The Chapters

Dr. Seward's Diary.

(Kept in phonograph)

26 May, evening.--I have had a long conversation with Renfield. His condition has been quiet, though his manner was more composed than usual, and he gave me no trouble when I entered his room. The flies which he had collected during the morning were shut in a glass jar, and he watched them with a patient interest which would have been amusing had I not known how quickly his moods may change.

I asked him why he had ceased to feed them. He answered that they had become too numerous, and that numbers without order were of no value. I asked him what order he proposed to establish, but he only smiled and tapped the jar with his finger.

There was a pause, during which he seemed to listen to something in the passage. Then, without any word or question on my part which could have led him to the subject, he said:--

“Does Miss Westenra come here, doctor?”

The question startled me, and I confess that I stared at him.

“Why do you ask that?” I said.

He looked at me with a perfectly steady face. “I want to know if Miss Westenra has been here.”

“You have seen her before?”

“No. I have heard of her.”

“From whom?”

He turned towards the window, though the blind was down. “From people who know the difference between a lady and a woman. Miss Westenra is a lady.”

I tried to laugh, but the attempt failed. “What do you know of Miss Westenra?”

“She has a good heart,” he said. “A good heart is a rare thing. It gives warmth to those who stand near it.”

He spoke without excitement, and with none of the eager manner which accompanies his usual fancies. I asked him whether he had heard her name from any of the attendants. He answered that he had not. I pressed him further, but he would say no more than that he wished to see her.

“Miss Westenra has never heard of you,” I told him.

“That is the reason she should come,” he replied. “A person may know nothing of a thing and yet be the one person who can understand it.”

I asked him what he meant, but he began to arrange the pieces of bread upon his table. He placed them in a straight row, measured the distances with his finger, and appeared to forget me altogether.

I shall make discreet enquiries. It is possible that some visitor has spoken of Miss Westenra within his hearing, though the attendants deny it. I do not like the manner in which he introduced her name. It was not the babble of a patient who catches at any word. He asked for her as a man might ask for a person whom he had expected to meet.

At ten o’clock I shall dine with Quincey and Arthur. I have little appetite, but Quincey has written that he will take no refusal, and I know Arthur will be there. It may do me good to see men who have some happiness before them.

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

27 May.

My dear Jack,--

You went away last night with the face of a man who had been called to a confinement in the country, and I have been wondering whether you remember half of what happened at dinner. I write it down whilst the remembrance is fresh, for I want to keep the evening as one of the good things in my life.

We sat down a little after eight in my rooms. I had made such arrangements as a bachelor can make without calling in a woman to supervise him, and I was proud of the result. There were flowers on the table, though I had to borrow the vase from the landlady, and the candles were set in silver sticks which had belonged to my mother. The dinner was plain, but well served. We had soup, salmon, a saddle of mutton, and a pudding which the cook swore was English, although it tasted to me like something from the Mexican border.

Arthur arrived first. He was in excellent spirits, and brought with him a letter from Lucy. He would not show it to us, but he read one sentence aloud, and that sentence was enough to make him blush like a schoolboy. He said she had been spending the afternoon with her mother, and that she had asked him whether he preferred a house in town or in the country. Upon this he became so cheerful that I determined to ask him no more questions.

You came next, ten minutes late, with an apology about the patients and a face which told me that the apology was not the whole truth. Arthur asked whether some new case had been troubling you. You said that there was nothing worth mentioning, and then drank half a glass of wine as if you had forgotten that it was in your hand.

We kept our promise and spoke of Lucy only in the most respectful manner. That is to say, Arthur spoke of her, and you and I listened. He told us of the first time he had seen her, and of the way in which she had laughed at something foolish which he had said. He remembered the colour of her dress, the position of the light upon her hair, and the name of a book which she had been carrying. I have noticed that a man in love remembers the smallest things and forgets the large ones.

When the pudding had gone the way of the salmon, I filled the glasses and proposed a toast. I said that we had each been beaten, but that one of us had been beaten so handsomely that no gentleman could complain. You answered that you had not been beaten, but merely sent back to await further orders. Arthur rose and drank to Lucy.

He did not make a speech. He said only:--

“To the best and dearest woman in the world.”

You and I drank with him. I tried to say something suitable about the happiness of a man who had found the one woman he wished to marry, but I made a poor business of it. I said that a fellow should be thankful when he had found a good road, and should not waste time asking whether another road might have been shorter.

You replied that you had never known me to speak of a road without losing my way upon it.

This made us laugh, and after that the evening grew easier. We talked of our old travels. I reminded you of the time in Korea when you mistook a military officer for a hotel waiter, and you reminded me of the Marquesas, where I attempted to mend a boat with a pocket-knife. Arthur listened to us as a man listens to stories of a former life which he has not shared. He laughed in the right places, though I could see that his thoughts returned constantly to Lucy.

At eleven we drank another health, this time to the absent ladies. You insisted upon including Miss Murray, and Arthur agreed with you. I said that any woman who could write shorthand, keep a diary, and tolerate a fellow like Harker must possess more courage than most of us. You said that Miss Murray had other virtues, but you would not name them. I suspect you have been studying her as closely as you study your patients.

We left the table near midnight. Arthur shook hands with us both, and said that he would never forget the dinner. He had the look of a man who has been given a great treasure and is afraid to touch it lest it should vanish.

After he had gone, you and I sat by the empty fire and finished the bottle. You spoke of your work, and I spoke of Texas, though I have no idea why. At last you said that a man might be useful even when he could not be happy, and I answered that a man might be happy even when he had no business to be.

I do not know which of us was right. I only know that the room seemed very quiet when you left, and that I was glad to have had you both with me.

Yours, as ever,

QUINCEY P. MORRIS.

Letter from Sister Agatha to Miss Mina Murray.

Hospital of St. Joseph and St. Mary, Budapest.

7 July.

Dear Miss Murray,--

You do not know me, and I trust that you will pardon my writing to you without introduction. I am Sister Agatha, a nurse in this hospital, and I have been attending upon an English gentleman who has given us your name.

His name is Mr. Jonathan Harker. He was brought here on the first day of this month by a gentleman who found him at the railway station. Mr. Harker was exhausted, confused, and unable to give a clear account of himself. He had no luggage with him, and only a few personal articles in his possession. Amongst these was a small card bearing the name of Mr. Peter Hawkins, Solicitor, Exeter, and your own name written beneath it.

When he became quiet enough to speak, he told us that you were his intended wife. He asked several times that a message should be sent to you, but his words were so uncertain that we thought it best to wait until he could give us your address correctly. I have now obtained it through the English address on the card, and I write to tell you that he is safe.

Mr. Harker has been delayed here because he is not yet fit to travel. He has suffered from a severe nervous disturbance, and his memory is not always reliable. At one time he speaks as if he had only just left the railway carriage; at another, he says that he has been absent for many weeks. The doctors believe that rest will restore him, and his condition has improved since he came under our care.

He has been most anxious about you. When awake, he asks whether any letter has arrived from England. Yesterday he wrote your name several times upon a sheet of paper, but afterwards seemed not to recognise it. I have kept the paper, as it may be of value to you, and shall send it if you desire.

You may write to him through me. Please address your letter to the hospital, and place upon the envelope the words “For Mr. Jonathan Harker.” He is not permitted to receive visitors yet, but I shall read your letter to him if the physician allows it.

