The Chapters

I went back to the Great Western and changed into a shirt with a higher collar to cover the evidence of my low living, then aimed myself at the First National Bank.

The bank was a three-story affair on the corner of Laurel and Main, with the kind of solid granite front that was supposed to look like security but mostly looked like a monument to men who'd made too much money in mining. It was past noon, the streets were emptying for lunch, and I had the teller line practically to myself.

I found a gray-haired man with sleeve garters and the kind of expression that comes from thirty years of not trusting anybody. His name tag said Carpenter. I showed him the check stub number, told him I was looking into the Willsson killing for the Continental Agency, and asked if a five-thousand-dollar check drawn on that date had been presented.

Carpenter's face didn't change. He went back into the vault area without a word, was gone about five minutes, and came back with a ledger bound in green cloth. He turned it so I could see, pointed to an entry with one blunt finger, and said:

"Not presented. Not certified. Check number twelve-forty-eight, five thousand dollars, drawn by Donald Willsson on that date. It's still outstanding."

"Who was the payee?"

He shook his head. "That information wasn't entered in the bank's records. The check stub was blank except for the amount."

"You haven't seen it come through any other bank?"

"Not to my knowledge. And I would know. A check that size, drawn on a Personville account, if it had moved through channels I'd have heard about it."

I thanked him and walked back out into the October sun, which was starting to feel like something with teeth in it. So Donald Willsson had written a five-thousand-dollar check to nobody in particular and then taken himself to Hurricane Street to get shot four times. Either he'd never cashed it, or whoever he gave it to had decided not to. That was the kind of thing that made a man think, and thinking was what I was supposed to be paid for.

I was three blocks from the hotel when I spotted the kid tailing me. He was young, maybe twenty, with the kind of nervous energy that comes from being good at one thing and bored by everything else. He stayed about half a block back, which meant he wasn't trying very hard to hide or he wanted me to know he was there. I let him stay with me.

At the hotel I went straight up to my room, 237, and sat down to wait. Ten minutes later there was a knock. I said come in.

The kid was still in the hallway. He pushed a note under the door and beat it.

The note was typed on plain paper:

*The lady is interested in your intentions. The five thousand was not for her. Keep your mouth shut about the bank and you'll live longer. You're working for the wrong people.*

*—W*

No signature needed. Whisper didn't waste words, which fit with his name and his reputation. He sent messages instead of having conversations, which was smart work if you had things to hide and nerves good enough to back it up. The message meant that Max Thaler knew about the check, knew I'd found out it hadn't been cashed, and knew I was nosing around the bank. It meant he wanted me to know he knew. It meant something else too, but I'd have to figure out what.

I burned the note in the bathroom sink and watched it go up in smoke, then I went downstairs and had lunch in the hotel restaurant—a roast beef sandwich and coffee that tasted like it had been brewed the day before yesterday. The meat was good, which was something.

When I got back to my room at two o'clock there was a visitor waiting in the lobby.

She was standing with her back to the desk, looking at a photograph on the wall of some mining camp from 1898. Her green dress was the color of new money. When she heard my footstep she turned, and I saw that she had the same pale face and the same light blonde hair I'd seen two nights before, except that tonight there was nothing white-faced or frightened about her. She looked like she'd decided something and was going to go through with it.

"Mr. Neill," she said. It was not a question. Her accent was soft, the way water that's boiled down looks soft.

"Mrs. Willsson."

"I would like to speak with you. In your room, if that is not too improper. Or we could sit here, but it would be better in your room."

I nodded and headed for the stairs. She followed, not close enough to be remarked on. We didn't speak in the hallway and we didn't speak when I closed the door behind us. I pulled out the room's single armchair for her and sat on the bed.

"I came to ask you not to believe my father-in-law," she said without preamble. "He is a sick old man and very angry, and he would like to blame me for what has happened. You must not believe him."

"He made some pretty strong accusations."

"Yes." She sat with her hands folded in her lap, the way a woman sits when she's been taught to sit that way and never quite forgot. "He is wrong. I did not kill my husband."

"Where did you go when you left his house that night?"

"I went to meet someone."

"Who?"

"That I cannot tell you."

I waited. She looked at the window, at the curtains that didn't quite close, at the space where the wallpaper was peeling near the radiator.

"It was not anything to do with my husband's death," she said finally. "It was a private matter. A matter between myself and another person. When I returned and my father-in-law told me what had happened, I was very shocked. Very frightened. I did not know what to do, so I said nothing."

"That blood on your slipper."

"I cut my foot on something in the street," she said flatly. "It was nothing. Just a small cut. I was not paying attention to where I was walking."

"You're lying to me."

"Yes," she said. "But not about my husband's death. What I am lying about is why I left the house. And I will continue to lie about it, because it does not concern his death and it is no business of anyone in this city. Is that clear?"

It was clear enough. What wasn't clear was whether she believed what she was telling me or whether she'd been told to tell me it. There was a difference. I'd need to find out which one it was, but not tonight and not by asking her more questions she'd just lie about.

"You need to be more careful about who you go out to meet," I said. "There are people in this city who'd hurt you if they thought it would get them what they want."

"I am being careful." She stood up, smoothing her dress. "And I did not kill my husband. Whatever else I am, I am not a murderer."

She left before I could say anything else. I listened to her footsteps go down the hall and down the stairs, and then I sat on the bed for a while and thought about people who make mistakes and people who get caught for them, and how those two categories don't always line up the way you'd hope.

At six o'clock I sent my wire to the Old Man:

*DONALD WILLSSON SHOT FOUR TIMES STOMACH CHEST BACK DIED IMMEDIATELY POLICE HAVE NOTHING WIDOW UNDER SUSPICION BUT EVASIVE ABOUT MOVEMENTS THAT EVENING FIVE THOUSAND DOLLAR CHECK DRAWN BY WILLSSON AFTERNOON OF MURDER NEVER PRESENTED OR CERTIFIED NO PAYEE NAME ON RECORD MAX THALER CONNECTED TO WIDOW SOMEHOW WARNING ME OFF INVESTIGATION SUGGESTS CRIME NOT SIMPLE MURDER BUT SOMETHING MORE COMPLICATED WILL ADVISE WHEN I KNOW MORE STOP*

*CONTINENTAL DETECTIVE AGENCY PERSONVILLE OPERATIVE*

I folded the wire up and put it in my pocket, then I went downstairs and gave it to the desk clerk with money for the charges. He said it would go out right away.

Back in my room with the lights off, I sat by the window and watched Personville go about its business in the October dark. Somewhere in this town was five thousand dollars that nobody seemed to want, a woman who'd lied to a man's face without blinking, and a crippled gangster who was interested enough in my movements to put a tail on me. Somewhere in this mess was the reason Donald Willsson had ended up on a sidewalk in Hurricane Street with four bullets in him.

The check was the key. Checks don't write themselves, and men don't make out five-thousand-dollar instruments to nothing. He'd had a phone call from a woman, he'd written the check, he'd gone out for twenty minutes, and then he'd gone to his death. That was the thread that led somewhere. I just had to find out where it went.

I sat there in the dark, listening to the street sounds and the occasional murmur of other guests in the hallway, and I knew that whoever had that check—if it was still in the world and hadn't been torn up or burned or thrown into one of Personville's abandoned mine shafts—that person knew exactly what had happened to Donald Willsson. And they were probably betting that I'd never figure it out.

I lit a cigarette and watched the ash grow longer and the night get deeper, and thought about long odds and men who took them anyway.

I took Mr. Franklin's arm and helped myself up from the sand, for the young gentleman, for all his Continental manners, had not the sense to help an old man to his feet. My knees were stiff from sitting, and the slope of the beach is treacherous ground at the best of times. Once I had got myself upright, and dusted the sand from my trousers as well as I could manage, I observed that Rosanna had indeed made herself scarce among the sandhills, and that Mr. Franklin was regarding the spot where she had stood with the sort of puzzled expression a man wears when he cannot quite account for something.

"Come, sir," said I. "We shall have my lady wondering where we have got to. You have made excellent time from London, if I may say so."

"Better than excellent, Betteredge," said Mr. Franklin, falling into step beside me as we turned back towards the plantation. "I have made it positively indecent. Four hours better than my letter promised, at any rate. But there is a reason for it, and not a comfortable reason either, I'm afraid. I received a communication in Town that has obliged me to alter my plans considerably."

"A communication, sir?" said I. "Nothing amiss, I trust?"

"That rather depends on how one looks at the matter," replied he. "But come—the house is not the place for this conversation, not with the servants about. Once we are inside, and I have paid my respects to my aunt, I shall need to speak with you privately, Betteredge. There is a letter—I should say, a warning—that you ought to see. It concerns the household, and it concerns a certain matter that I know my aunt has been made aware of, though perhaps not in all its particulars."

My curiosity was considerably aroused by this speech, I will confess. A warning, he called it, and concerning a matter that my lady had been made aware of! It could only mean one thing—it was the Moonstone, of course. But I held my tongue, as I had learned to do in my many years of service. The young gentleman would tell me what he thought fit to tell me, and it was not my place to press him.

We made our way through the melancholy plantation in silence, and I must say that the firs seemed to me more melancholy still than usual, as if the very trees were keeping secrets. The plantation always puts me in mind of a funeral cortège, and the ground is so soft with the fallen needles that you cannot hear your own footsteps. When we emerged on to the more open ground near the house, I could see that the afternoon light was already beginning to take on that particular quality it has when the day is drawing towards evening. The sun was not yet low, but it had lost some of its brightness, and there was a quality to the shadows that suggested the night was not far distant.

"We shall go to my room first," said Mr. Franklin, as we approached the house. "You might fetch my letter from my travelling coat, and I shall show you what has been sent to me."

We entered by the side door, and I directed Mr. Franklin to the blue room, which was always prepared for him when he was expected at the house. But now that he had arrived without warning, I had to send young Thomas to light the fires and see that everything was in order. While we waited for the room to be readied, Mr. Franklin sat in the hall and drummed his fingers on his knee with a restlessness that was quite unlike his usual composed manner.

Once we had the room to ourselves, and the door was shut safe, Mr. Franklin drew forth a letter from his travelling coat. The paper was of good quality, the handwriting somewhat disguised, though not so much as to be entirely illegible. I shall set down the letter here as he showed it to me, and you may judge for yourself what meaning it carried.

"My Dear Sir,—You will forgive the liberty I take in writing to you under these circumstances, being as you are a stranger to me. But I am one who has cause to know something of the matter into which your family has seen fit to become entangled, and I write to you out of a conviction that the younger generation may be capable of understanding what the elder has chosen to ignore.

