particular attention.

“She was looking at Dr. Bauerstein when she said that?”

“Straight at him.”

“And Mr. Inglethorp?”

“Has not returned. His bed was untouched.”

I expected some sign of astonishment, but Poirot merely drew the two ends of his dressing-gown more closely together.

“Well,” I demanded, “what do you think?”

“I think that I must dress.”

“But surely the circumstances speak for themselves?”

“Then we shall listen to them. It is sometimes difficult, Hastings, to hear what the circumstances say when everybody else is talking.”

He rose.

“Return to the house. Say to Mr. Cavendish that I shall be there shortly. I must leave a message for my friends, who will otherwise be anxious at my absence. Above all, let nothing in the room be touched.”

“The doctors have locked it.”

“That is good. And, Hastings, put away that little book.”

I stared at him.

“What book?”

“The medical book in your pocket. Its corner is visible. You have consulted it, yes?”

“I thought it might be useful.”

“Perhaps. But remember that a description of a disease is not a description of the person who caused it.”

I left him with the uncomfortable feeling that my morning’s researches had impressed him less than I had anticipated.

As I approached Styles, I saw a man coming up the drive. There was no mistaking the black beard and peculiar walk of Alfred Inglethorp. He had not yet seen me, and I had a few moments in which to observe him. His clothes appeared quite ordinary, though dusty about the boots. He carried his hat in his hand and was wiping his forehead.

At the entrance he encountered John, who had evidently heard his step.

“Alfred,” said John.

Something in his tone made the other stop.

“What is it? Is Emily worse?”

John looked at him.

“She is dead.”

Inglethorp put one hand against the doorpost. His hat fell upon the gravel.

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

For a little while there was complete silence. Then Inglethorp bent mechanically to recover his hat.

“I cannot understand it,” he murmured. “Last night she was quite well. At least, I thought she was quite well.”

John stood aside, and we entered the hall.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“At Abbott’s cottage, beyond the village. I stayed there last night.”

“Stayed there?”

“Yes. After leaving Dr. Bauerstein I went to see Abbott about the timber he wishes to buy. We talked longer than I intended. When I came away, I discovered that I had lost my latch-key.”

“You had it when you left here.”

“Certainly. I must have dropped it afterwards.”

Inglethorp spoke with an effort, as though the questions distracted him from something which he could not yet comprehend.

“I came back here first,” he continued. “It was about half-past ten. The house was dark. Even the hall lamp was out. I knocked at the side door, but no one heard me, so I returned to Abbott’s. He gave me a bed.”

John’s face was expressionless.

“You did not try the front door?”

“I thought I should be more likely to wake someone at the side. Emily had asked us not to disturb her, and I did not wish to make a noise.”

He passed his hand over his eyes.

“But why was I not sent for?”

“We did not know where you were.”

“No. No, of course you did not.”

He turned towards the stairs.

“I must see her.”

John checked him gently.

“The room is locked. The doctors wished it kept so.”

For the first time Inglethorp seemed to grasp that there was something beyond the fact of death which he had not been told.

“The doctors?”

“Wilkins and Bauerstein. They will be here again later.”

Inglethorp looked from John to me, but neither of us spoke. At last he went slowly into the drawing-room and closed the door.

John remained where he was. I could see that the interview had cost him a considerable effort.

“Your friend is coming?”

“Yes. Almost at once.”

“Very well. I have told Dorcas that he is to have every assistance.”

He went away, and I was left with an increasing dissatisfaction at Inglethorp’s story. The lost key, the unsuccessful knocking, the convenient bed at a cottage, all seemed to me to demand examination.

Annie appeared from the direction of the dining-room.

“Breakfast is ready, sir, if you would care for any.”

“I doubt if anyone will eat much this morning.”

“No, sir.”

She lingered, twisting the corner of her apron.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but was that Mr. Inglethorp just come in?”

“Yes.”

“I thought I heard his voice.”

“He says he came home last night and found the house dark.”

Annie looked surprised.

“The hall lamp was burning, sir.”

“Are you certain?”

“Quite certain. I put it out myself at twelve. Dorcas told me to leave it, because Mr. Inglethorp had not come home. I remember looking at the hall clock when I turned it down.”

“You did not hear anyone knock?”

“No, sir.”

She hesitated.

“I was in the pantry a good part of the evening, though.”

I thanked her and went into the dining-room, feeling that I had at last obtained something definite.

Mary Cavendish stood by the window. She had changed her working smock for a plain grey dress, and looked very tired. Cynthia sat at the table with a cup of tea before her. The flush had left her face, but she still appeared bewildered.

Mary glanced at me.

“Has your friend come?”

“Not yet. He will be here in a few minutes.”

“I see.”

There was no encouragement in her voice. I wondered whether she resented my action, but before I could say anything further Dorcas announced Poirot.

He entered with a gravity which made his usual little bows seem less formal than I had sometimes thought them. John joined us, and I introduced my friend. Poirot expressed his sympathy in a few simple words.

“I shall endeavour to cause as little disturbance as possible,” he said. “May I see the room?”

“Certainly. I have the keys here.”

As we were leaving, Poirot paused beside Cynthia.

“Did you wake of your own accord this morning, mademoiselle?”

“No,” she replied. “Mary woke me. She had to shake me. I could hardly keep my eyes open, and at first I did not understand what she was saying.”

Poirot bowed.

“Thank you.”

He asked her nothing more, and we followed John upstairs.

At the bedroom door John stopped.

“Baily has secured the broken door with a couple of wedges,” he explained. “It would not stay shut otherwise. The door of Alfred’s room is locked too.”

Poirot examined the lock before John turned the key. Then he stood aside to let us enter.

The room looked very different in daylight. Its disorder, which had seemed part of the terrible events of the night, now had a forlorn and almost commonplace appearance. The overturned table lay where it had fallen. A book was face downwards beside it, and one slipper stood upright while its fellow lay beneath the bed.

A sheet had been drawn over Mrs. Inglethorp.

Poirot remained motionless for a few seconds. Then he approached the bed and stood beside it with his head bent. When he turned away, there was none of his customary animation in his face.

John spoke in a low voice.

“I shall be downstairs if you want me. I would rather not remain here.”

Poirot assented at once.

When the door had closed behind him, my friend began his examination. He moved slowly, taking care to avoid the objects upon the floor. First he studied the overturned table, then the carpet around it, and finally the bed.

I supplied several explanations, but he received them with a raised finger.

“Presently, Hastings. Let me see first.”

He inspected the bolt of the door leading to Cynthia’s room. Then he went into Alfred Inglethorp’s room through the broken doorway, remained there a short time, and returned.

“Tell me where you stood when the gas was lighted.”

I indicated the place by the passage door.

“And Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?”

“Near here. He was holding the candle.”

I pointed out the position as nearly as I could remember it.

Poirot took his stand there and looked towards the mantelpiece.

“You said that he appeared frightened?”

“More than frightened. I have never seen such an expression.”

“But you could see nothing to account for it?”

“Nothing whatever.”

Poirot examined the ornaments upon the mantelpiece. There were two small vases, a china figure, and the clock I had noticed during the night. He did not touch them at first, but looked at each in turn.

Then he knelt before the grate.

There were a few pieces of blackened paper amongst the ashes. He studied these carefully, without disturbing them, and passed his hand along the edge of the hearth. Suddenly he stopped.

“Ah!”

“What is it?”

He took a pair of small tweezers from his pocket and picked up something which lay close against the iron foot of the grate.

At first I thought it was a leaf. When he held it towards me, I saw that it was a little round piece of green cloth, scarcely larger than a sixpence. One edge was blackened, and its surface appeared to have been pressed quite smooth.

“Well?” I said.

“Well, my friend?”

“What is it?”

“A little piece of green baize.”

“I can see that. What does it mean?”

Poirot folded a sheet of clean paper about it.

“That I shall not explain at present.”

He put the paper in his pocket and rose.

“You attach importance to it?”