Do not be alarmed by the delay. The journey has been a hard one for him, and the doctors wish him to remain here until he is stronger. If he continues to improve, he may be able to leave within a few days.

I remain, dear Miss Murray,

Your faithful servant,

Sister Agatha.

Letter, Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra.

8 July.

My dearest Lucy,--

I have received a letter which has filled me with relief and yet left me very uneasy. It is from a nun in a hospital at Budapest, a person who has never seen me and who can have no reason to write except kindness. She says that Jonathan is there, and that he has been delayed because he is ill and unable to travel.

You will understand what I felt when I read his name. For weeks I have tried to persuade myself that his silence was caused by business, by the difficulty of sending letters, or by some accident of travel. His own message said that he would return soon, and yet every day has made the promised return seem less certain. I have blamed myself for being anxious, and then blamed myself again for trying to hide the anxiety.

The letter says that he has no luggage and that he was found at a railway station. This troubles me more than I can say. Jonathan is careful with his papers and belongings, and I cannot imagine him travelling without them unless he were unable to care for himself. The sister writes that his memory is confused. She says that he sometimes believes he has only just left the train, and at other times thinks himself away from England for many weeks.

I have written to him to-day. I told him that I am well, that you are well, and that all our friends remember him. I did not mention my fears. I said only that I was waiting for him, and that he must obey the doctors and take the rest they ordered.

I have also written to Mr. Hawkins, asking whether he has received any communication from Jonathan. I cannot understand why Jonathan should have reached Budapest without sending word to his employer. Perhaps the message was lost. Perhaps Jonathan was too ill to write. These are small explanations, but I cling to them because they are explanations.

You will laugh at me when I tell you that I have taken out his last letter and placed it beside the nun’s. I compared the writing, although there was no need. The letters are his. I know every turn of his hand. I know the way in which he crosses a “t” and leaves a little space before his signature. There is comfort in such things.

I wish you were here. You would tell me that I am making a mountain of a molehill, and I should be glad to hear you say it. I shall not tell Jonathan how frightened I have been. When he comes home, I mean to make him laugh at me for it.

Give my love to your mother, and tell me at once if Arthur has any news of him. Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris may know something also, though I do not wish to trouble them until Mr. Hawkins replies.

Your loving

MINA.

P.S.--The sister says that Jonathan wrote my name several times and then did not know it. I cannot bear to think of this, though the doctors assure her that his mind will clear.

Dr. Seward's Diary.

(Kept in phonograph)

9 July.--A letter from Miss Murray has reached me through Quincey. She asks whether I know anything of Harker's condition in Budapest. I have sent her the little information which I possess. Arthur has heard nothing, and Quincey has heard nothing. Mr. Hawkins has not yet answered her letter.

Renfield was in a strange humour this afternoon, though I use the word only in its ordinary sense. He asked for paper and wrote a long series of figures upon it. When I asked their meaning, he said they were the number of days required for a man to walk from one city to another if he were not allowed to use the roads. I told him that the question was absurd. He agreed, and then asked for more paper.

He has spoken of Miss Westenra twice since the 26th. On each occasion he used her name without any leading question. I have not told Miss Murray this, as it would only add to her present distress. There is no connexion between the two matters which I can discover, but I dislike coincidences when they occur in my own work.

10 July, 8 a.m.--A telegram has arrived from Mr. Hawkins.

Telegram from Peter Hawkins to Miss Mina Murray.

JONATHAN HARKER ARRIVED IN EXETER THIS MORNING. HE DENIES KNOWING YOU. COME TO MY OFFICE ALONE. PETER HAWKINS.

That night, as I lay awake for a little while listening to the faint sounds of the house, I saw a falling star.

It came not from the quarter of the sky where Mars was shining, but high over the south-western roofs. I saw it through the uncurtained window of our bedroom, a greenish-white point that appeared suddenly, travelled in silence, and went out before it had crossed a hand’s breadth of sky. It was brighter than any meteor I had seen before, and for an instant the garden below was lit as though by a lamp behind a curtain.

I sat up.

My wife stirred beside me.

“What is it?” she asked sleepily.

“A falling star,” I said.

She murmured something indistinct and turned over. I remained at the window, watching the darkness, though I knew that no eye could follow what had gone down into it. There was no sound. The night was very still. Beyond the garden wall the road lay pale beneath the stars, and far away, towards Chertsey, a train moved with its softened rumble through the sleeping country.

I went back to bed presently, but I did not sleep at once. The thing I had seen had been so bright, so near in appearance, that I found myself wondering where it had fallen. I remembered Ogilvy’s talk of meteorites, and the great flashes on Mars, and the countless miles of emptiness between that planet and our own. I remember thinking that, after all, the universe was a much more active and dangerous place than most of us supposed. Then I slept.

In the morning a boy came running up the garden path with the news that a strange stone had fallen into the old flooded clay-pit beyond Ottershaw.

He was a lad from one of the cottages near the common, and was so breathless that at first we could make little of what he said. He had been sent for milk, or so he declared, and had seen steam rising from the water. There was a crowd already gathering, and a man had gone to fetch Mr. Ogilvy.

“A meteorite,” I said.

“That is what they say,” my wife answered. She had come into the room with her hair only half arranged and was fastening the collar of her dress. “Will you go and see it?”

“I suppose I must.”

“You must?” she said. “You have spoken of little else in the heavens for weeks.”

“I have spoken of the heavens. This is a matter of mud and water.”

She smiled at me.

“I shall come with you.”

I tried to dissuade her. There was no knowing what sort of vapours might rise from a stone that had come burning through the air, and the path to the pit was rough after the rain. But she was determined, and within a quarter of an hour we had set out together.

The morning was clear, though a thin mist lay over the low ground. The roads were already alive with people. Men came from Chertsey and Ottershaw, some carrying sticks, some with their hands thrust into their coat pockets, and several boys ran past us shouting that the sky-stone was as big as a house. A milkman had left his cart at the roadside, and two labourers were walking rapidly in the same direction, arguing whether the stone had been sent by the French or had fallen from the moon.

The old pit lay in a hollow beyond a belt of firs. It had been worked many years before, and the excavation had filled with brown rain-water. In places the water was covered with a thin scum of clay. The sides were steep and broken, with pools among the weeds and heaps of pale earth where the digging had ceased.

By the time we reached it, perhaps fifty people had gathered there. More were coming along the narrow track. I saw Ogilvy standing near the edge of the water, his hat pushed back from his forehead and his boots covered with clay. He had brought a little case of instruments, which lay open beside him. With him were the local constable, two farm labourers, and a grey-haired man whom I recognised as the owner of the adjoining land.

The object had fallen near the middle of the pit.

It lay at an angle in the shallow water, with one end buried in the soft bank and the greater part of its length showing above the surface. The water had retreated from it in a wide steaming circle. Vapour rose steadily from the dark metal and drifted away in ragged wisps. Here and there the surface of the water bubbled, and a faint sound like the simmering of a kettle came from the mud beneath.

It was not a stone in any ordinary sense. It was cylindrical, or nearly so, though the visible part was rounded and irregular from the force of its descent. Its surface was black, but where the water ran from it there were dull reddish gleams. It might have been iron, though no iron I had ever seen possessed that smooth and heavy appearance. It had no sharp edge, no obvious seam, and no mark upon it which I could distinguish from where we stood.

My wife gave a little cry.

“How large it is!”