"The object which was brought into your family's keeping some weeks ago has not lain quietly in its new situation, as perhaps your relations have hoped. There are those who do not forget, and there are those whose memories, far from being dulled by the passage of years, are sharpened by it. I cannot say more than this, being constrained by circumstances of which you will learn in due course. But I counsel you most earnestly to exercise the greatest caution, and to give your attention to all that transpires in the household at Frizinghall. There are currents running beneath the surface of that quiet place, which, if they are permitted to flow unobserved, may result in consequences that you will find it difficult to remedy.

"The arrival of the object at the house has not passed unobserved, nor will its presence remain long undetected by those who have the greatest interest in its whereabouts.

"I am, sir, your well-wisher and servant, "A Friend in Darkness."

When I had finished reading this extraordinary epistle, I must confess that I did not know what to make of it. On the one hand, it was clearly written by someone who knew something of the Moonstone and its history. On the other hand, it was so vague, so full of hints and warnings, and so short on particulars, that it might have been the work of a crank or a person labouring under a delusion. Yet Mr. Franklin's expression suggested that he, at least, took it seriously.

"This letter arrived at my London lodgings three days ago, Betteredge," said he. "Unsigned, and with no indication of who had sent it. I confess, when I first read it, I thought it might be some sort of hoax. But the more I have thought upon it, the more convinced I have become that it comes from someone with genuine knowledge. And that being the case, I felt it my duty to come down here with all speed, to assess the situation for myself."

"But sir," said I, "who could have sent such a thing? And how could they know of—" I paused, mindful of the walls and the servants who might be about. "Of the matter to which the letter alludes?"

"That is precisely what I intend to discover," said Mr. Franklin. "But there is something else, Betteredge—something that I cannot entrust to the ordinary channels. I have brought with me a small packet, which I should like you to lock away in the plate-room tonight. I cannot explain what it contains, nor would I ask you to attempt to learn. But it is of some importance that it be kept secure and undisturbed until such time as I give you leave to remove it."

At this request, I confess that my curiosity was aroused to an almost unbearable degree. But I am a servant of long standing, and I know when questions are best left unasked. I simply nodded my agreement, and Mr. Franklin produced from his travelling bag a small sealed packet, not more than a few inches in length and breadth, wrapped in brown paper and sealed with wax. It was surprisingly light for its size, and whatever it contained, it made no sound when moved.

"You have my word, sir," said I. "It shall be locked away and disturbed by no one until you give me leave."

"Thank you, Betteredge," said Mr. Franklin. "I rely upon your discretion in this matter. Now, I had better present myself to my aunt. She will be wanting to know why I have arrived so unexpectedly."

We made our way downstairs, and I sent word to my lady that Mr. Franklin had come. She was in the morning-room, and she came out to greet him with evident surprise and pleasure. But I noticed, as I watched them embrace, that when Mr. Franklin began to speak of the letter he had received, my lady's expression became guarded, and she drew him aside into the study, closing the door behind them.

I did not hear what passed between them in that room, but I took the opportunity to secure the sealed packet in the plate-room, locking it away in the safe where the family silver was kept. It was no light responsibility, I can tell you, carrying that small brown parcel through the corridors of the house, knowing that it contained something of sufficient importance to warrant all this secrecy. I placed it in the safe, turned the key, and pocketed it, and then I made my way back to the kitchen to see that dinner was being prepared as it should be.

It was while I was standing in the kitchen, discussing with Mrs. Cuff the arrangements for the evening meal, that my daughter Penelope came hurrying in, looking quite distressed.

"Father," said she, "I have been looking for Rosanna everywhere. She has not come in for dinner, and she has not returned to the house since she went out this afternoon. I am quite concerned for her."

"She went to the sands to get a breath of air," said I, "and I found her there and spoke with her. But she did not come back to the house with Mr. Franklin and me—I cannot say why. Perhaps she has gone to Cobb's Hole."

"To Cobb's Hole?" said Penelope, with a troubled look. "She has not been there in some weeks, Father. She used to go there to see that old woman she knew, but I did not know she was in the habit of going there still. It is getting late, and the light is beginning to fail. I am worried about her, Father. It is not like Rosanna to stay out so long without word."

"She is a melancholy girl," said I, "and sometimes melancholy girls take it into their heads to wander further than they ought. She will come back when she is ready. In the meantime, do not trouble my lady with talk of Rosanna's absence. She has enough on her mind this evening, what with Mr. Franklin's unexpected arrival."

But even as I spoke these words, I found myself growing uneasy. There had been something in Rosanna's manner this afternoon, something in the way she had looked at the Shivering Sand, and the strange things she had said about it, that had troubled me even at the time. And now that she had not returned, that uneasiness was growing into something rather more like concern.

I made my way to the drawing-room, where Mr. Franklin was now in conversation with his aunt. I observed, as I stood in the doorway, that my lady's face had taken on a somewhat stern expression, and that she was saying something with considerable emphasis.

"There is one subject," my lady was saying to Mr. Franklin, "which I must insist shall not be discussed under this roof. I do not wish to hear it mentioned, and I trust that I have your word that you will respect my wishes in this matter."

"You have my word, Aunt," said Mr. Franklin quietly. "I understand your feelings, and I shall respect them. There are one or two matters that I feel obliged to raise with you, but not tonight. Tonight we shall simply be glad to be together, and I shall do nothing to disturb the peace of the household."

"Thank you, Franklin," said my lady, and I saw her reach out and touch his arm with a gesture of affection, though her expression remained serious. "I am grateful for your discretion. There has been quite enough disturbance already, what with that dreadful business at the jeweller's in York, and the talk that has been going about the county. I wish above all things that this matter should be brought to an end, and a quiet life restored to this house."

At this I pricked up my ears, for I had not heard of any business at the jeweller's in York, but I thought it best not to inquire. My lady, it seemed, had her own reasons for wishing that a certain subject should not be discussed, and it was not my place to press her on the matter.

The evening wore on, and I could see that my lady was making every effort to be cheerful and to make her nephew welcome. But there was an undercurrent of anxiety running through the household that was palpable to anyone with eyes to see. The servants were restless, and there was none of the usual gaiety that accompanied Mr. Franklin's visits.

At last, when dinner had been cleared away and the evening was well advanced, I took myself off to my beehive chair in the back court, with my copy of Robinson Crusoe. The night had turned cool, and there was a hint of mist in the air, but I was not inclined to go indoors just yet. I had much to think about—the mysterious letter, the sealed packet now safely locked away in the plate-room, the warning that there were those who knew of the Moonstone's presence at the house, and not least, the absence of Rosanna Spearman, who had still not returned.

I opened my book at random and read a passage or two, but I cannot say that I took in much of what I read. My mind kept wandering to the girl, and to the strange things she had said to me that afternoon on the beach. "Something draws me to it," she had said of the Shivering Sand. And now she was out there in the darkness, somewhere beyond the house, and no one knew where. It was not a comfortable thought to carry with me as I sat in my old chair, with the evening drawing in and the shadows growing long across the gardens.

Mary woke as the train began to slow, and the rain-washed landscape beyond the window gradually came into focus. The countryside had grown wilder as they travelled north, with fewer houses and fewer signs of habitation, until there was nothing but moorland stretching away under the gray sky. She straightened in her seat and pressed her face closer to the glass, watching the station approach. It was a small place, with a platform of dark stone and a few buildings that looked as bleak as the moor itself.

When the train came to a complete stop, Mrs. Medlock gathered up her parcels with brisk efficiency. "Come along," she said to Mary. "Don't dawdle."

Mary descended onto the platform, her black dress seeming to absorb what little light there was. She looked about for someone to meet them, expecting perhaps a groom or a younger servant. What she saw instead was a tall man standing quite still at the far end of the platform, watching their approach. He was dressed in dark clothes that matched the weather, and he was so very still that Mary might have thought him a statue had he not moved his head slightly as they drew near.

"Mr. Craven," said Mrs. Medlock, and her voice had taken on a different quality—more careful, less brisk. "Here is the child."

He did not smile. He did not offer his hand or make any gesture of greeting. His eyes, which were a pale gray, fixed themselves upon Mary with an intensity that made her wish to look away, though she did not. She had the peculiar feeling that he was looking not at her but through her, as if she were made of glass. She could see now why Basil had said he was cross. There was something in his face that seemed to turn everything cold.

"The carriage is waiting," he said, and his voice was as cold as his eyes. He turned and began to walk away, assuming without question that they would follow.

The carriage was a large, old-fashioned affair pulled by two dark horses. Mr. Craven sat opposite Mary and Mrs. Medlock, and he did not speak a single word during the first part of the journey. Mary watched the landscape pass—bare stretches of heather and gorse, stone walls that divided the moorland into vast fields, and sky that seemed to press down upon everything. The rain had stopped, but the air looked as if it might rain again at any moment.

They had been driving for perhaps twenty minutes when the carriage suddenly slowed and came to a halt. There was no reason apparent to Mary for this. The road stretched ahead of them, empty and straight.

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Medlock, craning her neck to peer out the window.

Mr. Craven said nothing, but he opened the door and descended to the road. Through the window, Mary could see him standing quite still, looking ahead at something she could not make out. After a moment he returned to the carriage.

"There is a sheep in the road," he said. "It will not move. I shall be a moment."

He left the door open, and without quite knowing why she did so, Mary rose from her seat and descended as well. Mrs. Medlock made a small sound of protest, but Mary was already on the road.

The moor stretched away on all sides of her, vast and strange and utterly unlike anything she had ever seen. There were no houses, no gardens, no signs of habitation at all. The wind that came across it was cold and carried with it a peculiar smell—something green and wild and old. She took a few steps away from the carriage and stood quite still, her black dress looking very small against the immensity of the landscape. Behind her, Mr. Craven had driven the sheep away and was waiting by the carriage, watching her with that same fixed, intent gaze.

There was something about the moor that made Mary forget, for just a moment, that she was disagreeable. It was so vast, and she was so very small. She looked back at the carriage and at her uncle standing beside it, and then she turned and climbed back inside without a word.

They continued on for another quarter of an hour, and then the carriage turned through a gateway and onto the grounds of Misselthwaite Manor. The house loomed up suddenly, vast and gray and imposing, with more windows than Mary had ever counted and chimneys that seemed to rise endlessly against the darkening sky. Lights burned in a few of the lower windows, but most of the house was dark.

"You will eat in your room," said Mr. Craven as the carriage drew to a stop. "Mrs. Medlock will show you to it. Breakfast will be brought to you at eight o'clock." He paused, as if considering whether to say anything further. Then he did not, but only inclined his head slightly and departed.

Mrs. Medlock bustled Mary through corridors that seemed to go on forever, past doors that were locked, past rooms that were closed and shuttered. At last they came to a chamber that was to be Mary's own—a small, dark room with old furniture and windows that looked out onto the moor. A tray had been laid on the table, with what appeared to be mutton pie and bread and milk.