“I attach importance to its being here.”

I found this distinction irritating, but his attention had already passed to the writing-table near the window.

For some time he examined the room in silence. He looked behind the curtains, beneath the chairs, and along the skirting-board. At last he stood in the centre and slowly turned about.

“Now,” he said, “you shall tell me again what happened.”

I did so. This time his questions were chiefly concerned with our positions and movements. He wished to know who had first approached the bed, who had remained near the doorway, and whether the table had already fallen when we entered.

I answered as well as I could. To my surprise, he appeared satisfied even when I confessed uncertainty.

“It is better to say that you do not remember,” he remarked, “than to remember something because I have suggested it.”

We left the room shortly after eight, and Poirot locked the door. John gave him permission to retain the keys for the morning.

Downstairs I told him of Alfred Inglethorp’s return, repeating his account word for word as nearly as I could.

“And Annie says the lamp was burning until twelve,” I concluded.

Poirot looked at me sharply.

“You have spoken to her?”

“Yes.”

“Then I also will speak to her.”

He did so, quietly and without my assistance. Annie repeated her statement, and was quite positive about the hour.

I expected him to be impressed, but when she had gone he only said:

“She remembers putting out a lamp. He remembers seeing a dark house. We must preserve both statements.”

“Surely one must be wrong?”

“That is possible.”

“Only possible?”

He gave me a reproachful glance.

“Hastings, do not make me choose before I have looked.”

The remainder of the morning passed with a slowness which tried my patience. Poirot spoke to Dorcas, inspected the side entrance, and walked round the house. I accompanied him on this last expedition, but gained little enlightenment. He was interested in the paths beneath the windows and in the position of the servants’ rooms.

On our return we encountered Lawrence in the hall.

“I understand that you have been examining my mother’s room,” he said to Poirot.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“I hope Hastings has not persuaded you to adopt his ideas.”

“I have as yet adopted no ideas.”

Lawrence coloured.

“I merely meant that there is no reason to assume anything until the doctors have finished.”

“That is a very reasonable observation.”

The answer appeared to disconcert him. He turned away, and presently I heard the library door close.

“An odd manner,” I observed.

“He has lost his mother.”

“Stepmother.”

Poirot looked at me, and I felt ashamed of the correction.

A little before eleven he asked me to accompany him upstairs once more. The house had grown quiet. Somewhere below a servant was moving crockery, and from the garden came the steady sound of a rake upon gravel.

Poirot unlocked the bedroom door. When we were inside, he closed it and turned the key.

He drew two chairs to the writing-table. Then he took the folded paper from his pocket, opened it, and placed the little disc of green baize between us.

I looked at it with renewed curiosity. In the strong daylight it appeared even less remarkable than before.

Poirot touched its blackened edge with the point of a pencil.

“The person who lost this, Hastings,” he said softly, “was very anxious that nothing should be missing.”

I stared at him across the little object. I had not the least idea what he meant.

Mr. Franklin kept his arm round me until I reminded him that my ribs were English ribs, whatever his own might have become in foreign parts. Upon that he let me go, and laughed, and asked whether I had really forgotten the seven-and-sixpence.

I remembered it perfectly. It was money lent to him, in his boyhood, to repair a window which he had broken; the window having been charged to a boy from the village, until Mr. Franklin found that the boy was to pay for it out of his wages. There was the making of an honest gentleman in him, even then. There was also the making of a gentleman who borrowed money, and forgot to repay it. Both these beginnings had prospered, so far as I could judge.

"You shall have it now," he said, putting his hand in his pocket.

"Keep it till you break another window, sir. How came you here so early?"

He took his hand out again, without the money. Observe, if you please, how readily the young take the old at their word when there is anything to be saved by it.

"A letter brought me," he answered. "I received it in London yesterday evening, just in time to change my arrangements. Instead of waiting till this morning to start, I travelled through the night. I got a chaise at Frizinghall, left my luggage to follow me, and came on here. They told me at the house that my aunt was out, and that you had gone to look for one of the servants. So I came to look for you."

"Was there bad news in the letter, sir?"

"Read it, Betteredge, and judge for yourself."

He gave me a letter, folded small, which had been opened with a knife instead of being torn open with the fingers. I mention this because his father always tore his letters, and generally tore a piece out of the writing along with the seal. Education abroad had done something for the son, at any rate.

The letter was dated in London, on the twenty-fourth of May. This was what it said:

"My dear Franklin,

"A communication which has reached me since you left my office makes me wish that you should shorten your stay in London.

"I advise you to start for Yorkshire tonight, instead of tomorrow morning. You can complete your journey from Frizinghall by a hired carriage, and ought thus to reach Lady Verinder's house several hours before the time at which she expects you.

"Take with you the charge which I committed to your care. Until I have had an opportunity of making further inquiries, I recommend you to keep it in your own custody, or in the custody of a person on whose discretion you can depend. Do not entrust it to a servant travelling with the luggage.

"You have spoken to me of Gabriel Betteredge. If you need assistance on reaching the house, I should think you might safely consult him.

"There is no occasion to alarm your aunt. I shall write again when I have something more definite to tell you.

"Very truly yours,

"Matthew Bruff."

I read the letter twice. At the second reading, I took particular notice of the passage about myself. Mr. Bruff was a lawyer, and, consequently, not a man from whom you expected a favourable opinion of anybody without some expense attending it. Here was a favourable opinion of me, and nothing to pay. I own I liked the letter.

"What is the communication he mentions?" I asked.

"That is precisely what he hasn't told me."

"And what is the charge, sir?"

Mr. Franklin held out his hand for the letter.

"I want you to take care of it for me tonight," he said. "Will you oblige me without asking that question?"

There are requests which a man makes easy to grant by the manner in which he puts them. This was one. He had dropped his laughing way, and looked at me as earnestly as ever I had seen him look when he was a boy and had got into trouble.

"If it is anything that can be locked up," I answered, "we have a plate-room at your service. I keep the key myself."

"Nothing could be better."

He helped me to my feet, and then took a small packet from an inner pocket of his coat. It was wrapped in stout paper, tied with string, and sealed. There was no writing on the outside. He put it into my hand.

"Lock that up when we get back," he said. "Tomorrow morning will be time enough to consider what is to be done next."

I felt the weight of it, as any man would who had something unexpectedly put into his hand. Beyond that, I made no attempt to satisfy my curiosity. You may think this an uncommon degree of virtue in a person writing a book about other people's affairs. Remember, good friend, that I had not begun writing the book then.

I buttoned the packet into my coat-pocket, and we turned our backs on the sands.

Mr. Franklin looked about him as we walked through the plantation, and recognised this tree and that turning, with a pleasure which did me good to see. He had been away long enough to find changes; but he was young enough to think that everything which remained as he remembered it had remained expressly to welcome him home.

For my part, I remembered when most of those firs were planted. A tree which you have seen carried under a gardener's arm is a different object from a tree which has been old all your life. You can't look up at it without having your own age forced upon you. I was glad when Mr. Franklin began talking of the house.

He asked after my lady first, and after Miss Rachel next, and after Penelope next. Then he asked whether the old dogs were alive. When I had told him that they were dead, he wanted to know if their successors were worth anything. I gave him their characters, which brought us to the end of the plantation.

Here he stopped me.

"There is something on your mind, Betteredge. What is it?"

It was Penelope's story. His coming before his time, and his bringing something about him which required locking up, had given that story a disagreeable hold on my thoughts. I had promised my daughter to speak to him; and here was an opportunity of keeping my promise.

I told him what had happened on the terrace that morning. I told him what Penelope had afterwards seen, and repeated, as nearly as I could, the words which she had heard the boy speak.

Mr. Franklin listened without once interrupting me. When I came to the English gentleman who was travelling to our house, he looked towards the building through the trees. When I came to the words, "He has got It about him," he looked back at me.

"Your daughter is sure of those words?"

"As sure as she is of her own name, sir."

"And she had heard nothing of my business in London?"