“It is not so large as that boy said,” Ogilvy called. “Perhaps thirty yards in length. The water makes it seem larger.”

“Thirty yards!” I exclaimed.

“An estimate,” he said. “We shall know better when the water has cooled.”

I went down the slope with him until the constable stopped us.

“Keep back, sir,” he said. “Mr. Ogilvy says it is dangerous to go close.”

“You see,” my wife said. “You were wise to bring me.”

“I brought you because I knew you would come without me.”

Ogilvy looked at me with an expression of impatient amusement.

“It is a meteorite,” he said.

“An ordinary meteorite?”

“Why should it not be?”

“Because it is thirty yards long, lies in a pit near Ottershaw, and is still hot enough to boil the water.”

“That is no argument against its being a meteorite. The velocity of its entry would account for the heat. Its size is unusual, but not impossible. We know very little of the larger bodies that enter our atmosphere. Most are destroyed before they reach the ground.”

“But this has not been destroyed.”

“Evidently not.”

He stooped and picked up a piece of clay from the bank. With his pocket knife he scraped at it and examined the crumbs.

“The fall has driven it deep,” he continued. “There is probably a considerable portion beneath the water and the soil. The shock must have been tremendous.”

I looked at the pit. The opposite bank had been torn open, and a long furrow ran down into the water. Trees near the rim had lost branches, and one young fir had been thrown flat. Yet the object itself showed no sign of having struck with violence. It seemed to have come to rest in the earth as a thing deliberately placed there.

“A meteorite does not commonly take the form of a projectile,” I said.

“Why not? The form may be accidental.”

“Nor does it commonly have so smooth a surface.”

“Heat and fusion.”

“Nor does it commonly fall after ten nights of strange activity on Mars.”

He turned upon me.

“Now you are being fanciful.”

“I am recalling facts.”

“You are connecting facts that have no necessary connection. The flashes on Mars were observed by hundreds of people. The object fell from the sky last night. That is all we know.”

“You said yourself that the old explanation of volcanic action was unsatisfactory.”

“I said that the observations were interesting. I did not say that every meteorite is a message from Mars.”

The crowd had heard enough to become interested in our dispute. Several men drew nearer. One of the boys repeated my words to another, and within a minute the phrase “from Mars” was passing through the people about us.

My wife touched my arm.

“Do not encourage them.”

Ogilvy heard her and smiled.

“Your husband has been reading too much astronomy,” he said. “We all have our little enthusiasms. Mine is to measure the stars. His is to put inhabitants upon them.”

“I have never put inhabitants anywhere,” I said.

“You have only refused to remove them.”

At that moment the crowd parted and a tall, broad-shouldered man came pushing through. He was a labourer from the farm, and I had seen him before at the station. His face was red with excitement.

“I’ll touch it,” he announced. “There’s no witchcraft in it.”

The constable seized his arm.

“Keep off, George.”

“Mr. Ogilvy says it’s only a stone.”

“I say it is too hot,” said Ogilvy. “You would do well to wait.”

But the man shook himself free and went down the muddy slope. His boots slipped twice, and a murmur of laughter rose from the bank. He regained his balance and approached the object. Steam curled about his legs. He stretched out one hand and laid his fingers upon the black surface.

For a second he stood there.

Then he screamed.

He fell backwards into the shallow water, clutching his hand to his breast. The constable and one of the labourers dragged him away. The smell of scorched cloth came up to us, sharp and horrible. The man’s fingers were blistered, and the cuff of his shirt had browned where it touched the metal.

The laughter ceased.

Ogilvy knelt beside him and examined the hand.

“There is no deep injury,” he said. “The skin is burned, but not badly. Wrap it in a wet cloth.”

The man groaned and swore.

“I told you to wait,” said Ogilvy.

“You told me it was a stone,” the man answered.

“It is a stone.”

“A stone does not bite.”

“It is hot.”

“Then why did you say it was ordinary?”

Ogilvy glanced at me. I could not tell whether he was angry with the man or with himself. The crowd had drawn farther from the water, but the incident had only increased its excitement. The boys were no longer laughing. One of them was crying quietly, though no one seemed to know why.

My wife had gone pale.

“We should leave,” she said.

“Perhaps you should.”

“I mean both of us.”

Ogilvy rose.

“Mrs. ——— is right. There is nothing more to be seen at present. The object must cool before we can examine it.”

“Can it be cooled?” I asked.

“By time, certainly.”

“And if it does not cool?”

“Then we shall wait longer.”

He spoke with the calmness of a man discussing an experiment in a laboratory, but his eyes remained fixed upon the dark cylinder. I saw that he was troubled. His instruments lay untouched in their case. He had brought a thermometer and a small hammer, yet he had not attempted to use either.

The constable made the crowd stand back from the edge. A few men objected, declaring that the land belonged to them or that they had as much right as any astronomer to look at a fallen stone. Others proposed draining the pit. Someone said that the government ought to be informed. A little man in a bowler hat insisted that the object was a German torpedo. Another declared that it was a new kind of military balloon.

We climbed to the rim. From there the object could be seen more clearly. The exposed part curved away into the water, and at its upper end the metal was faintly luminous beneath its blackened crust. Vapour rose from a narrow line along one side. I noticed that the water near it had turned grey and that dead insects floated upon the surface.

My wife stood beside me, holding her gloves in one hand.

“What do you think it is?” she asked.

“I do not know.”

“You think it came from Mars.”

“I think it may have.”

She looked towards Ogilvy.

“He does not.”

“Ogilvy believes what he can examine.”

“Then perhaps he is the wiser man.”

“Perhaps.”

The words had scarcely passed between us when there came a low, muffled sound from the pit.

It was not an explosion. It was more like the distant report of a gun heard through several closed doors. The water shuddered around the object. A ring of ripples ran outward and struck the banks. The people cried out and stumbled away from the edge.

I caught my wife by the arm.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Some settling of the earth,” Ogilvy said at once.

His voice was loud enough for the crowd to hear.

The object remained motionless. No door opened in it. No smoke issued from any place except the hot metal itself. Yet I saw that the upper end had shifted by perhaps a foot, and a fresh crack had appeared in the bank beside it.

“Come away,” I said to my wife.

This time she did not argue. We followed the path up through the firs, but the crowd’s voices went on behind us. Men shouted questions to Ogilvy. The boys scrambled down the bank again as soon as the constable turned his back. Before we had gone a hundred yards, two more parties were coming towards the pit from the direction of Chertsey.

At the road my wife stopped.

“I should like to go home.”

“I will take you.”

“You will return?”

“I must.”

She looked at me with a strange expression.

“Must you?”

“I want to know what happens.”

“That is the same thing, with you.”

We walked back slowly. The morning had brightened, and the village seemed to have awakened all at once. People stood in doorways and talked across the road. A woman waved a newspaper at us and asked whether the stone had fallen from the moon. A boy ran past carrying a bottle, announcing that the water in the pit was poison. The railway line was busy with men walking along it towards the common, and from Chertsey came the sound of carts and bicycles.

At home my wife prepared some breakfast, though neither of us ate much. The strange sound from the pit had left us both uneasy. I went into the garden several times and looked towards the firs, but from there I could see nothing except a pale vapour hanging above the trees.

By ten o’clock the road was almost impassable. A reporter from London had arrived with a camera, and two men were selling small printed notices headed “THE MARVEL OF OTTERSHAW”. Ogilvy sent word that the water was still too hot for close examination. This did nothing to diminish the crowd.