"There is your supper," said Mrs. Medlock. "Ring the bell if you need anything, though I daresay you won't." She began to leave the room, then paused. "Mind you, don't go wandering about. Mr. Craven doesn't like it. I'll come for you in the morning to see you're properly dressed."

Alone, Mary ate mechanically, tasting nothing. The house was very quiet, but not with a comfortable quiet. It seemed to her to be holding its breath, waiting for something.

After some time had passed—she did not know how long—a knock came at the door and a manservant appeared with hot water for washing. He was an older man with a weathered face, and when he spoke his accent was so thick and his words so strange that Mary could barely understand him.

"There's tha water, miss," he said, setting the pitcher down. "Warm it is, and tha can—" He paused, noticing her expression. "Eh, thou dost na understand my way o' speaking."

"No," said Mary plainly. "I do not."

The man smiled, not unkindly. "Well then, tha'll learn, or tha won't. There's nowt to be done about it either way." He withdrew, leaving Mary alone with her confusion.

She washed in the hot water and changed into her nightgown, and then she got into the narrow bed. It was very dark, for there was no lamp lit, and the windows were only shades of gray against the deeper darkness outside. The house seemed to settle around her—she heard creaks and small sounds, the settling of old wood and the movement of the wind.

Then, quite distinctly, she heard it—a sound that came from somewhere high in the house above her. It was not loud, but it was unmistakable: a cry, thin and distant and somehow desolate. It lasted only a moment, and then it was gone.

Mary sat up in bed, her heart beating faster than usual. She lay very still, listening, but the sound did not come again. After several minutes had passed she rose and lit the small lamp that sat on her dresser, and then she got back into bed and sat rigid against the pillows, waiting.

She would have expected fear, but what she felt was something quite different. It was curiosity, cold and sharp and more compelling than any emotion she had felt since her arrival in this strange, vast house. There was a sound in Misselthwaite Manor that no one had mentioned, a sound that Mrs. Medlock had claimed was only the wind. Mary did not believe it was the wind. And tomorrow, when she had rested and learned her way about, she would find out what it was.

She turned down the lamp to a low flame and lay back against the pillows, her thin hands folded on the coverlet, watching the shadows dance on the ceiling and listening to the old house settle into night around her.

I sat upon the table in Ogilvy's study, nursing a cup of cooling tea and watching the dawn break over the Surrey countryside through the tall windows. My wife had protested when I returned home near two in the morning, mud upon my shoes and my mind churning with the significance of what we had witnessed—or rather, what Ogilvy believed we had witnessed. The gas jets from Mars, those inexplicable projections of incandescent hydrogen. I had tried to explain it to her, but she had merely shaken her head and insisted I was exhausted, that the late hour and excitement had overwound my nerves.

Yet I could not sleep. I rose before seven, dressed quietly so as not to disturb her further, and stepped out into the fresh morning. The sky was clear, that particular clarity which autumn brings to England, with a keen wind that carried the scent of distant rain. I resolved to walk toward Chertsey, along the common, to clear my head before the day's ordinary concerns pressed upon me.

I had not gone more than three miles when I saw it.

At first I took it for a star, though the sun was already well risen. It streaked across the southern sky with a brightness that seemed almost to mock the morning light—a brilliant point of incandescence drawing downward in a long, graceful arc. I stopped in my tracks, my heart quickening. After all that Ogilvy had told me, after that night of watching the red planet, I could not mistake what I was seeing.

The thing descended with a speed that made my head swim to contemplate. It was no slow-falling meteorite of the kind that burn away in our upper atmosphere, generating those spectacular displays we have all observed from time to time. This object retained its integrity, its terrible, purposeful brightness, until it vanished beyond the tree-line toward Woking, in the direction of the sandpits.

I stood upon the common, breathing hard, aware that I had witnessed something momentous. The sun was bright, the morning was ordinary, birds were singing in the hedgerows, yet the event was done. Something—something that had come from Mars, from those minds vast and cool and unsympathetic—had fallen to earth.

I turned about at once and hastened back toward Ottershaw. Ogilvy, I determined, must be told immediately. He would know what to do, would know the proper authorities to contact. My bicycle, which I had neglected for some days in my nocturnal obsessions, remained in his care; I took it and rode with some urgency toward Woking, following the direction in which the thing had fallen.

The road took me through Chertsey and toward the sandpits, where a considerable depression in the landscape, filled with water and bordered by steep banks, creates something of a local curiosity. It was there, I suspected, that the object would have come to rest. The country people who work about those excavations are an incurious lot, but the falling star had been bright enough that surely someone must have noticed it.

I found, as I drew nearer, that my supposition was correct. Three or four labourers stood at the edge of the water, pointing and exclaiming. A cart was drawn up nearby, and a farmer whom I recognised was speaking to a policeman. As I approached, Ogilvy came into view, moving carefully down the slippery bank, his lean frame bent forward with evident excitement.

"Come down here!" he called to me, waving his arm. "Come at once!"

I descended the bank with difficulty, my shoes slipping on the sandy soil, and made my way to where he stood at the water's edge. Before us, half-submerged in the murky water of the pit, lay the meteor.

It was no more than a dozen feet across, a roughly cylindrical shape of some grey-black metallic substance, its surface still radiating a considerable heat. Steam rose from where it met the cooler water, creating a strange, ethereal veil above the object. It was perfectly smooth, save for a faint line that ran around its girth at an angle, though what purpose such a line might serve I could not imagine. It was decidedly warm to be in the presence of, even at that distance; I could feel the radiating heat upon my face, and the air smelled acrid and strange, quite unlike anything I had encountered before.

"It is a meteorite, without question," Ogilvy was saying to a stout gentleman in a brown suit whom I took to be the local inspector. "An ordinary, if large, specimen of cosmic debris. The composition is unusual, perhaps, but entirely consistent with such an object."

"Those lines, though," the inspector objected, pointing. "I've never seen a meteorite with such perfectly regular markings. And the shape is rather too regular for a fallen stone, wouldn't you say?"

"Entirely too much has been made of the observations from Mars," Ogilvy said firmly. He turned to me as I joined them, and his expression showed some triumph. "I told them what I meant to tell you this morning, had I found you at home. The panic over these astronomical reports is wholly without foundation. This is merely a fragment of the material that fills the space between the planets. The Martians—if they exist at all—have no more shot this thing at us than a man shoots pebbles at the moon."

"But Ogilvy," I ventured, "we saw the gas jets ourselves. Surely that must signify something?"

"Volcanic activity, or perhaps the impact of meteorites upon Mars itself," he replied with a wave of his hand. "The business with the gas, the sudden appearance of this object mere hours after the phenomenon was observed—these are coincidences, nothing more. The human mind is prone to perceiving connections where none exist. Look at it rationally, as a man of science must. An object from space has fallen to earth. We must examine it, catalogue it, and add our observations to the sum of human knowledge. Everything else is speculation and romance."

I must confess that his argument held some appeal. In the clear light of morning, with the ordinary world continuing about us—the labourers and the farmer and the policeman attending to ordinary business—the night's excitement seemed to partake somewhat of the fantastic. Yet there remained something peculiar about the object itself, something that troubled me beyond the mere fact of its arrival.

More people had begun to gather along the upper edge of the pit. Word of the fallen meteor had spread quickly through Woking and Chertsey, as such news will in a small community. By mid-morning, there were perhaps forty or fifty persons assembled, looking down at the steam-wreathed object with a mixture of curiosity and something approaching awe.

I resolved to fetch my wife. Though she had expressed weariness with my astronomical preoccupations, I felt certain that once she witnessed the object herself, she would understand the magnitude of what had occurred. It seemed wrong, somehow, that she should remain in ignorance while the countryside gathered in wonder.

I found her at home, occupied with the ordinary business of the household. When I explained what had transpired, and urged her to walk with me to the sandpits, she was reluctant. The morning was cool, she said, and she had not intended to go abroad. But my urgency persuaded her, and presently we set out together, she in her travelling coat and with a parasol against the sun, though the day had turned rather overcast.

The crowd had swollen considerably by the time we arrived. There were perhaps a hundred persons now, ranging from the local working men to several gentlemen whom I recognised as residents of some standing in the district. Ogilvy was still there, still insisting upon the meteoritic nature of the object, though several other observers had arrived—amateurs of astronomy and natural philosophy, and a gentleman from Woking who claimed to work in some capacity for the railway company.

My wife stood beside me, gazing down at the thing in the pit with an expression I could not quite read. The steam continued to rise from it. The heat was still considerable; even from the bank, we could feel its radiation. The object had settled somewhat deeper into the water than it had been earlier, sinking slowly into the soft bottom of the pit.

"It is very remarkable," she said quietly. "But I confess I do not understand why you are so troubled by it. It is, as Professor Ogilvy insists, a stone from the sky. Is this not something that has occurred since time immemorial?"

"Perhaps," I admitted. "And yet—"

A cry interrupted me. One of the labourers, a young man whom I did not know, had apparently sought to approach the object more closely, perhaps hoping to touch it, to satisfy himself as to its nature. He had ventured down the bank and extended his hand toward the metallic surface.

The shriek that followed was of a quality I had not before heard from a human throat—a sound of sudden, exquisite agony. The man jerked his hand back as though he had thrust it into a furnace. He staggered backward, cradling his palm, and even from where we stood, I could see that his hand was severely burnt, the flesh blackened in places.

The crowd surged forward with exclamations. Several men hurried to assist the injured labourer, supporting him as he made his way up the bank, still crying out in pain and distress. Someone was sent, I believe, for a doctor.

"Good God," Ogilvy murmured, his scientific certainty momentarily shaken. "The heat. I had not appreciated how intense—"

"It burned him," my wife said, her voice steady but with an undertone of something I recognised as alarm. She turned to me. "You must take me home. This is not a place for me to remain."

I could not, in conscience, refuse her. Though I wished to remain, to observe further developments, to insist that Ogilvy keep me apprised of any changes in the object's condition or any new revelations as to its nature, I recognised my duty. I offered her my arm, and together we turned away from the pit.

"I shall remain for a time," I told her as we climbed the bank. "You will be quite safe walking home—it is not far, and the roads are well-travelled. I shall return before this evening."

She accepted this arrangement with grace, though I sensed her disappointment that I would not abandon the matter entirely. As we reached the top of the bank, I could see the injured labourer being assisted into the cart, his features twisted with pain.

My wife walked away along the path toward Ottershaw. I watched her go, that familiar figure in her travelling coat, until she was obscured by a bend in the road. Then I turned back toward the pit, where the grey-black object continued its slow settling into the water, steaming gently in the cool autumn air, and the crowd pressed eagerly around, their voices rising in speculation and alarm.