"Nothing from me. And I had nothing to tell her."

He walked on a few steps before he spoke again.

"If the boy's answer referred to anything," he said, "I believe it referred to the Moonstone."

I waited for more. Nothing more came.

"What may the Moonstone be, Mr. Franklin?"

"The name of a Diamond."

That answer was plain enough. His manner of giving it was what puzzled me. Here was a gentleman who had travelled in foreign countries, and had learnt, as I supposed, to distinguish a trick from a truth. Yet he took a story about a little boy and a dab of ink as seriously as if Mr. Bruff had sent it to him in a second letter.

I made bold to tell him so.

"I don't undertake to explain the boy," he answered. "But I have reasons for attending to what you have told me. Ask Penelope to say nothing about it for the present. And don't make me responsible for frightening her. I want to think this over."

We had reached the back court by that time. I took him into my sitting-room, where he could wash the dust off his hands, and left him there while I went to the plate-room.

The plate-room was a little room within a room, with a door which shut as if it meant to stay shut, and a lock which had never given me cause to complain of it. I put the packet on an empty shelf at the back, turned the key, and tried the door after locking it. Then I returned the key to its accustomed place in my pocket.

There! The trust was accepted, and the duty was done. Whatever Mr. Bruff might have discovered in London, he could hardly have asked me to take greater care of an article whose contents I did not know.

On coming back, I found Penelope waiting outside my sitting-room. She had heard that Mr. Franklin had arrived, and was in a state between pleasure at seeing him and impatience to know whether I had spoken about the boy.

I told her that I had spoken, and that Mr. Franklin wished her to hold her tongue.

"Then there was something in it!" says Penelope.

"There was something in his wishing you to hold your tongue," I answered. "You may begin by doing it."

She looked at the sitting-room door, and lowered her voice.

"Have you brought Rosanna back, father?"

"No. She left the sands before we did. Hasn't she come in?"

"She has gone on to Cobb's Hole. The gardener met her on the path to the village, and asked if she was going home. She said she was going to see her friend."

This was the friend I have already mentioned as the only one Rosanna had made in our neighbourhood. There was nothing extraordinary in her going there. The extraordinary part, to my mind, was her going without first returning to the house, after I had expressly fetched her to dinner.

"Has she had anything to eat?" I asked.

"Cook put her dinner by. She hasn't come for it."

I was vexed with the girl; and, being vexed, I remembered how wretched she had looked, and became uneasy about her instead. That is one of the inconveniences of taking an interest in people. They prevent you from being angry comfortably.

Penelope offered to go to Cobb's Hole after her work was done. I said we would wait a little. Rosanna knew the dinner-hour as well as we did, and knew that there was work waiting for her at home.

Mr. Franklin opened the door at that moment, and my daughter forgot everything else in welcoming him. He remembered her when she was a child, which pleased her; and said she had grown like me, which did not. Having seen them fairly started in conversation, I went to inquire whether my lady had returned.

My lady had returned. Her bell rang while I was making the inquiry, and the message came that Mr. Franklin was to go to her sitting-room.

He asked me to show him the way. I thought he knew it quite well; but there is no accounting for a young gentleman's fancies on his first day home.

My lady was standing when we went in. She took both his hands, looked at him, and kissed him. I had seen her kiss him when his head scarcely reached above her knee. The sight of her kissing him now brought the years between so plainly before me that I turned towards the door.

"Stay a moment, Betteredge," she said.

I stayed.

She made Mr. Franklin sit near her, and asked whether he had travelled comfortably, and whether his father was well. He answered her, and explained his early arrival by saying that Mr. Bruff had advised him to leave London sooner than he had intended.

At the lawyer's name, she looked at him more closely.

"Has Mr. Bruff sent you to me on business?"

"He has written to me on business, aunt. He has not sent any message to you."

She was silent for a moment. Then she spoke in the quiet voice which all of us in the house knew meant that her mind was made up.

"Before we say anything more, Franklin, there is one condition on which I must receive you. John Herncastle is not to be discussed under my roof."

Mr. Franklin rose.

"I had no wish to distress you," he said.

"I am sure of that. But I know something of the business which has occupied Mr. Bruff. I will not have my brother's conduct defended to me; and I will not have Rachel troubled with it. You understand what I ask?"

"Perfectly."

"You agree?"

"I agree. John Herncastle shall not be a subject of conversation here."

She drew him down into his chair again, and put her hand on his.

"Now tell me about yourself."

That was my dismissal. I left them with a lighter heart. My lady's face had softened; and Mr. Franklin, who had looked troubled when she first spoke, was beginning to look like himself again.

I had my own dinner afterwards, and found less appetite for it than usual. Rosanna's words at the sands returned to me between one mouthful and another. When a person has told you that she thinks her grave is waiting for her in a particular place, you would rather know where that person is before you settle to your pudding.

Towards evening, Penelope came to say that Rosanna had still not returned. I sent a lad from the stable to Cobb's Hole, with instructions to inquire for her at her friend's house, and to tell her that she was wanted at home.

The evening's duties kept me occupied after that. Mr. Franklin's luggage arrived; his room was ready; and my lady had no further orders for me. At last the house grew quiet enough for me to hear the lad coming back across the court.

He had found Rosanna at her friend's. She had received my message, and had said she would come home presently.

It was late by this time. I took my book and settled myself in the beehive chair, with a light beside me and my coat buttoned against the evening air. The key of the plate-room was safe in my pocket. The sealed packet was locked away where I had put it, and Robinson Crusoe lay open on my knee.

I read a page, and listened. I read another page, and listened again.

Rosanna was still not back in the house.

We had scarcely reached our gate when my wife remembered a letter she had promised to write, and went indoors to finish it. I remained for a little while in the garden. The music of the excursionists had died away, and somewhere towards Chertsey a dog barked at long intervals. I could see Mars above the roof of our house. Presently I went in also, and sat down at my study window with a book upon my knees.

It was there that I saw the first falling star.

My attention had wandered from the book, and I was looking at the dark reflection of the room in the window when a greenish light ran across the glass. For an instant I thought someone had struck a match behind me. Then the garden, the hedge, and the pale road beyond became visible with a strange distinctness, and I saw above them a streak of fire descending through the sky. It appeared to come down towards the fields between Ottershaw and Chertsey. Its head was dazzlingly bright, and behind it a ragged train of sparks hung for a moment against the stars.

I rose so abruptly that my book fell upon the floor.

"What was that?" my wife called from the next room.

"A meteor," I answered, and went to the door.

The light had vanished. I stood listening, with my hand still upon the latch. After an interval there came a dull, heavy concussion, less like an explosion than the fall of some enormous weight upon the ground. The window shook behind me. Then the dog I had heard before began to bark furiously, and another answered it.

My wife came and stood beside me. She had seen the light upon her paper, but the window at which she sat faced the wrong way.

"Has it struck a house?" she asked.

I said I thought it had fallen farther off, though I had no sound reason for saying so. We remained at the door for several minutes. There was no glow upon the horizon, no cry, no sound of people running. A cart passed along the road, and its driver, whom I hailed, had seen nothing. He had been under the trees when the light appeared, and took the noise for distant thunder.

That indifference reassured us. We went indoors, and I picked up my book. But I did not read any more that night. The green light had left a faint impression upon my eyes, and whenever I looked towards the window I seemed to see its track again.

In the morning I awoke early and lay for a time trying to determine the direction in which the thing had fallen. I had already resolved to look for Ogilvy when a boy passed our gate with a basket, and told me that something had come down in an old sandpit beside a lane towards Chertsey. He had not seen it himself. His brother had been there, and said the water was boiling.

I went back to tell my wife. She was already dressed, and at once proposed to come with me.

"It will be gone before breakfast if we leave it to the boys," she said.

We ate hurriedly, and set out a little after seven. The air was warm already. There had been no rain, and the road was dusty except where the trees sheltered it. For some distance we met nobody who knew anything of the fall. A woman at a cottage door supposed that we were going to see a wreck upon the railway, and a man cutting grass said he had slept through the noise. It was curious how little the event had disturbed the neighbourhood.