My wife came to me while I was standing at the window.

“You are going back.”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall come once more.”

“I would rather you did not.”

“You would rather I remained here alone, listening to those people outside?”

I had no answer to that. We set out together.

The crowd had increased greatly. There must have been several hundred people about the pit by then, and more were arriving every minute. The police had formed a rough line along the bank, but the line broke whenever some new rumour passed through the gathering. We heard that the object had opened, that it had begun to move, that it contained a dead man, and that the King had sent soldiers to destroy it. None of these things was true.

Ogilvy was still there. His coat was damp with mist and his face looked tired.

“You have returned,” he said.

“I could not keep away.”

“Nor could any of them,” he answered, looking at the crowd. “Curiosity is a stronger force than gravity.”

The object had sunk a little deeper into the water. Steam still rose from it, though less vigorously than before. The water around it was now dark and opaque. We could see no more detail than in the morning.

A man near the front called out that the meteorite ought to be broken up and sold in pieces. Another shouted that the heat proved it was a machine. At this, Ogilvy turned sharply.

“It is not a machine,” he said.

“What is it, then?” someone asked.

“A meteorite.”

“Have you ever seen a meteorite like it?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

Ogilvy hesitated.

“Because there is no evidence that it is anything else.”

The reply produced a mutter of dissatisfaction. I saw in his face that he understood the weakness of it, though he would not yet abandon his position.

My wife stood close beside me.

“We should go home now,” she said.

“There is no danger.”

“That is not what I asked.”

The sun had risen high, and the mist was dissolving from the hollows. The crowd pressed in upon us from every side. I saw men climbing the firs for a better view, and a woman holding a child above her shoulder. The child stared silently at the steaming object.

“You cannot see anything here,” I told my wife. “Go home, and I will follow when Ogilvy has finished.”

“When will that be?”

“I do not know.”

“That is precisely why I do not like it.”

She turned towards the path. I walked with her as far as the road. There she looked back at the crowd, at the thin white vapour rising beyond the trees, and then at me.

“Promise me you will not go near it.”

“I promise.”

“And you will come home before evening?”

“I will try.”

She knew that this was not a promise, but she nodded. Then she went away towards Ottershaw, walking quickly, her figure growing smaller among the people on the road.

I watched her until she had passed from sight. Then I turned back towards the pit.

It was near noon. The crowd had doubled since the morning, and its noise rose and fell like the noise of surf. Ogilvy was speaking to the constable near the edge of the water. The black object lay half-submerged beneath the firs, steaming quietly in the sunlight.

I went down to join them.

She leaned draggingly upon his arm as they walked.

“Robert,” she said, “you have been very kind to me this morning.”

“I have been kind to every one,” he replied, looking down at the little girl who was tugging at his hand.

“That is not true. You have been especially kind to Mrs. Pontellier.”

Robert laughed, but made no answer. The children ran before them, stopping now and then to gather shells or to call back some discovery. The nurse-maids followed with the air of persons who had been unjustly deprived of their repose.

After a little while he said:

“Mrs. Pontellier is different from other women. She is not one of those who are content to remain where they have been placed.”

“Where have they been placed?” asked Madame Ratignolle, with a smile.

“By their husbands, by their families, by themselves. It does not matter which. Mrs. Pontellier seems to have begun to wonder why.”

Adèle looked at him with a mild curiosity. His face had lost the light, careless expression which it so often wore in company.

“Perhaps she is only tired of the summer,” she said.

“Perhaps. But I think she is tired of being told what she is.”

They had reached the steps of the main house. Robert released her arm, for she no longer needed his support.

“You think a great deal of Mrs. Pontellier,” said Madame Ratignolle.

“I think of her more than I ought.”

He spoke lightly, yet the words remained between them with an importance which neither attempted to remove.

Madame Ratignolle went in to her children, and Robert disappeared among the cottages. She found Edna a little later seated beneath the awning, where the Pontellier boys were amusing themselves with a small wooden boat. Raoul had tied a length of string to the mast and was dragging the vessel through the sand, while the other boy followed with an expression of solemn authority.

Edna was watching them without appearing to see them. Her eyes rested upon the narrow path leading toward the beach.

“Robert says you have begun to wonder why you are told what you are,” said Madame Ratignolle, seating herself beside her.

Edna turned quickly.

“Did he say that?”

“He said other things too. That you are different from other women, and that you are not content to remain where you have been placed.”

A flush rose slowly in Edna’s face. She picked up a shell which had fallen near her foot and examined it with close attention.

“Robert is very foolish.”

“He is sometimes,” said Adèle. “But he was not foolish this morning.”

Edna dropped the shell. “What else did he say?”

“That he thinks of you more than he ought.”

The words gave Edna a sensation of confusion, followed by a strange pleasure which she did not try to conceal from herself. She leaned back against the post of the awning and closed her eyes. The voices of the children, the distant calling of the nurse-maids, and the faint, monotonous thunder of the sea seemed to draw away from her.

Madame Ratignolle watched her with an amused tenderness.

“You must not attach too much meaning to everything Robert says,” she remarked. “He has a way of making a jest sound like a confession.”

“Was he jesting?”

“I do not know.”

Edna opened her eyes. “Neither do I.”

The two women sat in silence. Presently a boy from the hotel came up the walk carrying a yellow envelope. He looked from one to the other.

“Mrs. Pontellier?” he asked.

Edna rose and took the telegram. Her fingers trembled a little as she tore it open.

“Business keeps me in city. Will not come out Saturday. L.”

She read it twice. Then she folded the paper and placed it in the pocket of her dress.

“Léonce will not be coming,” she said.

“I am sorry,” replied Adèle. “He must have been detained by something important.”

“Probably.”

“You had expected him?”

“I suppose I had.”

The answer seemed to surprise her. She had not known whether she expected him or not. During the week he was away she moved more freely, as if some unseen restraint had been removed; yet on Saturday, when the sound of the omnibus came up the sandy road and the cottages stirred with preparations, she had looked toward the gate more than once.

“Perhaps it is just as well,” she said.

Adèle bent over the wooden boat and set its little mast upright.

“The boys will be glad to have their father return.”

“Yes.”

Edna did not add that the boys had been glad in his absence also. She walked away toward the cottage, carrying the telegram in her pocket. There was no pain in the message. There was scarcely disappointment. Léonce was a good husband, in the general estimation, and she had never doubted that he loved her in the manner which belonged to him. But his absence left a space, and she found herself looking into it with an interest that was not altogether agreeable.

She changed her dress and sat for a while before the open window. The afternoon sun lay heavily upon the roof and the white sand. Somewhere near the house a child was crying, and a woman was calling to it in a voice softened by distance. Edna took up her sketch-book and turned the pages, pausing over the unfinished picture of Madame Ratignolle. The face was gentle and full, but it lacked the living warmth of the woman herself. Edna closed the book.

A restlessness seized her. She went down to the beach alone.

The water was calmer than it had been in the morning. It rose and fell in long, slow movements, drawing the sand backward beneath the thin wash of foam. Farther out, the surface shone like polished metal beneath the declining sun.

The lady in black was sitting on the porch of her bath-house with her beads in her lap. She had laid aside her prayer-book and appeared to be watching the water. As Edna passed, the lady lifted her eyes.

“You are going in?” she asked.

Edna stopped.

“I think so.”