It was not yet noon, but already I felt the weight of events pressing upon me, as though the ordinary world had tilted slightly upon its axis and might never return quite to its former angle.

Mr Shepherd had been summoned from the market town with an urgency that betrayed Sir Walter's distress, though he took care that the summons should appear to issue from mere civic friendliness. The agent arrived on a grey morning, accompanied shortly afterwards by Lady Russell, whose visit had been arranged with similar informality by letter—a letter in which Sir Walter had contrived to suggest that her counsel was desired on a matter of family consequence, while implying that the matter itself was scarcely worthy of remark.

Elizabeth received them in the morning room with the air of one presiding over a domestic council of war, though her face bore the peculiar tension of one who has been awake half the night, contemplating the loss of new furnishings and charitable donations with an intensity that suggested these were the only economies possible to gentlefolk of distinction. Sir Walter appeared with all the composure of a man about to discuss some trifling adjustment to his household, and gestured them to seats with a graciousness that did not quite mask an underlying nervousness.

"I have thought it best to lay our present situation before you both," said Sir Walter, settling himself with particular care into his chair, as though the proper positioning of his person might somehow stabilise his finances. "It is a matter requiring delicacy and judgement—qualities which I am confident you both possess in abundance."

Mr Shepherd, a man of practical habits and a manner altogether unencumbered by sentiment, began at once. He had prepared a scheme of retrenchment which he now unfolded with the methodical air of one laying out a map of uncontroversial territory. The dismissal of two servants, a reduction in the number of horses kept, the curtailment of the London season to a fortnight rather than a month, the sale of the second carriage—these and several other measures he enumerated with brisk efficiency, calculating that such measures might reduce the annual expenditure by something in the region of four hundred pounds.

Sir Walter listened with mounting displeasure. When Mr Shepherd had concluded, he remained silent for a moment, his fingers drumming upon the arm of his chair. "The second carriage?" he said at last, in a tone of such pointed incredulity that it seemed Mr Shepherd had proposed the demolition of the house itself. "My dear Shepherd, you cannot have considered the impression such an economy would create in the neighbourhood. What would be thought? A gentleman in my position, appearing with a single carriage? And the servants—a reduction of two? It is impossible. The domestic arrangements would become quite untenable."

He rose and walked to the window, examining his reflection in the glass with an abstraction that seemed to console him even as he framed his refusal. "The scheme is well-intentioned, I am sure, but it confuses the necessities of economy with the indulgences of extravagance. We must retrench, yes; but we must do so with dignity. Surely there are measures less...conspicuous in their operation."

Lady Russell, who had listened with thoughtful gravity, now advanced her own plan. It was a more moderate proposal than Mr Shepherd's, and bore the stamp of her character—sensible, humane, yet firm. She suggested the curtailment of charities to a degree somewhat less severe than Elizabeth had already proposed, a delay in certain repairs to the shrubberies and pleasure grounds, a reduction in the scale of the table when entertaining, and a temporary suspension of the annual London visit. These measures, she ventured to suggest, would accomplish a saving of some two hundred and fifty pounds without materially affecting the appearance and standing of the household.

Sir Walter received this scheme with rather more favour than he had shown Mr Shepherd's; yet even this proved inadequate to his sense of what was fitting. "Your suggestion does you credit, Lady Russell," he said, with genuine warmth in his tone. "It shows a proper understanding of the delicacies involved. Yet even this—the reduction of the table, the curtailment of entertainment—these things have a way of becoming known. One's friends remark upon it. The world talks. And as for the London season, it is precisely in town that one's position is most conspicuously maintained. I confess I do not see how these measures could be undertaken without some diminution of consequence."

He had resumed his seat, and his expression bore the peculiar blend of self-pity and self-regard that seemed to constitute his habitual frame of mind. Elizabeth, who had been listening with visible irritation to this rejection of every practical expedient, now turned to look at her father with an expression of barely suppressed exasperation. But it was Anne who spoke.

She had been sitting quietly in the corner of the room, as was her custom, her needlework in her lap, her attention seemingly absorbed in her stitches. Yet she had been attending to every word, and the evident futility of both proposals had stirred her to an unusual assertion of herself. When she did speak, her voice was low and steady, but its very quietness seemed to command attention.

"Sir," she said, addressing her father with a directness that was rare in her, "might I venture to propose an alternative? If our difficulties are to be truly resolved, rather than merely palliated, should we not contemplate more substantial measures?"

Sir Walter looked at his younger daughter with an expression hovering between surprise and annoyance at this interruption of the discourse between his betters. "Anne?" he said, in a tone that suggested her contribution was itself a form of impertinence. "What can you possibly have to suggest?"

"Simply this," Anne continued, with a composure that did not waver beneath his regard. "That we might let Kellynch Hall for a term of years. A gentleman of means seeking a country residence—"

"No," said Sir Walter, with sudden violence. "No, Anne. That is impossible."

"But if you would hear me—"

"No," he repeated. "The thing is not to be considered. To let? To let Kellynch Hall? To open our home to a tenant, as though we were persons of no consequence, as though the estate required its master's presence to distinguish it?" He rose again, his agitation now pronounced. "Such a measure would amount to an abdication of everything that Kellynch Hall represents."

Yet Anne pressed forward, a faint colour in her cheeks, but her voice remaining steady. "Surely," she said, "a gentleman tenant of respectable character, paying a considerable rent, would constitute no diminution of the estate's standing. Indeed, the rent itself would provide a substantial remedy to our present difficulties. And we might remove ourselves to a smaller establishment—not in Bath, but in some quiet country town, where our expenses might be materially reduced without attracting remark or comment."

There was a silence following this speech. Lady Russell had set down her cup and was watching Anne with an expression of something very like admiration. Even Mr Shepherd seemed struck by the practical wisdom of the suggestion.

It was Elizabeth who spoke next. She had been observing her father's face, and she rose now, moving to stand beside Anne's chair in a gesture that appeared to surprise everyone present, not least Anne herself.

"I believe Anne is right," Elizabeth said, in a tone that brooked no contradiction. "It is, I confess, a scheme I had not myself conceived of, but now that she has proposed it, I can see no objection to it that outweighs the necessity of our circumstances. Papa, we are not ruined, but we are in genuine difficulty. The half-measures proposed by Lady Russell and Mr Shepherd are generous in their intention but wholly insufficient in their effect. If we are to survive this period without genuine humiliation—and you know that humiliation must be avoided—then we require a remedy as bold as our difficulty is severe."

Sir Walter looked from his daughter to his younger daughter, and his face underwent a visible struggle between his sense of what was necessary and his absolute unwillingness to countenance any proposal so utterly contrary to his sense of his own importance.

"I cannot," he said at last, with something like desperation in his voice. "I cannot subject Kellynch Hall to such an arrangement. The very notion that some—some stranger, however respectable, should occupy these rooms, should walk these galleries, should presume—"

"But what is the alternative, sir?" said Elizabeth, and there was something almost fierce in her expression now, the pride of the Elliots warring visibly with the practical necessity of their situation. "That we are laughed at in every drawing-room in Somerset? That we retrench in some invisible way that fools no one? That we remove to Bath and become a pair of elderly invalids chasing the waters?"

"The matter is not to be resolved this evening," said Sir Walter, with an air of desperation. "I cannot think clearly on it. I must have time. Mr Shepherd, I shall consult with you further on this—this proposal. And Lady Russell, your own scheme, as I have said, does credit to your judgement. We shall—we shall determine upon something. But as to letting, as to a tenant—that word, Shepherd, is not to be spoken in my presence again. You understand me? The notion itself is distasteful, and I will not have the matter discussed."

A knock upon the door forestalled any further discussion. A servant entered bearing a letter, which he presented to Anne with the information that it had come by the afternoon post from Uppercross. Anne recognised her sister's hand and broke the seal with some little anxiety, for Mary wrote seldom and never without cause.

The letter was brief. Mary was in considerable distress of health—a billious complaint attended by headaches of considerable severity—and begged that Anne might be prevailed upon to come to Uppercross without delay. She did not do well without Anne's company, and Charles's attention to such matters was nothing to hers. Could Anne possibly come? It was a matter of real necessity.

Anne looked up from the letter to find the morning room had fallen into a sort of relieved silence, as though the arrival of this domestic crisis had provided a merciful escape from the more profound crisis that engulfed them. Sir Walter, seeing the letter, seemed almost grateful for the distraction it provided.

"Anne must go, of course," said Elizabeth, with something of her habitual tone of command. "Mary cannot be left without her. You will leave tomorrow, Anne?"

"If Papa permits it," said Anne, glancing toward her father.

Sir Walter, who seemed almost relieved to have some domestic matter to arrange that did not involve the letting of Kellynch Hall, assented at once. "Naturally. Your sister's health is a matter of concern. You shall go tomorrow. Make what preparations you require."

Lady Russell offered to arrange for Anne's conveyance, and Mr Shepherd, perhaps sensing that his presence was no longer required, rose to take his leave, casting an anxious glance toward his patron as though wondering whether his own scheme might not be revived in some form. But Sir Walter seemed withdrawn now, lost in some consideration of the various proposals that had been laid before him.

That evening, Anne sat alone in her chamber. Through the window, she could see the park in the gathering dusk, the familiar outlines of Kellynch's grounds seeming to hold a particular quality of melancholy in the fading light. Her departure tomorrow was fixed—she should go to Mary and render what comfort and assistance she could. But the question that had been raised in the morning room remained unresolved, hanging over the household like a gathering storm. Her father had not agreed to the letting of the Hall. He had not agreed to anything at all, save in the vaguest terms that suggested no genuine resolution. And yet something had shifted. Elizabeth had spoken in her favour—Elizabeth, who had never before shown her anything but cool indifference. It was a strange development, and one that gave Anne neither comfort nor satisfaction, for it seemed to her that the problem itself only grew more intractable the longer it remained unaddressed.

She drew the letter from Mary once more, and read again its plea for her assistance and company. Whatever difficulties might press upon Kellynch Hall, she could at least be useful at Uppercross. It was a small consolation, but in the circumstances, it was not to be despised.

I found my way to the village with some difficulty, for the early morning was still dark, and the country lanes unfamiliar to me. My mind was occupied with the terrible events of the night, and I confess I walked with more haste than precision, nearly losing my way twice before I recalled the direction Poirot had indicated when Lawrence and I had encountered him some days earlier.

The cottage was modest, set back from the lane, with a small garden grown somewhat wild. I rapped sharply upon the door, and after what seemed an age, a Belgian woman—Poirot's landlady, I presumed—appeared in a dressing-gown, her expression far from welcoming.

"I must see Monsieur Poirot at once," I said, brooking no delay. "It is a matter of the utmost urgency."