Near the lane we overtook two labourers walking with their tools upon their shoulders. They knew the place and turned aside with us. Beyond a broken fence the ground descended into a disused excavation, shallow at one end and much deeper at the other. Grass and young bushes had grown upon the abandoned workings. In the lower part there was a pool, fed, I believe, by a spring, and bordered with rushes.

Before we reached the edge I saw steam rising above the bushes.

It ascended in irregular white wisps, which spread and disappeared in the morning air. There was a smell of wet earth, and another smell, faint but disagreeable, such as comes from heated iron. We passed through a gap in the fence and stopped upon the bank.

The object lay half-submerged in the pool.

At first I could distinguish little of it. The water had become muddy, and the steam obscured the nearer end. Then a movement of the air exposed a broad, dark curve above the water, covered with grey and brown patches. It was much larger than I had expected, perhaps thirty feet across its visible length. One end lay close to the shelving bank, while the other disappeared beneath the disturbed water. The rushes there had been flattened, and beyond them a fresh scar in the sand showed where the falling mass had struck and slid.

My wife caught my sleeve.

"That came over our house?"

"Near it," I said.

Ogilvy was on the opposite bank, bending over something in his hand. He straightened when he heard us, put the thing into his pocket, and came round the pool.

"You saw it?" he asked me at once.

I described the light and the interval before the sound. He questioned me closely about its apparent height, its direction, and the colour of the train. I found, as one so often does when an observation has to be made precise, that my recollection was much less exact than I had supposed.

He had seen the last part of its descent from his doorway, and had come out at daybreak to search for it.

"An ordinary meteorite," he said. "An extraordinary size, certainly, but an ordinary meteorite. We have been fortunate in seeing it come down."

I looked again at the exposed curve.

"It is a very regular shape."

"That is difficult to judge with half of it under water."

"But this part is smooth."

He smiled with the patience he sometimes assumed towards people who had no astronomical training.

"The passage through the atmosphere heats and alters the outer crust. You must not expect a stone that has fallen from the sky to look like a stone picked out of a hedge."

"I was thinking of iron."

"Very likely there is iron in it. Many meteorites contain a great deal."

He took from his pocket the fragment he had been examining. It was a small piece of dark material, rough upon one side and glossy upon the other. He had found it upon the newly torn bank.

"Is that part of it?" I asked.

"I cannot be certain yet. It may merely have been fused by contact."

My wife leaned forward to look at it, but he drew his hand back.

"It is still rather warm."

Two boys now appeared at the fence, followed by a man with a fishing rod. They stood above us for a time before venturing down. One of the labourers asked Ogilvy what the thing would be worth, and the other wanted to know who owned it. Ogilvy answered neither question satisfactorily. His eyes continually returned to the pool.

The water close to the object trembled and sent up little bubbles. Farther away it was comparatively still. Now and then steam rose from a particular patch of the exposed crust and concealed it for several seconds. The whole appearance reminded me of a great boiler that had been abandoned in a pond, except that I could see no plate, rivet, or fitting anywhere upon it.

I said something of this to Ogilvy.

"You are letting an accidental resemblance govern you," he answered.

"Perhaps. But I should like to see the part beneath the water."

"So should I."

"And you are quite certain that it is an ordinary meteorite?"

"What else do you suggest?"

I hesitated. The outbreaks upon Mars came into my mind, but to connect that immense and remote disturbance with this steaming thing in a sandpit seemed a foolish leap. Nevertheless I mentioned them.

Ogilvy looked at me for a moment, then laughed.

"My dear fellow, we have observed a disturbance upon Mars, and you have seen a meteor fall in Surrey. That does not establish any relation between them."

"The time is remarkable."

"It would seem equally remarkable to someone who had been watching an eruption upon the sun. Stones fall upon the earth whether we happen to be watching the heavens or not."

"But ten successive outbreaks, each at almost the same hour?"

"Those need an explanation of their own. This does not become something other than a meteorite because we cannot yet explain them."

There was force in what he said, and I could produce no further argument. Yet I disliked the readiness with which he dismissed the shape of the thing. When I went a few paces along the bank, the visible outline seemed even more regular. There was a breadth and continuity to the curve which I had never seen in any natural mass of rock.

My wife, who had listened to us, asked whether it might have broken from some machinery carried in a balloon. Ogilvy explained that no balloon could have given it the velocity we had observed. He was gentle with her, and described how the air opposed the passage of such a body and converted its motion into heat. She looked at the pool with renewed interest.

"Then it may remain hot all day?"

"Longer than that, very possibly."

By nine o'clock there were a dozen people about the excavation. Someone had carried the news to the main road, and a cyclist arrived, wheeling his machine through the gap. He said that he had heard of a thunderbolt at Chertsey, and seemed disappointed to find it lying so quietly. The man with the fishing rod maintained that there could be no fish left alive in the pool, and began an argument with one of the labourers about the distance to which the heat would extend.

These conversations went on almost as though the dark mass were an object placed there for a village exhibition. People called to their acquaintances across the water. One boy threw a pebble at it before Ogilvy sharply stopped him. The pebble struck with a thin sound and dropped into the pool.

About half-past ten a man in a loose grey coat came down to us. He was a carpenter, I gathered, and had left his work to see what had happened. After listening to several conflicting accounts, he declared that people were making a great deal of fuss over something which might have lain in the pit for years.

He had not seen the torn bank. When we pointed it out he went along the edge to examine it, and presently descended to a narrow strip of sand close to the nearer end of the object.

Ogilvy warned him to keep away.

"The water has cooled this side," the man said.

It had indeed ceased to steam much at that end, though farther out white vapour still rose. The carpenter put one foot upon a stone, steadied himself against the bank, and reached towards a black patch just above the water.

"Don't touch it!" I called.

He had already laid his palm upon it.

His cry startled everyone in the pit. He jerked his hand back, lost his footing, and sat heavily upon the sand. For an instant he stared at his palm as though he could not understand what had happened. Then he scrambled up and came towards us, holding the injured hand by the wrist.

My wife was the first to reach him.

"Put it in the water," she said.

"Not there," Ogilvy called. "Away from the thing."

We took him to the upper end of the pool, where the water was cool. He knelt and plunged his hand into it. His face had gone pale beneath its sunburn, and he drew his breath through his teeth. When he lifted the hand we could see a red patch across the palm and the beginnings of a blister below the fingers.

My wife gave me her handkerchief. I wetted it and laid it over the burn. The carpenter submitted without a word, though he had been very ready with his opinions a few minutes before. At last he muttered that the black part had looked cold.

A man who knew him offered to walk with him to a doctor, and they went away together. My wife watched them climb the bank. Her curiosity had diminished at once.

After that no one approached the object very closely. Ogilvy persuaded the labourers to lay two lengths of broken fence across the easiest descent, and told each newcomer what had happened. But the warning did not lessen the number of arrivals. It gave them another thing to repeat.

Towards noon the fence above us was lined with people. Several had brought food, and a woman held a child upon her shoulder so that it could see over the heads in front. The cyclist had gone and returned with a friend. Down in the excavation the air was hot and damp, and I became conscious that my wife had been standing for a long time without shade.

I proposed that she should go home.

She wished at first to wait for me, but Ogilvy had begun to discuss the possibility of measuring the object, and I was reluctant to leave. I told her I should follow when we had finished, and reminded her that there would be little comfort in waiting among so many people. She looked once more at the pool, then consented.

I went with her as far as the gap in the fence. There she made me promise to keep clear of the hot surface, and started home along the lane. I watched until the bushes hid her. When I took out my watch it was almost twelve.

More people were coming through the gap. I stepped aside to let them pass, then went back down the bank to Ogilvy.

The First National Bank was two blocks away. I went there.