“It is deeper than it looks.”

The lady glanced at the sea, then down at the beads between her fingers.

“Every year I say I shall learn,” said Edna.

“And have you not learned?”

“To stay on the shore.”

The lady in black gave a small, grave smile.

“That is a useful lesson.”

It was the first time she had ever spoken to Edna. Her voice was low and without expression, as if it had been worn smooth by the repetition of many prayers.

Edna entered the bath-house and removed her dress. She came out presently in her bathing costume, carrying no towel and wearing no cap. The lady in black moved aside to let her pass.

Edna walked down to the edge of the water. The first touch of it chilled her feet. She drew back, then advanced again. A wave broke against her ankles and slid away, leaving them trembling.

She looked behind her. The lady in black had returned to her beads. No one else was near.

Edna went farther. The water reached her knees, then her waist. She stood still, feeling the pull of it about her body. It seemed to take hold of her with hands that were not rough, but persistent. She had an impulse to turn and retreat. Instead she faced outward.

The sea stretched before her without boundary or shelter. She felt a little fear, and with it a sudden impatience toward the fear.

She bent her knees and lowered herself. For an instant the water covered her shoulders. Her feet lost their hold upon the sand. She flung out her arms, not with the blind terror of a child, but with a deliberate effort to keep herself above the moving depth.

One stroke carried her forward. Then another. Her mouth opened, and she drew in a breath that tasted of salt. She went down to the shoulders and rose again, beating the water with her arms. The motion was awkward and uncertain, but it bore her a little distance from the shore.

She stopped, frightened by her own success.

The sea lifted her and let her fall. She could hear the small, hard sound of her breathing. Then she struck out again, twice, perhaps three times. The shore seemed nearer than before. She turned and waded back, her feet finding the sand with a sudden firmness.

She stood there wet and shaking, her hair clinging to her head. A laugh escaped her, low and breathless. She looked toward the bath-house.

The lady in black was still counting her beads.

Edna dressed without haste. She took pains to dry her hair with a rough towel, though the wind soon loosened it again. No one questioned her as she returned to the cottages. Robert was playing cards with some of the children beneath the awning. He looked up when she passed, but she did not tell him what had happened.

At supper she spoke little. Madame Ratignolle was occupied with the children, and the other guests were discussing the weather and the chance of a storm during the night. Edna listened, smiling now and then when she was addressed. Her body retained the memory of the sea. Every movement seemed to repeat those first uncertain strokes.

When darkness came, the boys were put to bed. They slept heavily, one with his arm thrown across his face, the other curled close to the wall. Edna stood beside them for a time, watching their breathing. She felt toward them a tenderness that was sudden and almost painful, but it did not hold her long. She left the door partly open and went out upon the gallery.

The house was quiet. From the main building came a murmur of voices and an occasional burst of laughter. The sea spoke in the darkness, now near and now remote. A lamp burned in the cottage window behind her, casting a pale square upon the floorboards.

She sat alone, her hands resting loosely in her lap.

Robert’s remark, as Adèle had repeated it, returned to her with every slow movement of the tide. He thought of her more than he ought. She was different from other women. She was not content to remain where she had been placed.

The words stirred her, though she could not have said whether they pleased or troubled her. She looked out into the darkness, where the water and the sky had become one, and listened until the sound of the sea seemed to come from within herself.

Mary slept until the train stopped at a small, lonely station. The stopping woke her with a jerk, and she opened her eyes to find the gray rain still beating against the window. For a moment she did not remember where she was. Then she saw Mrs. Medlock’s black bonnet opposite her and remembered everything.

“We’re here,” said Mrs. Medlock.

Mary sat up and looked out. There was only a little station with a short platform, a lamp shining through the rain, and a porter in a coat that looked as if it had been wet for years. Beyond the station stretched darkness.

A tall gentleman was standing near the carriage door. He wore a long traveling coat and held his hat in his hand. His face was thin and dark and looked as if it had been made stern by sorrow. He had a crooked back, though he did not lean upon a stick, and he stood very still while the rain fell on his shoulders.

Mrs. Medlock stepped down.

“Mr. Craven,” she said.

The gentleman turned toward the carriage. His eyes rested on Mary for a moment. She thought they looked almost as if he had forgotten what he was looking at.

“This is the child?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Medlock. “Miss Mary Lennox.”

He nodded once.

“Take her to the Manor,” he said. “See that she has what she needs.”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked at Mary again, but said nothing to her. Then he moved away down the platform. A closed carriage was waiting beyond the station gates, and he entered it without turning his head. In another moment it had driven away into the darkness.

Mary remained standing on the carriage step.

“Is that my uncle?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Medlock.

“He did not speak to me.”

“He had other things to think about.”

Mary looked after the disappearing carriage. She did not know whether she was offended or relieved. Mr. Archibald Craven had not looked at her as if he wanted to kiss her, and she was glad of that. She did not like being kissed. But it was strange that he should have come all the way to the station and then scarcely notice that she was there.

“Come along,” said Mrs. Medlock sharply. “We must get into our own carriage.”

The carriage was large and dark inside. Its windows were curtained, and the leather seats smelled of damp and horses. Mary sat in one corner and watched the station lamp grow smaller as they drove away. Mrs. Medlock sat opposite her, wrapped in her black mantle, and for some time neither of them spoke.

The road soon left the village and ran between hedges. After a while the hedges disappeared, and the carriage began to move over a wide black stretch of country. The rain had stopped, but the sky was covered with thick clouds and there was no moon. Now and then Mary saw a pale stone or a tuft of grass close to the road, but beyond that there was nothing to see.

“This is the moor?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Medlock.

“What is it like in the daytime?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

Mary pressed her face against the cold window. The darkness seemed to have no end. The wind moved over the open land with a low, rushing sound. It was not like the warm winds of India. It seemed to come from far away and to have no trees or houses to stop it.

Suddenly the carriage stopped.

The horses tossed their heads and stamped. The coachman called to them, and there was a sound of something striking against the road.

“What is it?” asked Mary.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Medlock. “Stay where you are.”

But Mary was tired of sitting in the dark and was curious to know what had stopped them. She opened the carriage door and climbed down before Mrs. Medlock could prevent her.

“Come back this instant!” cried Mrs. Medlock. “You’ll get yourself lost.”

Mary stood beside the carriage. The moor was all around her, dark and empty. The air touched her face with a cold, wet hand. She could not see the road except where the carriage lamps made two yellow pools upon it.

Something lay across the way. It was a broken branch, large enough to stop the carriage, and the coachman had gone forward to drag it aside. The horses snorted and pulled against their harness.

Mary took two or three steps away from the carriage. Under her feet the ground was soft and springy. It smelled of wet earth and grass. There was no house, no lamp, and no person in sight except the coachman’s moving figure.

For that one minute she felt very small.

She had never been alone in a place so wide. In India there had always been walls, servants, trees, and voices. Even when she had hidden herself, people had been near. Here the wind seemed to know that there was a little girl standing on the moor and to be whispering about her.

“Miss Mary!” called Mrs. Medlock. “Get back into the carriage!”

Mary turned at once. She did not want Mrs. Medlock to know that she had felt frightened. She climbed in and shut the door.

“You are a headstrong child,” Mrs. Medlock said. “If you go wandering about like that at Misselthwaite, you’ll have more trouble than you can imagine.”

“I only wanted to see what had stopped us.”