She hesitated, but something in my tone must have conveyed the gravity of the situation, for she withdrew, and a few moments later Poirot himself appeared. He was already dressed, which struck me as singular for the hour. His little moustaches were as perfectly ordered as ever, and his eyes, those remarkable eyes, were alert and intelligent.

"Ah, mon ami Hastings," he said, before I could speak. "You come with grave tidings, n'est-ce pas?"

"How could you possibly know?" I demanded.

"But I know already, my friend. Mrs. Inglethorp is dead. She has been poisoned." He paused, observing my expression with evident satisfaction. "You are astonished that I know this? But it is simple. The good Dr. Wilkins, he came past here not twenty minutes ago, in his motor-car, driving like a man possessed. He did not see me—I was in the garden—but I observed his face through the gate. And earlier still, at half-past five, one of the servants from the house, the girl Annie, she came running through the village in a state of great distress. She spoke to Mrs. Wilson at the post office. The news, it travels swiftly in a small village, you understand."

"Then you will come?" I asked eagerly.

"But naturally, I shall come. Give me one moment only."

He retired into the cottage and reappeared within a minute, his coat donned and his manner businesslike. As we walked back toward Styles, I related the events of the night—the terrible convulsions, Dr. Bauerstein's arrival, his insistence upon a post-mortem, and my own conviction regarding poison.

Poirot listened without interruption, his keen eyes fixed upon the path before us. When I had finished, he merely said: "We shall see. We shall see."

We reached the house to find it in a state of subdued turmoil. The servants moved about their tasks with an air of suppressed excitement, and there was an atmosphere of tension in the halls. It was perhaps nine o'clock when we arrived, and we found John Cavendish in the morning-room, looking haggard and worn.

"Hastings, thank God you're back," he said. "I've sent word that we're not receiving anyone. The post-mortem is arranged for this evening. I—" He broke off, noticing Poirot. "This is Monsieur Poirot?"

"It is I," said Poirot with a courteous bow. "I am profoundly sorry for your loss, Mr. Cavendish. If I may, I should like to examine the room where your mother died, before it is further disturbed."

John seemed about to reply when we heard the sound of the motor-car drawing up before the house. Through the window, I saw Alfred Inglethorp step out. He looked haggard and unshaven, and there was an unmistakable air of anxiety about him. He carried a small leather case.

"My God, it's Inglethorp!" exclaimed John.

He went out into the hall, and we followed. Alfred came in, his eyes red-rimmed, his manner agitated.

"John—I have only just heard," he said hoarsely. "I was—I have been away all night. I only learned of Emily's death when I arrived at the station this morning. The telegram—" He stopped, seeming to gather himself. "I do not understand. What has happened?"

"Mother died in the early hours of the morning," said John quietly. "In convulsions. We are awaiting the result of a post-mortem examination."

Alfred's face went white. "Convulsions? But—but what could have caused—"

"That remains to be seen," said John coldly.

"Where were you, Mr. Inglethorp?" asked Poirot softly, stepping forward.

Alfred turned to regard him with evident discomfort.

"I spent the night in Liverpool," he said. "On business. I drove over to the station yesterday evening and took the train. I remained in Liverpool on a business matter and only returned this morning."

"In Liverpool?" repeated John, his tone heavy with suspicion.

"Yes. I have been corresponding with a man there regarding a small speculation. I went to meet him in person. It was necessary, you understand, to be discreet. The matter was—it was confidential."

At that moment, Dorcas appeared from the direction of the servants' quarters. She had been listening, it seemed, to this exchange, for she stepped forward with an air of certainty.

"Begging your pardon, sir," she said, addressing Alfred, "but that's not quite right. It was half-past nine when you left the house yesterday evening, and you took the car. But it was past midnight when Annie and I saw you come back to the house, wet through you were, sir, though it hadn't rained. We heard the motor-car turn round in the drive, and we thought it was the doctor arriving. You came in through the kitchen door—we both saw you quite plain."

Alfred's face flushed crimson. "That is—you are mistaken, Dorcas. I—I must have left something here. I did return briefly, but it was only for a moment. I had forgotten something of importance—a document. I retrieved it and left again immediately."

"But you stayed more than an hour, sir," said Dorcas stubbornly. "Annie and I were quite certain of it."

There was an awful silence. I could see John's jaw clench, and I myself felt a chill run through me. Poirot, however, remained perfectly calm, his expression unreadable.

"We shall clear up these details in due course," he said mildly. "For now, Mr. Cavendish, if I might examine your mother's room?"

John nodded, still regarding Alfred with a mixture of anger and shock. We proceeded upstairs, Poirot, John, and myself, leaving Alfred standing alone in the hall.

The bedroom was much as it had been when we had burst through the door some hours earlier, save that the servants had attempted to restore some order. The bed had been straightened, and the overturned table righted. Poirot moved about the room with methodical precision, his eyes taking in every detail. He examined the mantelpiece, studied the position of the furniture, and carefully scrutinized the floor.

At last, his gaze fell upon the small table that stood beside the bed. Upon it were the remnants of a glass, which had held some liquid, and a plate with the crumbs of what might have been biscuits. Beside these stood a bottle—an empty phial, I realized, of the type commonly used for medicinal preparations.

Poirot picked it up carefully, holding it to the light. His eyes narrowed. With great deliberation, he placed the phial in his pocket.

"What was that?" I asked urgently. "Poirot, what have you found?"

But he merely shook his head, placing a finger to his lips.

"Not yet, my friend. Not yet. There is much to be learned, and much to be verified. But I think—yes, I think we begin to see the shape of things."

He continued his examination, moving to the wardrobe and the writing desk, but finding nothing else that seemed to demand his attention. After perhaps twenty minutes, he turned to John.

"I should like to speak with Miss Cynthia Murdoch," he said.

Cynthia was found in the drawing-room, still looking dazed and frightened. She was dressed now, but her face was very pale, and there was a haunted expression in her eyes.

"Miss Murdoch," said Poirot gently, "I have but one question to ask you. It is of a simple nature, and I trust you will answer me with complete honesty."

She nodded, her hands clasped tightly before her.

"Last night, when you were awakened by the disturbance—when Miss Cavendish came to your room—were you truly asleep? I mean to ask: had you been asleep for some time, or had you only recently retired?"

Cynthia hesitated, her colour rising. "I—I had been asleep for some hours, I think. I don't know exactly. I remember going to bed quite early, around half-past ten. I was very tired. And then Miss Cavendish shaking me—it seemed to wake me from a very deep sleep. Why do you ask?"

"Merely to establish the sequence of events, mademoiselle. Thank you."

Poirot withdrew, and I followed him into the corridor. He moved with purpose toward the locked bedroom, and I hastened after him.

"Poirot," I said urgently, "what is the meaning of this? You found something in that room—the phial. What was in it?"

He did not answer me at once. Instead, he unlocked the door with the key that Dr. Bauerstein had left with John, and we stepped inside once more. The room seemed smaller now, more oppressive, and there was still a faint odour in the air—a smell I could not quite identify, something chemical, something wrong.

Poirot withdrew the phial from his pocket and held it up to the light streaming through the window. It was small, made of dark glass, and there was a faint residue within it. No label remained.

"You see this, Hastings?" he asked.

"Yes, but what is it? What was inside?"

Poirot turned the phial slowly in his fingers, his expression grave and thoughtful.

"That, mon ami, is precisely what I do not yet know. But I intend to find out."

He turned to me, and in his eyes I saw something that made my breath catch—not triumph, not excitement, but a kind of terrible certainty.

"But what I do know," he continued softly, "is that the answer lies not in how the poison was given, but in why it was given, and by whom. And there, my friend, lies a puzzle most dark and most complex. Someone in this house—someone we know, someone we have perhaps spoken to—has committed an act of murder most deliberate. And the motive, Hastings, the motive is what I must now seek."

He placed the phial back in his pocket and moved toward the window, gazing out over the gardens toward the village beyond.

"Tell me, Hastings," he said at last, "what did you observe about Mr. Inglethorp's shoes?"

"His shoes?" I repeated, bewildered.

"But yes, his shoes. When he returned to the house this morning, they were wet, was it not so? Yet Dorcas said it had not rained. A small detail, perhaps. But it is the small details, mon ami, that tell us the truth. It is upon them that we must focus our attention."

Mrs. Pontellier had scarcely turned from watching Robert disappear with Madame Ratignolle when his voice reached her from some distance away, though she could not determine in which direction. She paused, her hand still raised to shield her eyes from the sun, and listened. It came again—a fragment of laughter, swallowed by the wind before it had fully formed. The children were already clamoring for her attention, tugging at her skirts with the perpetual demands of their age, and she allowed herself to be drawn toward the tent where the nurse-maid was attempting to distribute them in some semblance of order.

The afternoon wore on with the sluggish progression common to such summer days. Edna sat with the children, watching them potter and play with the sand, her mind only half engaged in their occupations. The light had begun to take on that peculiar quality it possessed in the late hours—softer, more diffuse, lending a dreamlike quality to the ordinary objects of the beach. She found herself thinking of the meadow in Kentucky, of that small girl in the tall grass, and wondered whether she had ever truly grown beyond that aimless wandering.

It was past four o'clock when they made their way back to the house. Madame Lebrun was on the veranda, fanning herself in a chair of wicker, and she called out to ask whether the party had passed a pleasant afternoon. Edna offered some conventional response, the sort of remark that required no thought and hence cost her nothing to produce. The nurse-maid shepherded the children inside and up the stairs, and Edna was turning to follow when Madame Ratignolle appeared in the hallway, still dressed in her white, though her face bore the slight disorder that comes from the day's exertions.

"Edna, *ma chère*," she said, drawing her into the parlor where the shutters stood half-closed against the heat. "I have been meaning to tell you—Robert said something to me this morning as we returned from the beach. I found it rather amusing, though I confess I did not know quite what to make of it."

Edna felt a quickening in her chest, though she could not have said why. "What did he say?" she asked, settling herself in a chair with an assumption of indifference.

"He remarked," Madame Ratignolle began, arranging herself with the careful precision she brought to all things, "that you seemed to possess a quality of—oh, I am not certain I can convey his exact meaning—a kind of magnetic attraction that drew people to you without your exerting any effort to draw them. He said it in a joking manner, you understand, but there was something in his tone that suggested he meant it in earnest as well. Odd, is it not? For he spoke as if it were a curious phenomenon he had only just begun to observe."

Edna did not at once reply. She found herself turning this remark over in her mind much as she might turn a shell, examining it from various angles, finding now a glimmer of light, now only the dull surface. "He said that?" she asked finally.

"Yes, yes—something very much like that. I told him he spoke like a poet, and he laughed and said perhaps we were all poets at Grand Isle. But I thought you would wish to know. One likes to know what is said of one, *n'est-ce pas*?"