A girl behind a rail sent me to Charles Harker, who had assistant cashier painted on the glass beside his desk. He was a tall man with a narrow pink face and hair that had been parted carefully a long time ago. He looked at my card, turned it over, and looked at the back.

"What can I do for you?"

"Donald Willsson drew a check for five thousand dollars yesterday afternoon. I want to know who got it."

His face closed.

"We don't give out information about our depositors' affairs."

"This depositor's affairs have been interrupted. I'm the detective he brought here from San Francisco."

"Have you any authority from his executors?"

"I haven't even got an executor. I've got a dead client and a check stub."

He put my card on his desk, exactly parallel to its edge.

"I appreciate your position, but you must appreciate ours."

"I can try. Does it amount to refusing to tell me whether the check has been cashed?"

"I should have to consult our president."

"Elihu Willsson?"

"Yes."

"He's sick. I saw him this morning. He'll want to know what you're doing to help find out who killed his son."

Harker's eyes left mine. They went to the telephone and came back.

"Did Mr. Willsson authorize you to make this inquiry?"

"He authorized me to get to hell back to Frisco. I haven't done it yet."

The pink in the bank man's face spread to his ears.

"Then I really don't see how I can assist you."

"Listen. I'm not trying to get a look at the old man's balance. His son wrote a five-thousand-dollar check yesterday, left his office with it, and was murdered last night. The check may explain the murder. If you've paid it, the police will be here with papers to make you show it to them. If you haven't paid it, you can tell me so and save yourself some bother."

He studied me, picking at a corner of my card with one fingernail.

"I could tell you whether such a check had been paid," he said at last. "That would disclose nothing about any other person."

"Good. And whether it was certified."

He got up and went through a door in the rail. I sat there watching a woman count bills into a little black purse. She counted them twice, shut the purse, opened it, and counted them again.

Harker came back with a sheet of paper. He sat down, looked at the paper, and said:

"No check for five thousand dollars drawn by Mr. Donald Willsson has been presented."

"Yesterday or today?"

"Either day."

"Or certified?"

"It has never been presented or certified."

"Could he have got five thousand dollars in cash against it?"

"He did not."

"You're sure of that?"

"Quite sure."

"Did he come into the bank yesterday afternoon?"

"I didn't see him. I asked the men who would have attended to him. None of them remembers seeing him."

"Could he have come in without doing any business?"

"Certainly."

"Was there enough money in his account to cover the check?"

Harker drew his paper closer to him.

"I don't think I should answer that."

"You've done pretty well without it. If the check comes in, I'd like to hear about it. I'm at the Great Western."

"I can't undertake to notify you."

"You can think about it."

I left him thinking about it, or about something else.

At the hotel I had lunch and went upstairs. There was no mail for me. I had taken off my coat and was trying to make Donald Willsson's two ten-o'clock appointments fit each other when the telephone rang.

The girl downstairs said:

"Mrs. Donald Willsson is here to see you."

"Send her up."

I put my coat on again.

She came in wearing black, with a small black hat pulled low over her yellow hair. Her face was paler than it had been the night before. She had changed her slippers for shoes. I couldn't see anything on the shoes.

I gave her the armchair by the window. She sat straight in it, holding her bag on her knees.

"You have spoken to my husband's father," she said.

"Yes."

"About me?"

"Some."

"What did you tell him?"

"That you went out last night and came back with something red on your slipper."

She looked down at her bag. Her fingers pressed its sides together.

"It was blood."

"Your husband's?"

"Yes."

"That helps. I wasn't sure."

Her head came up.

"You thought I killed him?"

"I hadn't got that far."

"But you told his father."

"I told him what I saw. He did the rest."

She took a cigarette out of her bag. I struck a match for her. Her hand was steady while she held the cigarette to the flame.

"Mr. Thaler told me you were a detective," she said.

"Your father-in-law could have told you that."

"He will not speak to me."

"Thaler came to see you this morning?"

"Yes."

"What did he want?"

"To ask whether there was anything he could do."

"Was there?"

"No."

"How well did you know him?"

"Donald introduced him to me. I have seen him perhaps four times."

"Your husband introduced him?"

"Yes. Why should he not?"

"According to the papers, Thaler was one of the people your husband wanted put out of business."

She blew smoke toward the window.

"Donald thought he could persuade people. He would talk to anyone. He thought if he explained what he wanted they would agree with him."

"Did Thaler agree?"

"I don't know."

"Let's take last night. Who called you while I was at your house?"

"A man."

"Who?"

"He didn't give his name."

"What did he say?"

"That Donald was in trouble and wanted me to come for him. He said I was to drive to Hurricane Street, to the eleven-hundred block."

"What sort of trouble?"

"He wouldn't tell me."

"Did you ask?"

"Of course. He said he had no time to explain, that Donald had asked him to telephone."

"Did you ask to talk to Donald?"

"Yes. He said Donald could not come to the telephone."

"What did you make of that?"

"I thought he had been arrested."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know you were a detective. You had come on business. I didn't wish to tell a stranger that my husband might have been arrested."

"And when you got there?"

"I saw him lying on the sidewalk."

"Right away?"

"No. I drove along the block. It was dark. I thought he would be waiting for me. Then I saw someone in the street, a man. I stopped the car and asked him where Mr. Willsson was."

"What did this man look like?"

"He was tall. He had a dark coat and a hat. I couldn't see his face."

"What did he say?"

"He pointed. I got out of the car."

"Where was the car?"

"On the other side of the street, a little beyond Donald."

"And the man?"

"He came with me. He bent down beside Donald. I was on the other side."

"What did he do?"

"I don't know. I was looking at Donald."

"What did you do?"

"I tried to lift his head."

She took the cigarette out of her mouth and looked at its end.

"There was blood on the pavement," she said. "I stepped in it."

"Then?"

"People were coming. I went back to the car."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"You left your husband there?"

"He was dead."

"How did you know?"

She put the cigarette into the ash tray, crushing it until the paper split.

"I knew."

"Did the man go with you?"

"No."

"Where did he go?"

"I didn't see."

"Did he tell you his name?"

"No."

"Did you talk to him at all after he pointed out your husband?"

"I don't think so."

"What time did you get there?"

"I don't know. I didn't look at the clock."

"You were called at ten-twenty. The shooting was at ten-forty."

She frowned.

"Then he was alive when the man called."

"According to the clocks."

"But why would he send for me?"

"That's one of the things I'd like to know."

She got up, walked to the window, and stood with her back to me.

"Have you told the police any of this?" I asked.

"No."

"You'll have to."

"They will say what his father says."

"They may. They'll say more if they have to dig it out."

She turned around.

"Will you go with me?"

"Yes."

"Tomorrow?"

"The sooner the better. They've already got witnesses who saw a woman bending over him."

She came back to her chair, but didn't sit down.

"I couldn't tell them last night. I couldn't answer their questions. I came home and you were there. I wanted you to go away."

"I did."

"I know. I am telling you why."

I let that alone.

"Did your husband keep much money in the house?"

"No."

"Did he ever mention paying somebody five thousand dollars?"

Her eyes narrowed a little.

"Five thousand?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"No. For what?"

"That's what I'm working on. He wrote a check for that amount."

"Who has it?"

"The bank hasn't."

She sat down again.

"Was it in his pocket?"

"I haven't looked at the things the police took off him."

"He sometimes carried papers in an envelope," she said.

"What kind of envelope?"

"A long white one. Like the envelopes at the office."

"Did he have one yesterday?"

"I didn't see him yesterday afternoon. He telephoned that he would dine in town."

"Did he say who with?"

"No."

"Did you know he'd asked me to come at ten?"

"He told me to expect a man from San Francisco. He said he would be home."

"Anything else?"

"No."

She looked at me for a while and then said:

"You don't believe me."

"I believe you got blood on your slipper. You ought to have told me how it got there last night."

"Would you have believed me then?"

"I'd have had longer to think about it."

That didn't please her. She snapped her bag shut and stood up.

I told her I would call at her house in the morning and take her to the police. She agreed without much enthusiasm. At the door she stopped.