“You saw it. Now sit quiet.”

Mary did not answer. She watched the coachman return, and in a few minutes the carriage began to move again.

The moor seemed darker after she had stood upon it. She sat close to the window but could see nothing now except the reflection of her own pale face. She looked small and yellow and cross, and her eyes looked black in the carriage light. She thought of the wide empty land outside and of the house which had a hundred rooms and nearly all of them locked.

“How far is it to the Manor?” she asked.

“About six miles.”

Mary said nothing more. The wind pressed against the carriage and made the windows tremble. Once she thought she heard a distant cry, but it was only the sound of the wheels sinking into the soft road, and when she listened again she heard nothing.

After a long time, two lights appeared far ahead. They were fixed high in the darkness and seemed to belong to no house. Then other lights showed themselves, one after another, and a great mass of black stone rose against the sky.

“That is Misselthwaite Manor,” said Mrs. Medlock.

Mary leaned forward.

The house grew larger as they approached. It had towers and turrets and many windows, but most of them were dark. The stone walls looked almost black in the night, and ivy climbed over them in thick, tangled patches. There were no cheerful lights to make the place seem welcoming. The few windows which shone were narrow and yellow.

The carriage crossed a bridge and passed through great gates. Mary heard the iron bars groan as they swung behind her. The drive ran between trees whose branches met overhead. Their leaves made a deep rustling sound, and the darkness under them was so thick that the carriage lamps seemed to push against it without breaking through.

At last the carriage stopped before a wide stone entrance.

A man opened the door. He was old and thin, and his hair was white. He wore a long coat and had a serious, watchful face.

“Is that the lass?” he asked.

“Yes, Pitcher,” said Mrs. Medlock. “Help me with her things.”

Mary got down and looked up at the house. It seemed to have too many windows and too few lights. She could not imagine anyone being happy in such a place.

“This is Pitcher,” said Mrs. Medlock. “He is Mr. Craven’s own servant. You are to speak civilly to him.”

Pitcher bowed.

“Good evenin’, miss,” he said. “Ye’ll be fair done wi’ t’ journey, I reckon.”

Mary stared at him.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“Good evening, miss. He thinks you must be tired.”

“I understood ‘good evening,’” said Mary, “but I did not understand the rest.”

Pitcher looked at her with mild surprise.

“She’ll get used to t’ Yorkshire,” he said.

“What did he say now?” Mary demanded.

Mrs. Medlock gave an impatient little sigh.

“He said you would get used to the Yorkshire speech.”

“I shall not,” said Mary.

“Ye will,” answered Pitcher. “They allus do.”

Mary looked from him to Mrs. Medlock.

“What did he say?”

“He says you will.”

“He does not speak properly,” said Mary.

“That is how people speak here,” said Mrs. Medlock. “You must not be rude.”

“I am not rude,” said Mary. “I only cannot understand him.”

Pitcher lifted one of the trunks and carried it inside. Mary followed Mrs. Medlock through the entrance hall.

It was a vast place. The floor was made of dark stone, and there were high walls covered with old pictures. A fire burned in a grate at one end, but it gave little warmth to the great room. The lamps were not bright, and there were deep shadows beneath the stairway and in the corners.

“This is the hall,” said Mrs. Medlock. “You must remember what I told you in the train. You are to keep to the rooms I show you. You are not to wander. Mr. Craven does not like it.”

“Does he live here now?”

“No. He has gone away.”

“He was at the station.”

“He had business near there. He came to see that I had brought you safely.”

“Where has he gone?”

“I don’t know, and it is not your affair.”

Mary thought that she would like to know, but she did not ask again. She was taken up a broad staircase and along a passage. The house was so still that her own footsteps sounded like somebody following her.

Mrs. Medlock opened a door and showed her a bedroom.

It was a large room with a high bed, a heavy curtain, and a fire burning behind a brass screen. There was a wardrobe as tall as a wall and a dressing table with a mirror in a carved frame. Mary saw herself in it and decided that the room made her look even plainer than usual.

“You will sleep here,” said Mrs. Medlock. “Your things will be unpacked in the morning. You can wash your face and hands.”

“I am not dirty.”

“I did not say you were. Supper will be brought up to you.”

“By whom?”

“By a manservant.”

“Why not a maid?”

“There are plenty of menservants in the house.”

“I do not like menservants.”

“You will have to get along with them.”

Mrs. Medlock went out and shut the door. Mary heard the key turn in the lock, and her face became more sullen.

“I am not a prisoner,” she said aloud.

No one answered.

She washed her hands and face because she was hungry and wanted her supper. In a little while there was a knock, and a man came in carrying a tray. He was young, broad in the shoulders, and red about the ears. He placed the tray upon a table and stood looking at her.

“Tha’ll find a bit o’ supper there,” he said. “An’ if tha wants aught, tha mun ring.”

Mary frowned.

“What did you say?”

The man looked embarrassed.

“I said tha’ll find thy supper there.”

“I do not understand you,” said Mary. “You speak very strangely.”

He looked toward the door as if he wished Mrs. Medlock were there.

“It’s plain enough,” he answered. “There’s bread an’ meat an’ milk. Eat while it’s warm.”

“What did you say?”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Ye’ve got bread, meat, an’ milk. Eat it.”

Mary sat down at the table.

“You should speak so that people can understand you.”

“Aye,” he said. “I’ll try.”

“What is your name?”

“John.”

“Are you Mr. Craven’s servant?”

“I am.”

“Is Mr. Craven a very bad-tempered man?”

John opened his mouth and then shut it again.

“I’ve nowt to say about master.”

“What does ‘nowt’ mean?”

“Nothin’.”

“I thought so,” said Mary. “You say ‘nowt’ instead of ‘nothing.’”

“Aye.”

“You say ‘tha’ instead of ‘you.’”

“Aye.”

“And you say ‘mun’ instead of ‘must.’”

“Aye.”

Mary looked at him steadily.

“You should learn to talk properly.”

John’s red ears grew redder.

“Maybe I should,” he said. “But I’ve talked this way all my life.”

Mary began to eat. The bread was good, and the meat was tender. There was warm milk in a silver cup, and she drank it slowly.

“Do you live here?” she asked.

“Aye.”

“Have you always lived here?”

“Most o’ my life.”

“Do you know all the rooms?”

John stared at her.

“Nay. Nobody does.”

“Are some of them locked?”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

“Master’s orders.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

John’s face changed. He looked toward the dark passage outside.

“Nay,” he said, but he did not say it firmly.

Mary noticed this.

“Mrs. Medlock says nobody is allowed to wander about.”

“Tha’d best mind Mrs. Medlock.”

“I do not always mind people.”

“Then tha’ll learn.”

Mary did not like that answer.

“Go away,” she said.

John picked up the empty milk jug.

“Good night, miss.”

“What did you say?”

“Good night.”

“I heard that.”

He went out and shut the door. Mary listened until his steps had died away.

The room seemed larger after he had gone. The fire made a faint snapping sound, and the wind pressed softly at the windows. Mary ate the last piece of bread and then sat staring at the flames.

She was not used to being in a room where no one came when she called. In India, if she spoke sharply, somebody appeared. At the clergyman’s house, the children were always running in and out. Even on the railway journey Mrs. Medlock had been there, talking in her hard voice.

Here the house seemed to have shut itself around her.