After Madame Ratignolle had withdrawn to her room to rest before dinner, Edna remained in the parlor, though she did not sit. Instead she moved to the window and looked out toward the road that led to the beach, seeing nothing in particular, yet unable to turn away. The remark, repeated at second hand, had taken on a quality of the illicit, as if she had overheard something not meant for her ears. Magnetic attraction. Robert had said that. Robert had been thinking of her in such terms.

She was still standing thus when Madame Lebrun's servant came to inform her that a telegram had arrived. Edna took it with fingers that she was surprised to find perfectly steady. The message was brief: *Will not come out this weekend. Press of business in the city unavoidable. Have arranged with mother for extra funds. Expect to return Wednesday. Léonce.*

She read it twice, as if the words might rearrange themselves upon a second reading. Wednesday was five days away. Five additional days at Grand Isle, five additional days in which the summer could continue its slow work upon her, in which Robert's voice might reach her across the galleries and the sandy paths, in which she might sit with Adèle and speak the truth as she had scarcely learned to do in twenty-eight years of living.

She folded the telegram and placed it in her pocket, and then, almost without conscious intention, she found herself making her way down the stairs and out through the side entrance, following the path toward the beach. The sun was sinking lower now, casting long shadows across the sand, and the wind had diminished to a gentle stirring of the air. Few persons were abroad at this hour. The lady in black had vanished from her post, and the young lovers had long since sought some other refuge.

The water was still and luminous in the fading light, and Edna moved toward it as if drawn by some force she did not question. She had begun to undress before she had fully formed the intention to do so. There was no one to observe her. The beach-houses stood empty and indifferent. She entered the water slowly, feeling it rise about her ankles, her knees, her waist. It was warmer than she had expected, almost welcoming, and she found that her fear had receded to some distant place where it could not touch her.

She pushed forward, her feet leaving the bottom, and then—almost before she could believe it possible—she was moving through the water in a manner that approximated swimming. It was clumsy and uncertain, a series of half-formed strokes that her body seemed to execute almost without instruction from her mind, but it was swimming nonetheless. She remained in the water for only a few moments, and then, finding herself seized by a sudden fear of the gathering darkness, she returned to the shore and dressed herself again, her heart beating with a strange exultation.

She was collecting her shoes and stockings when a voice addressed her from the direction of the bath-houses. It was the lady in black, the one who had sat reading her morning devotions in the shade of the porch.

"Good evening," the woman said. She was tall and thin, with the austere quality of one who has made a practice of denial. "I hope you have not found the beach unpleasant this evening. I myself come down when I can for a few moments of solitude."

"It is very peaceful," Edna replied, surprised to find herself responding to this overture, which she might have expected to feel as an intrusion. "I prefer it at this hour."

"Yes," the lady in black said. "The day seems to belong to so many others—to the children, to those who must be seen. But the evening gives one back to oneself." She smiled, a faint movement that touched her mouth but did not extend to her eyes. "I am Miss Sarah Lebrun. We have seen each other about the house, but I confess I have not known your name until Madame Lebrun mentioned it."

Edna provided her name and they exchanged a few further remarks, as civility required, but she found her mind only half-engaged in the conversation. The woman seemed to sense this and took her leave with no apparent offense. Edna watched her climb the path toward the house, a dark figure against the purpling sky.

The night had fallen by the time Edna herself returned to the cottage. The lamps had been lit inside, and she could hear the sound of voices from the dining-room, but she made her way to the gallery outside her door and stood there in the darkness, looking out toward the invisible gulf. The telegram lay in her pocket, inert as a playing card, yet somehow pregnant with possibility. Robert had said she possessed a magnetic attraction. Madame Ratignolle had deemed it necessary to relay this to her. And she had floated in the warm water as if the gulf itself had learned to hold her.

She remained there until the voices within had faded and the household had begun to settle toward sleep. The children would be abed by now. Robert might be in the parlor still, or might have withdrawn to his room. And she—she stood alone on the gallery, turning over in her mind the casual remark that had come to her at second hand, as if it contained all the weight and mystery of an oracle.

Eve had walked only fifty yards along Shaftesbury Avenue when the skies, which had shown signs of clearing, betrayed her once more with a fresh and vindictive shower. She quickened her pace, holding the umbrella at an angle that seemed likely to preserve the bird of Paradise feather, and was just reflecting that this was not one of the better days of her existence when a taxi drew up beside her and stopped.

"Miss Halliday?" called a voice from within.

Eve, surprised, bent down to peer through the window. A porter in the uniform of what was clearly a gentlemen's club sat inside, looking rather uncomfortable in his formal attire and the informal surroundings of a cab.

"I am, yes," said Eve cautiously. "But I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."

"I'm from the Drones Club, miss. I've been asked to wait about for you. Young Mr. Walderwick, he came to me not half an hour ago and asked if I'd seen a girl with a hat like—well, like yours, miss, if you don't mind my saying so. He said if I did, I was to tell him at once. But before I could do that, I thought I'd better make sure it was the right girl, so I hired a cab and caught you up. Now, the thing is, this is his umbrella, and he'd be wanting it back, wouldn't he?"

Eve's cheeks coloured slightly. The mysterious hatless gentleman! Of course—he must have gone straight back to his club and mentioned the incident. She found herself oddly torn between embarrassment and an absurd gratification that he should have taken the trouble to track her down.

"That's very kind of him," she said, "but I was planning to return it myself. In fact, I'd intended to leave it at the club with a note this afternoon. Please tell him—" She paused, searching for what seemed like an adequate expression of thanks to a total stranger who had given her an umbrella under one of the most peculiar sets of circumstances imaginable. "Please tell him I think it was terribly clever of him to have done it, and awfully kind."

The porter, who seemed like a decent sort of fellow, regarded her with sympathetic understanding. "Young gentlemen do carry on sometimes, don't they miss? Still, if you'd like to pop it back in person, I'm sure he'd appreciate it. He seemed quite keen to have you—I mean, to have the umbrella returned."

Eve declined with a smile. "No, I really think I'd prefer to leave it with a note. It's all terribly embarrassing."

"Right you are, miss. In that case, I'll take it off your hands now and save you the journey."

This seemed the most sensible arrangement. Eve surrendered the umbrella, promised to drop her note round to the club before close of business, and resumed her journey to Miss Clarkson's office with a curious lightness of spirit, despite the renewed downpour.

* * * * *

At approximately the same moment, in the smoking-room of the Drones Club, Psmith was experiencing what might charitably be described as a complication.

"Walderwick!" he exclaimed, with every appearance of surprise and pleasure. "My dear fellow! Capital to see you. But what brings you to the smoking-room at this ungodly hour? You're usually not to be found here until after lunch."

The Honourable Mr. Walderwick, who was a stocky man with the sort of aggressive colouring that suggested a recent visit to his tailor's rather than to the south of France, regarded Psmith with an expression that mingled confusion with mild irritation.

"See here, Psmith," he said without preamble, "I've just got back from Dover Street. My umbrella—the one you borrowed this morning—you've lost it, haven't you?"

Psmith's monocle reflected the light with absolute innocence. "Lost it? Good heavens, no. On the contrary, I should say the umbrella has been most gainfully employed."

"Then where the devil is it?"

"An excellent question," Psmith agreed thoughtfully. "And one to which I have given considerable attention. I came to the conclusion that it was serving a higher purpose."

Walderwick, who was not a man of imagination, stared at him blankly. "What rot are you talking?"

Psmith rose from his chair with the air of a man making a significant announcement. "Walderwick," he said, "I am a man of principle. Your umbrella—an admirable object, I will grant—has this morning prevented rain from falling upon a hat which, in my considered opinion, is one of the wonders of the civilised world. In doing so, it has transcended the limitations of mere domestic utility. It has become a weapon in the service of chivalry. I gave it to the most beautiful girl in London, standing in distress under the awning of Thorpe and Briscoe's."

"You did what?"

"I gave her the umbrella. Your umbrella. I can see from your face that you are about to point out that the umbrella was not mine to give. You are perfectly correct. This is indeed an awkward situation."

Walderwick's face had turned rather a darker shade of red. "Do you mean to tell me you simply handed over my umbrella to some girl?"

"Some girl?" Psmith's eyebrows rose with gentle rebuke. "Walderwick, I am surprised at your phraseology. She is not some girl. She is a paragon of loveliness who had the misfortune to be caught in a shower, and I was able to render her a service. Moreover—and this may console you—she has undertaken to return it."

"Has she indeed? Then I'll have it back this afternoon and we'll say no more about it."

"My dear fellow, I'm afraid that would be impossible."

"Why the devil would it be impossible?"

Psmith was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, it was with the tone of a man delivering a considered judgment. "Because I have come to the conclusion that the umbrella in question is unique. Irreplaceable. I have become attached to it."

"Attached to my umbrella?"

"Intensely attached. In fact, I have decided that I must possess it. What is your price, Walderwick?"

The Honourable Mr. Walderwick seemed to be experiencing some difficulty in believing his ears. "My price? For my own umbrella?"

"Precisely. I am prepared to offer you..." Psmith paused, as if reaching into the depths of his reserve of good humour and generosity, "...twenty pounds."

"Twenty pounds?"

"Too little? Then thirty. But I must insist that you do not quibble. I have made up my mind, and you know how firm I am in my decisions."

Walderwick might not have known, but he was beginning to form a distinct impression of Psmith's peculiar methods of conducting business. After several more moments of what he evidently felt was fruitless protest, he accepted thirty pounds in crisp Bank of England notes, handed over the umbrella, and withdrew, muttering something about Psmith having developed a brain fever.

Psmith stood alone in the smoking-room, turning the umbrella over in his hands with every appearance of satisfaction. He had, he reflected, had a productive morning.

* * * * *

Eve was in Regent Street, having just collected a pair of shoes that were not quite ready but which the shoemaker had promised to have finished by Tuesday, when the clouds finally began to thin. A patch of weak sunlight appeared, and she paused to look up at it with the appreciation of one who has been thoroughly drenched and might reasonably hope for some relief. She was standing thus occupied when a voice spoke at her elbow.

"A merciful reprieve," it said.

Eve turned to find at her side the tall, thin young man she had seen once before—outside the Drones Club. He was bareheaded and appeared to be on the point of hailing a taxi.

"I beg your pardon?" she said.

"The rain," he continued, with every appearance of addressing a chance acquaintance and not someone who had a significant history of umbrella transactions with his person. "A most unreasonable phenomenon for June. I should have thought London weather might have had the decency to show some moderation."

"Yes, it's been perfectly beastly," Eve agreed, and would have moved on, except that he seemed disposed to continue the conversation.