"Did Mr. Thaler tell you about the money?"

"No. Why?"

"He knows things. Donald said that once."

"What things?"

"He didn't say."

She went out.

I stayed in my room for ten minutes, then went downstairs to see whether I could get hold of Noonan. The clerk stopped me with an envelope.

"A boy left this for you."

"What boy?"

"One of the boys who run errands around town."

"Did he say who sent him?"

"No, sir."

My name wasn't on the envelope. Somebody had printed GREAT WESTERN HOTEL and, below that, SAN FRANCISCO DETECTIVE.

Inside was a sheet torn from a writing pad. The message was in small black handwriting:

"The five thousand dollars was for a woman. Mrs. Willsson hasn't got it. Leave her out of it. Max Thaler."

I read it again. It didn't improve.

"How long ago did this come?" I asked the clerk.

"About twenty minutes."

"While Mrs. Willsson was upstairs?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did she speak to the boy?"

"I didn't see her speak to him."

I pocketed the note and used the lobby telephone. Noonan wasn't at headquarters. The man who answered wouldn't say where he was, or couldn't. I asked what had been found in Donald Willsson's pockets. He said I would have to speak to the chief about that.

I went out, had a cigar, and walked over to Hurricane Street.

The block was shabby enough in daylight. The alley across from the place where Willsson had fallen was narrow and straight. A man standing a few feet inside it could watch most of the opposite sidewalk without showing himself. There wasn't much to learn by standing where the police had already stood, but I stood there for a while.

A woman opened a window and watched me. I went across and asked her about the shooting. She had heard the shots, looked out, and seen people gathering. She hadn't seen the man and woman the paper mentioned. She had told the police everything she knew. She told me the same everything, twice.

By the time I got back to the hotel it was getting dark.

I ate dinner, went upstairs, and wrote my report for the Old Man. I kept it short enough for a wire and long enough to give him a chance to object.

CONTINENTAL DETECTIVE AGENCY SAN FRANCISCO

WILLSSON FIVE THOUSAND DOLLAR CHECK DRAWN YESTERDAY STILL OUTSTANDING. CHARLES HARKER ASSISTANT CASHIER FIRST NATIONAL STATES CHECK NEVER PRESENTED OR CERTIFIED AND NO CASH WITHDRAWAL AGAINST IT. WIDOW CALLED HOTEL TODAY WITHOUT INVITATION. ADMITS BLOOD ON SLIPPER WAS HUSBANDS. SAYS UNKNOWN MAN TELEPHONED TEN TWENTY CLAIMING WILLSSON IN TROUBLE AND REQUESTING HER COME ELEVEN HUNDRED BLOCK HURRICANE STREET. FOUND BODY THERE WITH UNKNOWN MAN WHO DISAPPEARED. SHOOTING REPORTED TEN FORTY. WIDOW HAS NOT GIVEN POLICE THIS ACCOUNT. WILL TAKE HER TO NOONAN TOMORROW. THALER SENT WRITTEN MESSAGE CLAIMING FIVE THOUSAND WAS FOR WOMAN AND WIDOW HAS NOT GOT IT. HAVE NOT VERIFIED EITHER STATEMENT. NO EVIDENCE YET EXPLAINING PURPOSE OF CHECK OR IDENTIFYING HOLDER. CONTINUING INVESTIGATION.

I read the wire over, changed nothing, and took it downstairs. The clerk sent it out by a boy while I waited. I bought another cigar and went back to my room.

At a little after eight the clerk telephoned to say the wire had gone.

I put the receiver down and took Thaler's note out again. He knew the amount. That might mean he knew who had the check. It might mean only that somebody at the Herald or the bank had talked. He wanted me to leave the widow alone. She had come to me after he had called on her. Those things went together easily enough. They didn't tell me what to do with the twenty minutes between her telephone call and her husband's death.

Outside, the electric sign across the street came on, putting red bars on my ceiling. I shut the window against the noise and sat down with the note in my hand.

The wire was sent. The bank hadn't paid the check. Somebody still had five thousand dollars on paper, and I didn't know who.

Robert accommodated his step to Madame Ratignolle's, which was slow enough to permit her to look into the gardens as they passed. She was concerned about a row of lettuce which had wilted since the morning, and called his attention to it. He assured her that the gardener had gone to sleep beneath the orange trees and would awaken in time to save it.

"You know everything that happens here," she said. "How did you discover where we had hidden ourselves?"

"The children discovered it. I should never have thought of looking for Mrs. Pontellier where there was neither a pencil nor a book."

"She had no need of either this morning."

"No," he agreed, after a moment. "When she is silent, one feels that she has gone somewhere out of reach."

Madame Ratignolle turned her head to look at him. He was occupied in rescuing the edge of her skirt from a branch which thrust itself across the path.

"What an extraordinary thing to say! She was within reach of my hand the whole morning."

"Then you were more fortunate than the rest of us."

He laughed as he said it, and she laughed also. At the next turning they encountered a servant carrying a basket of fresh eggs, and Madame Ratignolle stopped to inquire whether there would be enough for the custard she had promised her children. By the time they reached the house she had quite recovered the use of her limbs.

Edna remained beneath the awning until the boys had exhausted the pleasure of possessing it. Raoul wanted her to come and see a hole which he had dug, and was offended because she could discover no difference between it and another hole beside it. She tried to repair the injury by sitting near him while he enlarged it. The sand was cool a little way below the surface. She let it run between her fingers and listened without much attention to his account of what the hole was ultimately to become.

The nurse presently gathered up the children's belongings, and Edna went back with them. She felt tired, though she had done nothing to tire her. Her own voice, as she remembered it upon the beach, seemed to have belonged to some other woman whom she had listened to with interest and a little surprise.

A telegram awaited her at the cottage. The boy who had brought it was sitting on the steps, turning his cap round upon his knee. She opened the envelope before going indoors.

"Business detains me in town over Sunday. Shall not come out. All well. Léonce."

She read it twice. There was nothing obscure in the message, nor anything which called for a second reading. She gave the boy a small coin and watched him depart along the walk.

Léonce's coming had furnished a division in the week which she had accepted without thinking about it. There were things to tell him, things to ask him, and little arrangements which his presence made necessary. She had meant to speak of Janet's engagement, and to ask whether a present ought to be sent at once. Now these matters could wait. The days before her seemed to have lengthened.

She laid the telegram upon the table and removed her hat.

At the noon meal Madame Lebrun expressed regret that business should keep Mr. Pontellier in the city during such weather. Robert said that the city was tolerable if one had nothing to do but sit in an office and complain of the heat. His mother reminded him that he had never been known to endure it upon those terms or any others.

Edna listened and smiled. She did not feel called upon to share their regret in the same degree.

Madame Ratignolle came to her cottage early in the afternoon, bringing a little pattern which she had promised to show the nurse. She remained after the nurse had carried it away. The children were indoors, stretched upon their beds; the hot light lay upon the empty walk.

"You were very quiet at dinner," Adèle said. "I thought of something Robert told me when we came from the beach."

"What did he tell you?"

"He said, 'When she is silent, one feels that she has gone somewhere out of reach.' He was speaking of you. I told him you had been within reach of my hand all the morning."

Edna looked down at the telegram which she had taken up to show her friend.

"Did he say that?"

"Those were his very words. I remembered them because they were so odd. Robert has a way of saying things which sound quite serious until one examines them."

Adèle began to talk of the custard, which had failed in some particular that Edna did not understand. She was sorry about Mr. Pontellier; her own husband had once been detained for two Sundays, and she remembered how tedious she had found them. Edna gave her the telegram to read, and presently walked with her to the steps.

After Adèle had gone she stood a while in the doorway. She had an inclination to fetch her sketching materials, but the thought of choosing an object, arranging herself before it, and trying to put down what she saw was distasteful. She wanted to go somewhere without preparing an occupation for herself when she arrived.

She took her bath-house key and went down to the water.