Mrs. Medlock came back to take away the tray and helped her put on her nightdress. She did not speak much. When Mary asked if the white-haired man was really called Pitcher, she said yes. When Mary asked whether Mr. Craven would return in the morning, she answered that she had no idea.

“Get into bed,” she said. “You have had a long journey.”

Mary climbed between the cold sheets.

“Will you sleep in the room next to mine?”

“No. My room is farther down the passage.”

“Then how shall I call you?”

“You must not call me unless you need something.”

“What if I do need something?”

“Ring the bell.”

Mary looked at the bell-pull beside the bed.

“Will somebody come?”

“Of course somebody will come.”

“Who?”

“Whoever hears it.”

Mrs. Medlock turned down the lamp. The room became dim, and her purple flowers cast a queer shadow upon the wall.

“Good night,” she said.

Mary watched her go. The door shut, and once more the key turned in the lock.

For several minutes Mary lay still. She could hear the wind moving round the house. Sometimes it gave a low moan in the chimney, and sometimes it struck the windows with a sudden rush. She thought of the moor and the black trees along the drive. She thought of Mr. Craven standing alone at the station and looking at her as if he had forgotten her before he had even seen her.

Then, from somewhere deep in the house, there came a strange sound.

It was not the wind in the chimney. It rose and fell in a long, uneven way, and then stopped suddenly. Mary sat up in bed.

A moment later it came again. It sounded like something moving far away, behind closed doors. There was a faint knocking, then a dragging noise, and afterward a low, troubled sigh.

Mary slipped out of bed and went to the door. She put her ear against it.

The sound had stopped.

She opened the door a little. The passage was dark, and no light showed beneath any of the other doors. She listened until her neck began to ache.

“What are you doing?” cried Mrs. Medlock’s voice.

Mary turned. Mrs. Medlock was coming toward her with a candle.

“What was that sound?” Mary asked.

“What sound?”

“The sound in the house. It came twice.”

Mrs. Medlock’s face had changed. Her sharp eyes were fixed on Mary.

“You heard nothing.”

“I did hear something.”

“It was the wind.”

“It was not the wind.”

“Children always think strange things are happening in old houses. Get back into bed.”

“What was it?”

“I told you. It was the wind.”

Mrs. Medlock took Mary by the shoulder and led her inside. She was not gentle, but she was not as rough as usual either.

“There is nothing here to disturb you,” she said. “You have been traveling and your head is full of foolishness. You will sleep soundly if you stop listening.”

“I shall listen if I want to.”

“Then you will hear the wind.”

Mrs. Medlock put the candle down, turned the key, and went away again.

Mary climbed back into bed, but she did not lie down. She sat with her knees drawn up and listened to the darkness.

After a little while the sound came once more.

It was low and far off, but it was not the wind. Mary’s thin hands closed tightly upon the blanket. She stared into the darkness with her sour little face.

“Mrs. Medlock says it is the wind,” she whispered. “But it is not.”

And because no one would tell her the truth, Mary decided that she would find out for herself what the sound was.

Lady Russell was the first to undertake the office, and, having been invited to Kellynch Hall on the following morning, arrived with a mind prepared to be useful, and a countenance expressive of the importance of the occasion.

Mr Shepherd was already there. He had brought papers, memorandums, and a small account-book, all of which he placed before Sir Walter with an air of respectful firmness; while Lady Russell, who knew that argument would be more effectual than figures with the head of the family, took her seat near the window, and waited for the proper moment of interference.

Sir Walter looked from one to the other.

“You have both come to speak to me on business,” he said. “I am sorry that either of you should have been put to the trouble. My affairs are not so desperate as you have allowed yourselves to suppose.”

“No one, Sir Walter,” replied Mr Shepherd, “has supposed them desperate. But they are embarrassed; and though embarrassment may be borne for a time by a person of your consequence, it cannot be continued without inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience!” repeated Sir Walter. “I should be sorry to live where such a word could be applicable to me.”

Mr Shepherd bowed. He had known Sir Walter Elliot too long to expect that any expression should be received in its plain meaning.

“I have taken the liberty,” he continued, “of drawing up a few particulars, by which a very considerable reduction might be made without any sacrifice of what is properly called the dignity of the family. If you would be so good as to look at this paper, you will see the several articles marked.”

Sir Walter did not look at it.

“The several articles marked!” he exclaimed. “I cannot imagine what articles they can be. Surely, Mr Shepherd, you do not mean to advise me to curtail the establishments of Kellynch Hall?”

“Only in some small degree. The number of horses might be reduced by two; the housekeeper’s department might be placed under stricter regulation; a few inferior servants might be dismissed; the expense of the London house might be lessened by giving up the upper rooms during the winter; and, if I may venture to say so, the annual entertainment of the neighbourhood might be discontinued for a season.”

“Discontinued!” cried Elizabeth, who had been looking over Mr Shepherd’s shoulder. “The Kellynch Assembly! You surely do not mean the Kellynch Assembly?”

“I only mean, Miss Elliot, that it is an expense which might be spared.”

“It is the one expense which could not be spared,” said Sir Walter. “What would the county think of me? What would the neighbouring families say? We should be known at once to be in reduced circumstances.”

“You are known already to be in circumstances which require reduction,” observed Lady Russell, with her usual calmness.

Sir Walter turned to her with an expression of offended surprise.

“Lady Russell, I am astonished to hear you talk so. You, who were so intimately connected with my dear wife, and who must remember how every thing was conducted in her time, cannot wish me to become an object of pity.”

“My dear Sir Walter, I wish you to avoid becoming an object of contempt.”

“Contempt! I trust that my name is not yet so degraded.”

“No name is degraded by economy,” said Lady Russell. “A man may live within his income without losing the respect of his neighbours. But debts, when they are known, are less easily concealed than a smaller household or fewer dinners.”

Sir Walter rose and walked to the fire, though there was scarcely any fire in the grate.

“Lady Russell, I must beg you to recollect that a person of my rank cannot be governed by the same rules as an ordinary man. I have obligations to society. I have a station to support. My house must be kept up, my table supplied, my servants properly maintained, and my appearance preserved. If I were to begin dismissing people and refusing invitations, I should be doing more injury to my family than any amount of expense can occasion.”

“Then,” said Lady Russell, “you must lessen the expense in some other way.”

“I have no wish to lessen it in any way.”

Mr Shepherd sighed. He had been prepared for resistance, but not for a resistance so complete.

“There is one expedient,” he said, “which would leave the establishment at Kellynch untouched, and yet afford considerable relief.”

Sir Walter fixed his eyes upon him.

“I hope you will not propose a sale.”

“No, sir. A sale is impossible, and would be highly improper. I mean only that some of the land might be let on long leases, where the circumstances should make it advisable.”

“Let!” cried Sir Walter. “The land of Kellynch let to strangers?”

“Only certain portions, sir. The farms might be placed in better hands, and the rents improved.”

“The farms are already in the hands of respectable tenants.”

Mr Shepherd paused, but the word had been spoken and was not yet the word he feared.

“There might also be advantages in letting the house itself, if a suitable family could be found. A residence of such beauty and consequence would command a considerable rent, and your own removal for a time might enable you to repair the estate without farther encumbrance.”

Sir Walter’s face became crimson.

“Mr Shepherd, I will not permit that word to be spoken again in my presence.”

“What word, sir?”

“You know very well. The word you have just used.”