"You are, if I am not mistaken, bound for somewhere in particular?" he inquired with polite interest. "For I find myself momentarily at a loose end and if I am not imposing, I should be happy to assist in any errand that might require the application of common sense or brute force, both of which I command in some measure."

Eve found this amusing. "That's very kind of you, but I'm quite all right, thank you. I'm on my way to see someone actually. A—a prospective employer."

"Ah. You are seeking a position?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"In that case," said the young man gravely, "I shall not detain you. But may I suggest that you avoid allowing any prospective employer to see you looking anxious? You are, if you permit me to say so, far too charming to be anxious. Try to look purposeful and indifferent. They invariably prefer it." He raised his hand to hail the taxi that had just drawn up. "Good afternoon, Miss—" He paused, as if the question hung delicately in the air between them.

"Good afternoon," said Eve, with perhaps more coolness than she felt. There was something about this young man that made her both curious and defensive, though she could not precisely say why.

He touched his hat and disappeared into the taxi before she could decide whether his advice had been presumptuous or simply the product of good nature.

* * * * *

The address to which Eve had been directed was not in the heart of London's most fashionable quarter, but in a quieter street not far from the British Museum. The house itself was neat and respectable, with dark curtains and a small brass plate beside the door reading "E. H. Waterbury, Esquire." She climbed the stairs to the second floor and was ushered by a languid young woman into a room that smelled of old books and something else she could not quite identify—possibly, she thought, stale cigars.

Mr. Waterbury himself was a man of perhaps sixty, with the general appearance of someone who had once taken great care of his appearance and had now, through indifference or melancholy, abandoned the enterprise. He rose from behind a desk that was covered in papers and held out a hand that felt rather like a damp fish.

"Miss Halliday. Yes. You come recommended by Lord Emsworth's son. The Honourable Freddie Threepwood. He speaks of you most highly."

"That's kind of him," said Eve, who was just beginning to remember that Freddie's suggestions often came wrapped in complications.

"Now, I should explain that my employer, Lord Emsworth, has what I think one might describe as an extensive library. Very extensive. Some few thousand volumes at least. He wishes to have them properly catalogued, in some sort of systematic order. At the moment, they are, I fear, something of a chaos. You have experience in library work?"

"I'm afraid not," Eve admitted. "But I learn quickly, and I'm very methodical."

"Well, that's something at least." Mr. Waterbury—or possibly this was not Mr. Waterbury but merely Mr. Waterbury's representative, though the business card on the desk seemed to suggest otherwise—adjusted his spectacles and consulted a paper before him. "The position would involve some three months' work at Blandings Castle in Shropshire. The wage would be three pounds a week, with room and board provided. However, there is one matter I must bring to your attention."

Eve's heart, which had been rising at the mention of three months' continuous employment, descended again. There was always something.

"Yes?" she said carefully.

"Lord Emsworth has recently engaged a secretary, a man by the name of Baxter. Rupert Baxter. An excellent fellow, very thorough, very organised. However, I should warn you that he takes a somewhat high-handed approach to matters and does not always see eye-to-eye with other members of the household staff. I merely thought it fair to apprise you of this fact."

Eve, who had dealt with difficult people before and had on the whole survived the experience, nodded. "I see. Well, I think I can manage that."

"Good, good. Then I believe we can consider the matter settled. You would begin on the—let me see—the fifteenth of July? That would give you adequate time to make your arrangements. Unless, of course, Lord Emsworth decides otherwise when he returns from London tomorrow. But I think it most unlikely that he will object."

Eve left the interview in a state of curious satisfaction tempered by undefined uneasiness. She had, against her own expectations, secured the position. Three pounds a week for three months would be ninety pounds, and ninety pounds would take her past September and well into the autumn. The uneasiness, she reflected as she descended the stairs, had something to do with the name Rupert Baxter and something else to do with the tall young man in Regent Street, who had advised her to look purposeful and had then vanished into a taxi without leaving even a name by which she might think of him.

She resolved to put both matters from her mind, collected her umbrella from a café where she had left it while trying on her shoes, and set off through the now-clearing afternoon towards the Drones Club in order to fulfil her promise to leave a note.

The porter who accepted the umbrella and the envelope addressed in Eve's careful handwriting seemed unsurprised by the transaction, which suggested to Eve that the mysterious young man had perhaps become known for similar eccentricities. She did not try to question the porter, sensing that she would receive no useful information, and made her way home through streets that were beginning to smell of drying pavement and returning hope.

* * * * *

At the Drones Club, in the smoking-room where he was accustomed to spend his evenings, Psmith sat in solitary splendour with the Honourable Mr. Walderwick's umbrella resting against the arm of his chair. The rain had stopped entirely now, and the evening light was slanting through the windows at a golden angle. The note had come with the umbrella, written in a neat, attractive hand:

"I cannot thank you enough for your kindness this morning. You have been absurdly generous, and I am profoundly grateful. I return this with the hope that it reaches you safely. It has been the cause of considerable mysterious excitement on my behalf, though I confess I cannot quite understand why anyone should prefer to part with it rather than simply ask for its return. Nevertheless, I am returning it as promised."

It was not signed, which was just as well, Psmith reflected, for he had at that moment no very pressing desire to know who she was. The knowledge would come, as these things generally did, at the moment when it would be most useful and most inconvenient.

A figure approached through the smoking-room, and Psmith recognised Tuppy Glossop, a man of some influence in the affairs of the Drones and a reliable source of information about everything worth knowing in London society.

"Glossop," said Psmith without preamble, "I have a matter of some delicacy on which I require your counsel. If I were to describe to you a young woman of considerable beauty, with excellent taste in millinery, and if I were to tell you that she had been recommended to take a position cataloguing a library in Shropshire—the library of a peer of the realm, let us say—could you, from these fragments of information, identify her?"

"Good Lord, Psmith," said Tuppy, sitting down heavily. "What have you been up to? You can't give me much to go on. 'Considerable beauty' could describe half the girls in London, and 'excellent taste in millinery' describes exactly none of them if you ask me."

"A girl with a superlative hat," amended Psmith. "A black crêpe dress. Fawn stockings. Patent leather shoes. And a demeanour that suggests either noble lineage or extremely good character. Possibly both."

Tuppy frowned in concentration. "Black crêpe and patent leather? Wait—is she tall? Rather delicate-looking?"

"The precise opposite. She is, if anything, robust in her charm."

"Then I haven't a notion. But you might try asking around at the employment bureaus. Miss Clarkson's, possibly. She handles a good deal of that sort of thing. Otherwise, I'm afraid you're at a loss, old thing."

But Psmith, who had come by certain scraps of information during the day, was not entirely at a loss. By the time Tuppy had departed in search of dinner, he had worked out, through a complex chain of reasoning involving a porter at the club, a taxi-driver, and the excellent memory of the staff at his hotel, that the young woman in question was one Miss Eve Halliday, and that she was presently engaged to catalogue the library of no less a personage than the Earl of Emsworth.

He sat alone in the growing darkness, holding the umbrella, and allowed himself the ghost of a smile.

The cab moved through the dark streets, the driver taking the turns mechanically. Brett sat with her eyes closed and I watched the lights from the shop windows play across her face.

"Where are we going?" she asked after a while, not opening her eyes.

"Parc Montsouris. I thought you might like to see it."

"I don't want to see the bloody park."

"Where then?"

"There's a little hotel," she said. "Near the Bastille. The Hotel Levant. Do you know it?"

I leaned forward and gave the driver the new direction. He nodded without comment and turned the cab around.

"How do you know about it?" I asked.

"A man told me. He's got money. Absolutely frightful amounts of money. American money. His name is Hilton Carpenter. Have you heard of him?"

"No."

"No, I shouldn't think you would have. He's very recent. Came over with letters of introduction and that sort of thing. Met him at a tea where absolutely no one interesting was present, and there he was." She opened her eyes and looked at me. "He was rather nice, actually. Dull as ditchwater but genuinely nice."

"Is he?"

"Don't be like that," Brett said. "I'm just telling you about him."

"I'm not being like anything."

"Yes, you are. You're being perfectly beastly about it."

The cab swung around a corner and I said nothing. The street lights made the pavement shine like water.

"He showed me the hotel," Brett went on. "Said it was quiet and the proprietor didn't ask questions. I thought at the time it seemed rather romantic, in a depressing sort of way. But then most romantic things are depressing, aren't they?"

"Some of them."

"Most of them. The good ones anyway."

We rode in silence for another block. I thought about this Hilton Carpenter with his American money and his letters of introduction, showing Brett quiet hotels where proprietors didn't ask questions. I thought about what that meant and what it didn't mean, and I was angry in a way that wasn't simple.

"It's not what you think," Brett said.

"I'm not thinking anything."

"You are. It's written all over your face."

"Then stop talking about it."

"I'm trying to explain."

"You don't have to explain anything to me."

She was quiet after that, and we rode the rest of the way without talking. The cab pulled up in front of the Hotel Levant. It was a narrow building with a red awning and a single light burning above the door. Brett sat forward.

"Wait here," she said to the driver. To me: "Come on."

We got out and went into the lobby. It was small and dim, with faded paper on the walls and a desk where a concierge sat reading a newspaper. He barely looked up as we passed. The stairs were narrow and steep. Brett led me up two flights without hesitation, as if she knew exactly where she was going, and stopped at a door.

"This is it," she said, but she didn't open it. She stood with her hand on the knob. "I had him book it for me. Yesterday. I wanted a place to come where I wouldn't see anyone I knew. Where I could just sit and not be Brett Ashley."

"Why are you showing me this?"

"Because you need to know. Because I can't have you thinking I'm sneaking about. I'm not sneaking. I'm just trying to find somewhere that isn't all of this." She gestured vaguely, meaning the dancing, the crowds, the city, all of it. "I needed a room where I could come and be quiet."

I understood then that she was telling me something true, even if not the entire truth. What I actually felt was that it didn't matter what she did, that whatever she told me or showed me, I would want her anyway, and that was a terrible thing to know about myself.

"Let's go," I said.

"Don't you want to see it?"

"No."

We went back down the stairs and out to the cab. The driver was smoking, the cigarette glowing in the dark interior. Brett got in without speaking to me.

"Where now?" the driver asked.

"The Rue Mouffetard," I said. "Back to the Bal Musette."

Brett turned to look at me. "What are you doing?"

"I left money with the patronne. For Georgette."

"Georgette is fine. She was dancing."

"I left it for her anyway."

Brett said nothing, but she reached over and gripped my arm hard, just above the wrist. We drove in silence through the narrow streets, down toward the Latin Quarter. The cab stopped in front of the Bal Musette. The place was still lit up and I could hear the accordion through the door.

"I'll be quick," I said.

"I'll come in."

"No. Wait here."