The path was deserted. A lizard disappeared into the weeds at her approach, and farther on she heard the gardener moving among the orange trees. At the beach the children's tent stood empty. There were bathers at a distance, but none near the houses which she and Madame Ratignolle had occupied that morning.

She changed her dress and came out in her bathing clothes. The wind had abated somewhat, though the water still broke in short, uneven waves. She walked into it slowly, lifting her feet from the sand with a feeling that she was overcoming a small resistance at every step.

Her attempts to swim had always been attended by an excess of instruction. Somebody told her to raise her head, somebody else to lower it; she was to move her hands in one fashion and her feet in another. Through it all she had retained the conviction that the water would let her fall if she ceased to stand upon the bottom.

There was no one beside her now.

She bent forward where the water reached a little above her waist, and stretched out her arms. Her feet left the sand almost before she knew it. She moved her hands as she had so often been directed to move them, and then moved them again. For a few strokes she advanced through the water, awkwardly, with her face held too high and her breath arrested.

Then she stood up.

The water was no deeper than before. The beach lay close at hand. She looked back at the small space she had traversed, and could scarcely believe that she had crossed it without putting down her feet.

She tried again, but this time a wave struck her chin and she swallowed a little salt water. She stood coughing and laughing, with nobody to hear her. She did not make a third attempt. The first remained complete in her mind; she had no wish to spoil it by demanding more.

When she had dressed she sat upon the gallery of the bath-house to put on her shoes. Her limbs felt pleasantly heavy. She looked toward the water with a kind of private satisfaction, as if something had happened there which concerned herself alone.

"You have dropped your key, madame."

The lady in black stood at the foot of the steps. Edna had not heard her approach. She held out the key, which she had picked up from the sand.

"Thank you. I thought I had put it in my pocket."

"I saw it fall when you shook your skirt."

Her voice was low and quite ordinary. Edna had somehow expected, if she ever heard it, that it would have a sound unlike other voices.

"Do you come here every afternoon?" she asked.

"When it is not too hot. My room gets all the western sun."

She glanced toward the neighboring gallery, where her book lay upon a chair, and went on to it. Edna put the key securely away. It occurred to her that the lady in black had a room, and found it uncomfortable, and came out of it for the same reason that any one else might. She had never thought of these things before.

At supper she was hungry. The boys disputed over a shell which each claimed to have found, and she settled the matter with an attention that surprised the nurse. Robert spoke to her across the table about a boat which had come in during the afternoon. She answered him and asked a question concerning it. She said nothing of her bath.

Later she heard him calling to some one near the main house. There was laughter, followed by the scraping of chairs upon the gallery. She was in the children's room then. Raoul had fallen asleep with one hand beneath his cheek; his brother's sheet had slipped to the floor. She replaced it and turned the lamp lower.

She went out upon the gallery of the cottage and sat alone. The darkness concealed the sandy walk, but she could distinguish the pale masses of the neighboring houses. A breeze moved against her throat and stirred the loose hair at her temples.

The children slept within. She had told no one what she had done in the water. Adèle's voice returned to her, repeating Robert's words, and she sat with her hands resting in her lap, wondering where he had supposed she went when she was silent.

The rain had stopped when Eve reached the street, and a pale sun was making an experimental appearance over Shaftesbury Avenue. She looked at the umbrella in her hand. It was an excellent umbrella, but it presented a problem. You could hardly carry about London for the rest of your life an article which some unknown young man had thrust upon you. Sooner or later its owner would want it. Even if he did not, there was something disquieting in the thought that he might be getting wet somewhere while you enjoyed his property.

She turned towards Dover Street.

At the Drones Club, meanwhile, the question of the umbrella's ownership had become acute.

Psmith, who had returned to the smoking-room and was studying the Morning Globe, became aware of a young man standing before him. The young man had a pink face, and at the moment it was pinker than usual.

"I say!"

Psmith lowered the paper.

"An admirable opening. Brief, forceful, and calculated to arrest attention. Proceed."

"Did you take my umbrella?"

"Your umbrella?"

"Out of the rack. The fellow downstairs says you did."

Psmith regarded him thoughtfully.

"You are Walderwick?"

"Yes."

"I felt sure of it. There was something familiar about you. We have not, I think, been formally introduced, but I have frequently seen you exercising in the billiard-room."

"Where's my umbrella?"

"Before we go into that," said Psmith, "there is a matter which I should like to put before you. Have you ever considered selling it?"

"Selling it?"

"That is the word. I am prepared to buy."

Walderwick stared. He had come upstairs with a simple programme. He intended to ask where his umbrella was, receive an apology, and go away with it. The interview had taken a turn for which he was unprepared.

"I don't want to sell it."

"A natural feeling. One becomes attached to these little possessions. They enter into one's life. One remembers the day one bought them, the shopman who wrapped them up, the omnibus in which one nearly left them. Nevertheless, there must be a figure."

"It's practically new."

"So much the better. We shall be able to look forward to many happy years together."

"It cost two guineas."

"I offer fifty pounds."

There was a silence. In the distance somebody dropped a billiard-ball.

"What?"

"Fifty pounds. I should prefer to pay by cheque, if you have no objection."

Walderwick sat down. The pinkness of his face diminished. He looked like a man who had opened a cupboard in search of biscuits and found an unexpected legacy.

"Are you serious?"

"Painfully. You will observe the absence of anything approaching a smile."

"Well, of course, if you really mean it . . ."

Psmith produced a cheque-book.

"Your initials?"

Walderwick supplied them. Psmith wrote, detached the cheque, and handed it over.

"There," he said. "A pleasant transaction, conducted without bitterness. We are both richer men. You have fifty pounds, and I have an umbrella."

"But you haven't. That's what I was asking you. Where is it?"

"I shall attend to the delivery. You have other things to occupy you. There is the question of how best to employ your increased capital."

Walderwick inspected the cheque again.

"I say, this is dashed sporting of you."

"I endeavour to give satisfaction."

"But what on earth . . ."

Psmith raised his paper.

"I fear I must ask you to excuse me. I am following the fortunes of a gentleman who has been fined forty shillings for keeping a goat in his drawing-room, and we have reached a point where my undivided attention is essential."

Walderwick withdrew. Psmith read three lines of the paragraph, then lowered the paper and gazed at the window.

He had bought an umbrella. That much was certain. Whether he had bought anything else remained to be seen.

Eve found the porter of the Drones an imposing person, whose manner suggested that he personally selected the members and regretted several of his choices.

"I've brought back an umbrella," she said.

The porter looked at it.

"Yes, miss?"

"A gentleman belonging to the club lent it to me this morning."

"Which gentleman, miss?"

"I don't know his name. He was very tall and wore an eyeglass."

The porter's expression softened. This description, though lacking in the precision of a passport, appeared to convey something to him.

"I think I know the gentleman you mean, miss."

"Would you give it back to him?"

"Certainly, miss."

"And may I leave a note?"

The porter supplied paper and an envelope. Eve wrote a few lines at the desk beside his box.

"Thank you very much for lending me your umbrella. It saved my hat, which is more than the hat deserved, as it is the cause of nearly all my financial troubles. I hope you did not get very wet."

She signed it, folded it, and put it in the envelope.

"For the gentleman who lent the umbrella," she wrote outside.

"May I have your name, miss?"

"Miss Eve Halliday."

"Thank you, miss."

Eve departed with the feeling that she had discharged a duty. The porter placed the envelope with the umbrella behind his desk. He had hardly done so when the arrival of a member with two dogs and a grievance concerning his letters diverted his attention.

Psmith, leaving a few minutes later by the other door, escaped him.

It was a little after two when Eve entered a small tea-shop near Piccadilly. Her appointment was for three, and she had reached that stage of the day's proceedings when a cup of tea and a sandwich cease to be luxuries and become necessities. Unfortunately, a number of other people appeared to have reached it also. Every table was occupied.

She was hesitating near the door when a voice spoke from her left.

"If you are looking for a chair, there is one here which has done nothing all afternoon."

Eve turned.

The young man of Dover Street was seated at a small table by the window. He had a hat now, but the eyeglass was there, and there could be no reasonable doubt about his identity.

"Oh!" she said.

Psmith rose.

"A chair of excellent character. I can recommend it."

Eve sat down, looking at him with frank curiosity.

"I've been wanting to see you."

"That," said Psmith, "puts the matter in an agreeable light. So many people merely want to avoid me."

"I took your umbrella back."

"An umbrella?"

"To the club."

Psmith adjusted his eyeglass.

"The umbrella has become very prominent in English life. One encounters it everywhere."

"You gave it to me this morning."

"Did you have a satisfactory morning?"

"Very. Thanks to you."

"You are too kind."

"I don't see why you should pretend you didn't."

"I should be reluctant to spoil an interesting conversation by making positive statements."

Eve laughed.

"You were outside a coal shop in Dover Street. You hadn't a hat."

"A deplorable oversight on somebody's part. London is full of hats. There can have been no excuse."

"And you put the umbrella into my hand and ran away."

"A singularly abrupt person. Did he say anything?"

"Only 'Excuse me.'"

"At least his manners were sound."

"You really are rather trying."

"I have been told so by persons whose judgement I respect."

The waitress appeared, and Eve ordered tea and a sandwich. Psmith resumed his seat. He had the air of a man prepared to devote his afternoon to the matter in hand.

"I left a note," said Eve.

"An excellent practice. The written word endures."

"Well, I hope the porter gives it to you."

"He seemed a conscientious man."

"You admit knowing the porter, then?"

"I know several porters. It is one of the few advantages of a club life."

Eve abandoned the attack. She was hungry, and there was something about this young man which made prolonged argument seem a waste of effort. You might as well try to cross-examine a cloud.

"I mustn't stay very long," she said. "I've got an interview at three."

"An interview?"

"About a job."

Psmith's interest deepened.

"You also?"

"Are you looking for one?"

"I have devoted a portion of the morning to the pursuit. An employment bureau received me with courtesy, but without enthusiasm. I gathered that my arrival had failed to solve any of its immediate problems."

"What sort of work do you want?"

"I am keeping an open mind. Experience has taught me the danger of limiting one's activities. Until yesterday I was associated with fish."

Eve put down her cup.

"Fish?"

"Fish. I mention the fact without pride."

"Do you mean selling them?"

"Not personally across a counter. Mine was an office position. Nevertheless, the fish made their presence felt. I have severed the connexion."

Eve looked at him more closely. She remembered something Phyllis had said, but Phyllis's friend was named Smith, and there were probably hundreds of young men employed in fish. Besides, this one did not look as if he had ever done anything so practical.

"I'm going to catalogue a library," she said.

"A noble occupation. Books are quieter than fish, and have the advantage of staying where you put them."

"Have you ever catalogued one?"

"Not professionally. But I should be disposed to start with the books beginning with A, and work steadily towards Z."

"That sounds quite easy."

"The difficulty is to persuade the employer of it. Employers like a task to appear formidable. It makes them feel that they are getting something for their money."

"Perhaps you'd like to come and explain that to mine?"

"I should be delighted to assist, but I fear another engagement claims me."

This was true. Psmith had suddenly remembered that he wished to buy tobacco. He had no desire to accompany her into an interview where the continued absence of his name might become difficult to arrange.

Eve finished her tea and rose.

"Well, good-bye. And thank you."

"For recommending the chair?"

"For the umbrella."

Psmith bowed gravely.

"I shall endeavour to remain worthy of your good opinion."

Eve went out laughing. Psmith watched her pass the window, then summoned the waitress and asked where the nearest tobacconist was.

Lord Emsworth received Eve in a private sitting-room at a hotel in Piccadilly. He was standing beside the window with a sheet of paper in his hand, and his expression was that of a man whom circumstances had driven to think.

"Miss Halliday," announced the waiter.

"Eh? Oh, yes. Quite. Come in."

Eve came in.

"Sit down, sit down. You are punctual. Baxter said three o'clock, and it is three o'clock. Capital."

He looked at the sheet of paper.

"You have had experience?"

"Yes. I worked for six months on Sir Arthur Fairfield's collection."

"Did you indeed? A good collection?"

"Very good."

"Ah! And what would you do about green-fly?"

Eve blinked.

"Green-fly?"

"Yes. They are the very deuce this year. I should like your opinion."

"I don't know that I have one."

Lord Emsworth looked disappointed.

"Baxter seemed to think you were quite competent."

"At cataloguing books."

"Books?"

"The library at Blandings."

The Earl inspected his paper more closely. He turned it over. A light dawned.

"Of course, of course. This is a letter from my gardener. I put Baxter's memorandum on the other side. Very confusing. Very confusing indeed."

He smiled encouragingly.

"Well, well. Books. Yes."

Eve felt that the interview, after a temporary excursion into horticulture, had returned to its proper course.

"I thought you might wish to see a specimen of my work," she said. "If there is a book I could use . . ."

"A book? Certainly."

Lord Emsworth glanced round the room and picked up a substantial volume from a side-table.

"Here we are."

It was the hotel's railway guide.

Eve hesitated, then decided that one book would serve as well as another for a demonstration of method. Lord Emsworth gave her a sheet of writing-paper and returned to the window. She wrote out an entry, neatly ruled the necessary columns, and explained how references to the shelves and the condition of each volume could be added.

The Earl took the paper.

"Very clear," he said. "Very clear indeed."

He peered at it.

"What is this? Railway guide?"

"That is the title."

"Four shillings?"

"The price printed on the cover."

"But I have one. I bought one this morning."

"Yes, but this is only . . ."

"And Baxter has another. We certainly don't need a third."

"I'm not asking you to buy it."

Lord Emsworth looked relieved.

"Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought this was a bill."

"It's a specimen catalogue entry."

"Exactly, exactly. Very sensible."

He placed it on the table beside the gardener's letter.

"And when could you begin?"

"Whenever you wish."

"Excellent. Baxter will arrange everything. You will find him a very capable fellow. A little inclined to fuss, perhaps, but most capable."

He rose, and Eve rose also. The interview appeared to be over.

"I ought to tell you," she said, "that I shall only be able to stay until September."

"September? Yes, yes. Plenty of time."

"And about the salary . . ."

"Baxter. He knows all about it. I leave these things to Baxter."

He escorted her to the door with amiable courtesy. Then, as she was passing through it, he called her back.

"Oh, one moment. There was something I wanted to ask you."

Eve waited.

Lord Emsworth frowned, searching his memory. She hoped that he was about to inquire into her knowledge of bindings, or whether she could read Latin titles. She felt that she had not yet given a very convincing account of her qualifications.

"Do you happen to know," he said at last, "whether green-fly attack delphiniums?"

Eve left the hotel with her employment secure and her professional pride somewhat bruised. She had prepared herself to answer difficult questions about books. The only difficult question had concerned an insect.

It was after dinner when Psmith returned to the Drones smoking-room. The room was empty. The windows stood open to the mild evening air, and a newspaper stirred on the table as if some invisible member were trying to turn its pages.

Psmith selected a chair.

A moment later the porter appeared, carrying an umbrella and an envelope.

"This came back this morning, sir. I understood from Mr. Walderwick that it was yours now."

"Correct. There has been a change of management."

"The young lady left a note, sir."

"Did she?"

"Miss Eve Halliday, sir. That was the name she gave me."

Psmith sat up a little.

"Miss Eve Halliday?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you. That is most satisfactory."

The porter laid the umbrella beside his chair and went out. Psmith opened the envelope and read the note. Then he read it again.

For some time he remained motionless, with the paper in his hand. At length he folded it carefully and put it in his breast-pocket.

The umbrella rested against his knee. He looked down at it through his eyeglass.

Fifty pounds was a considerable sum to pay for an umbrella. But Psmith, alone in the quiet smoking-room, seemed quite content with his purchase.