I went into the Bal. It was even hotter than before, and the floor was crowded now. The working people from the quarter had come in, and there was a solid mass of bodies swaying to the accordion. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of sweat. I looked for Georgette.

I found her sitting at a table with one of the young men from earlier, the blond one with the wavy hair. She was drinking wine and laughing at something he'd said. She looked up and saw me, and the laugh died on her face.

I went over to the table. The young man stood up, his composure slipping for just a moment.

"I've come to see how you're getting on," I said to Georgette.

"I'm getting on fine," she said. "Better than fine."

"I left some money with the patronne for you."

"I don't want your money."

"It's there if you need it."

The young man was watching us, trying to decide what was happening. Georgette looked away from me and back at him, taking his arm.

"Let's dance," she said.

They went out to the floor and I stood there watching them. The patronne saw me from behind the bar and nodded, understanding. I didn't know if Georgette would take the envelope or not. Probably not. She had other men now, and money, and the evening was still young. She didn't need anything from me.

I turned and walked back out into the street. Brett was still in the cab. I got in and we sat there for a moment without the driver moving.

"Where?" the driver asked.

"Just drive," I said. "Toward the river."

We drove through the dark streets, heading northwest, away from the Quarter. The driver took the Pont de l'Alma and drove slowly across the Seine. The water was black and still in the darkness. On the other side he turned and drove along the Quai d'Orsay, moving upstream.

"Stop here," I said.

The driver pulled over. I paid him and he took the money without comment, used to these sorts of instructions from these sorts of people. Brett looked at me.

"Come on," I said. "We'll walk."

We got out and walked to the edge of the quai. The river moved past us, dark and ancient. The bridges upstream were lit up, and across the water the city rose up in the darkness.

"I'm sorry," Brett said.

"For what?"

"All of it. Hilton Carpenter. The hotel. Coming with those men tonight. Making you angry."

"You didn't make me angry."

"Yes, I did."

"No," I said. "I made myself angry. That's different."

She took my arm and we stood looking out at the river. I could feel her weight against me, and I didn't pull away. We stood there for a long time, not speaking, listening to the water and the distant sound of a train somewhere in the city.

After a while Brett said, "I should get back."

I signaled for a taxi and one came almost immediately. The driver pulled up and I opened the door for her. She got in and rolled down the window.

"Where am I telling him?" she asked.

"Wherever you're staying."

"I don't want to go there."

"You have to go somewhere."

"I know. But I don't want to."

"Tell him the Hôtel Crillon," I said. "You can figure out where you actually want to be."

She smiled at that, a real smile, tired and sad but genuine. She reached out and touched my hand where it rested on the window frame.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?"

"For not asking questions."

The taxi pulled away, and I watched it go down the quai until the red taillights disappeared around a curve. I turned and started walking upstream along the river. The city was quiet now, that dead hour before dawn when Paris was empty and belonged only to itself and to people like me, with nowhere to be and no reason to go there. The sky in the east was beginning to lighten, just barely, just enough to suggest that morning was coming. I walked along the river, watching the light change, not thinking about anything in particular, just moving forward, putting distance between myself and the Bal Musette and the Hotel Levant and everything else that had happened that night.

*Letter, Peter Hawkins to Miss Mina Murray.*

"*26 May.*

"*Exeter.*

"My dear Miss Murray,--

"I trust this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I write to you upon a matter which I confess has occasioned me some little concern, though I am perhaps being overcautious in doing so. Your fiancé, Mr. Jonathan Harker, was due to return to England by the 30th instant, having completed the business with the Continental client for which I engaged him. It is now the 26th, and I have received no communication from him since his letter of the 19th, which you may have seen, announcing his imminent departure from Transylvania.

"I have made enquiries through the solicitor's office at Bistritz, and learn that Mr. Harker did indeed depart from that town on the date he indicated. However, the gentleman with whom he lodged reports that Mr. Harker subsequently returned to the vicinity in a state of some distress, and that he has since been confined to rest, having suffered what is termed a nervous complaint. The details are rather unclear in the telegraph I have received, but it appears he was found wandering, and has been taken in by a charitable establishment pending his recovery.

"I hasten to assure you that there is no cause for great alarm. The gentleman assures me that Mr. Harker's condition, whilst requiring rest, is not thought to be of a serious or permanent nature. Doubtless the rigours of travel in that remote region, combined with the intensity of his professional duties, have overtaxed his constitution. I have sent funds by return telegraph to cover his expenses and to engage the best medical attention available in that locality.

"I thought it best to inform you directly, rather than have you learn it through other channels. Mr. Harker's own letters to you may take some time in reaching England, given the current uncertainties of the post, and I wished you to understand the circumstances. I am confident that with proper rest he shall make a full recovery and return to us within the fortnight. In the meantime, I remain, as always, your most faithful servant and friend.

"Your obedient,

"PETER HAWKINS."

*Letter, Mina Murray to Lucy Westenra.*

"*27 May.*

"My dearest Lucy,--

"Forgive the abruptness of my letter, for I am in some confusion of mind. I have this morning received intelligence concerning Jonathan which has quite unsettled me, though I endeavour to remain calm and rational. Mr. Hawkins, his employer, has written to inform me that Jonathan has suffered a nervous complaint and must delay his return. The particulars are not entirely clear, but he has been taken ill whilst abroad and is resting until his strength returns.

"I do not know quite what to feel. Jonathan's last letter to me was so cheerful, and he seemed in excellent spirits. And yet Mr. Hawkins assures me this is nothing to alarm us--merely the effects of fatigue and travel. I must trust in this assessment, for what else can I do at this distance?

"I confess, my dear, that I am somewhat in want of the comfort of your presence. I have been so looking forward to our time together by the sea, where I might unburden myself of all these worries. Do you think it terribly weak of me to be anxious? I pride myself upon being practical and not prone to fancies, and yet I cannot entirely dismiss this unease. Perhaps it is merely the anxiety of a woman who loves, and who fears for those she cares for.

"You must tell me how you go on. Your last letter quite made me smile, despite my present troubles, and I confess I was greatly amused by your account of your three proposals, though I scold you for your vanity! No, I shall not scold you. You know I am happy for you, and that Arthur is a most worthy gentleman.

"Do write to me soon, dear one. I remain yours in some anxiety, but with faith that all shall be well.

"MINA."

*Dr. Seward's Diary.*

(Kept in phonograph)

*28 May.*--A remarkable development in the case of R. M. Renfield. For some weeks now the man has been comparatively quiescent, his periods of excitement following the usual pattern, and his conversation, when he chooses to speak at all, remaining fixed upon his habitual themes. Today, however, he exhibited something quite unprecedented.

I was making my usual rounds when he called me to his door. His manner was not the usual mixture of subservience and cunning which characterises his intercourse with the attendants; rather, he seemed possessed of a peculiar urgency, and his eyes held an unaccountable clarity.

"Dr. Seward," said he, "I have a question which I must put to you, and I pray you will answer me honestly." I assured him that I would do so, insofar as professional propriety allowed. He then asked me, quite directly and without any circumlocution: "The young lady who visits sometimes, Miss Westenra--she is in good health, is she not?"

The question struck me as singular, for Renfield has never, to my knowledge, had any contact with visitors, nor any reason to know the name of Miss Lucy Westenra. I asked him how he had come to know of her. He became somewhat agitated at this, and said that he "hears things," and that there is much that passes between the walls of an establishment such as this, and much that can be gleaned from the conversation of nurses and orderlies if one listens carefully enough.

I questioned him further upon this point, thinking it perhaps a breach of discretion on the part of my staff, but he seemed reluctant to elaborate. Instead, he reiterated his question, almost pleading: "She is well? You would tell me if she were not well?" I assured him that Miss Westenra was in excellent health, so far as I was aware. At this he seemed to relax somewhat, and withdrew from his door without further speech.

The incident is curious enough to warrant further observation. Renfield's sudden interest in a person entirely unknown to him, combined with his apparent knowledge of her name, suggests either a lapse in the discretion of my staff, or some alteration in his mental condition which may indicate a new phase in his complaint. I shall speak to the senior nurse regarding conversation within earshot of the patients.

*Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Arthur Holmwood.*

"*29 May.*

"My dear Art,--

"I write to you in the aftermath of our little gathering last night, being of the opinion that a fuller account may be of interest to you than I could manage whilst we were still under the influence of Seward's excellent port.

"We met at seven o'clock as arranged, Seward being somewhat late but in the best of spirits when he arrived. The dinner itself was a capital affair--I had taken the liberty of ordering it from Pimm's, and I don't mind saying that every course did them credit. The soup was fine, the fish admirably prepared, and I secured a cut of beef that would have done credit to our dining days on the Argentine pampas. Seward seemed to revive considerably once the wine was poured, and I made note that he ate with more appetite than I should have supposed him capable of, given his recent domestic troubles.

"We spoke little of business until the port was brought. Then, as is customary amongst men who have shared something of hardship and adventure, the conversation became more frank. I ventured to observe that a man who has loved and lost, as it were, must find solace in the company of those who understand the value of friendship. Seward was inclined to be melancholic upon this head, and spoke at some length regarding the nobility of accepting one's fate with grace. He quoted some fellow or other--a philosopher of ancient Rome, I believe--to the effect that virtue lies in the mastery of one's passions. I am afraid I found this rather tedious, for I was of the opinion that one might as well take what life offers and make the best of it.

"You, Art, were in merrier humour. I fancy Lucy's acceptance has quite restored you to good spirits. You spoke at length of your plans--the establishment of a household, the engagement of staff, and a wedding tour through the Continent. Seward listened to all this with a sort of wry good humour, and even managed to wish you well without too much apparent gritting of teeth, which speaks well of his character, I think.

"As the evening progressed, I found myself reflecting upon the curious business of friendship and rivalry. Here were we three, who have been comrades of sorts, and yet two of us have suffered disappointment in love from the hands of the same lady. And yet no rancour! It is the mark, I think, of men of good breeding and honour that they can endure such circumstances without descending to bitterness or recrimination.

"Before we parted, we toasted you and Lucy--a long and heartfelt toast, my dear fellow, I assure you. Seward's voice was steady, if somewhat thick with emotion, and we drank to the happiness of you both with all sincerity. Then we smoked a final cigar, and the gathering broke up at a little before midnight.

"I remain, as always, your faithful friend, and I look forward to standing beside you when you lead Lucy to the altar.

"QUINCEY."

*Telegram, from Peter Hawkins (Exeter) to Mina Murray (Exeter).*

"*30 May.*

"JONATHAN RECOVERED SUFFICIENTLY TO TRAVEL STOP ARRIVING LONDON TOMORROW EVENING STOP DIRECT PADDINGTON STOP ADVISE IMMEDIATE MEETING STOP CONDITION DELICATE REQUIRES CARE STOP

"HAWKINS"