“I beg your pardon, Sir Walter, but I am not aware that I have used any expression which—”

“Tenant,” said Sir Walter, with a solemnity which made the syllables seem almost indecent. “I forbid the word. It is never to be spoken in this house again.”

Mr Shepherd bowed, and Lady Russell looked down at her hands.

Sir Walter resumed his seat.

“Kellynch Hall,” he continued, “has been in the possession of my family for more than a century and a half. It is not a house to be placed at the disposal of every person who may choose to inquire whether the carpets are in good order. I should never recover from the degradation. Nor can I understand how you, Mr Shepherd, who have always professed such proper respect for family distinction, could suggest it.”

“I suggested it only as a means of preserving the family distinction from more serious injury.”

“There can be no serious injury while I remain master of Kellynch.”

Elizabeth, who had remained silent since the mention of the assembly, now looked up with a composed smile.

“Papa, surely Mr Shepherd must see that such a plan could never be borne. We might as well give up the Baronetage itself as admit that Kellynch Hall was to be occupied by any person unconnected with us.”

Mr Shepherd placed his hands upon his knees.

“I withdraw the suggestion entirely. It shall never be repeated.”

“You will oblige me by doing so,” said Sir Walter. “And I must also beg that Lady Russell will not lend her countenance to it. My residence cannot be questioned.”

“No one wishes to question your residence,” replied Lady Russell. “But if every other proposal is rejected, we shall have done nothing.”

“Something may be done without offending me.”

“What, then, would you recommend?” asked Lady Russell.

Sir Walter considered.

“I recommend that we should wait. The present difficulties may pass away. The value of money may alter. Some unexpected advantage may arise. A family of my consequence cannot be expected to submit to sudden and humiliating changes because an agent has placed a few figures before us.”

“The figures are not mine,” said Mr Shepherd. “They are taken from your own accounts.”

“I do not dispute the accounts. I dispute the conclusions.”

“And what conclusion does your own mind draw, sir?” asked Lady Russell.

Sir Walter looked at her with displeasure.

“My mind concludes that no retrenchment is necessary which affects my comfort, my appearance, or my consequence.”

There was a silence. Mr Shepherd closed his account-book. Lady Russell glanced towards Anne, who had entered the room some minutes before, and who had been sitting unnoticed near a table with a piece of needlework in her hand.

Anne had listened without intending to speak. She knew that her father’s pride would not be persuaded by the steady pressure of figures, nor by any representation of what his creditors might suffer. She had seen, however, the look which passed between Lady Russell and Mr Shepherd, and she understood that, unless some new idea were offered, the whole consultation would end as so many former consultations had ended.

“May I say something?” she asked.

Sir Walter turned towards her.

“My dear Anne, you have been silent so long that I had forgotten you were present.”

“I am sorry for that, papa. I did not wish to interrupt.”

“You cannot suppose that you have any knowledge of these matters.”

“No,” said Anne, “but I may have an opinion.”

Elizabeth gave a slight movement of impatience. It was so unusual for Anne to offer an opinion in company, and especially on a subject in which her father’s feelings were concerned, that the attempt seemed to her both unnecessary and ill-timed.

Anne continued, speaking with more firmness than usual.

“If the expenses cannot be reduced in one part, they must be reduced in another. I do not think that it is enough to dismiss two horses, or to give fewer dinners, while all the other habits remain the same. Every expense of the household should be examined. The number of servants should be made proportionate to the real work of the house. No furniture should be bought, no alterations made, no entertainments given, and no journey undertaken merely because they have been customary. The London house should be closed, and the family should remain here until the debts are paid. The table should be reduced, the bills settled before new ones are incurred, and the annual allowance for each person fixed so that no one may spend beyond it.”

Mr Shepherd looked at her with satisfaction. Lady Russell’s face expressed encouragement. Sir Walter stared as if she had proposed the demolition of the Hall.

Elizabeth was the most astonished of all. She had expected Anne to say something mild, indirect, and easily answered. Instead, she had named the very expenses which Elizabeth had been unwilling to consider, and with an authority that appeared almost to belong to the mistress of the house.

“Anne!” she exclaimed.

“I know it sounds severe,” said Anne. “But if the debts are to be paid, something severe must be done.”

“Something severe!” cried Sir Walter. “You would reduce us to the condition of people who have no rank.”

“No, papa. I would reduce us to the condition of people who know what they can afford.”

Mr Shepherd could not help saying, “Miss Anne is perfectly right.”

Sir Walter turned upon him.

“You encourage this extraordinary language?”

“I cannot deny that it is sound.”

Lady Russell added, “And it is the first plan which has been proposed this morning that meets the whole difficulty.”

Elizabeth had been looking at Anne with an expression of offended dignity; but now she appeared to reconsider the subject. Her eyes moved towards the window, beyond which lay the long avenue and the distant road.

“If the family remained at Kellynch,” she said slowly, “there would be no necessity for the usual winter journey to London.”

“No,” said Anne.

“And the expenses of the house might be made less without any one beyond the family knowing exactly how much less.”

“That is not my principal object,” said Anne.

“But it would be the effect,” replied Elizabeth. “And I must say, Anne, that I think there is some justice in what you propose. Papa’s health does not require London. The house here is large enough for every comfort. We have no obligation to keep up a greater style than our circumstances allow.”

Sir Walter looked at her in astonishment.

“Elizabeth, I do not understand you.”

“You need not understand me as agreeing to every particular,” she said, recovering herself. “But I agree that certain things may be omitted. There has been too much talk of expense lately, and it is disagreeable. If less were spent, there would be less to talk of.”

Lady Russell’s countenance brightened, though she well knew that Elizabeth’s support proceeded less from a desire to pay debts than from a wish to preserve appearances.

Anne was touched by it nevertheless. To hear Elizabeth support any plan of economy was so unexpected, that she could not refuse it the merit of sincerity.

Sir Walter, however, remained unmoved.

“I have listened,” he said, “to an attack upon every comfort which my rank and fortune entitle me to enjoy. I reject it entirely. I will not have my servants dismissed, my table disgraced, my journeys abandoned, or my family confined to Kellynch as if we were unable to appear in the world.”

“But, papa,” said Elizabeth, “if we are unable to pay for appearing in the world—”

“We are not unable.”

“The debts say otherwise,” observed Mr Shepherd.

Sir Walter rose again.

“I will hear no more. I have been exposed to a degree of presumption which I could never have expected from my own family. Lady Russell, I am obliged to you for your friendship, but I cannot receive advice which tends to lessen me in my own eyes. Mr Shepherd, you will continue to manage the estate as before, and you will not bring me another account of this nature without first considering whether it contains any information which I can use.”

Mr Shepherd gathered his papers.

“I am afraid, Sir Walter, that information is sometimes useful precisely because it is unwelcome.”

“Then I must remain uninformed.”

The conference was at an end. Lady Russell rose, and Anne followed her from the room. Elizabeth remained behind with her father, who immediately began to explain that Anne’s proposal had been encouraged by an unfortunate softness of disposition, and that Elizabeth’s momentary agreement had been the consequence of surprise rather than conviction.

Before Lady Russell could reach her carriage, a servant brought in a letter which had just arrived by the post.

“It is from Mary,” said Anne, recognizing the hand.

She opened it with some alarm. Mary seldom wrote without making her own complaints the chief subject of her correspondence, but the sight of the thick folded paper, and the hurried irregularity of the writing, suggested more than ordinary distress.

“My dear Anne,

“I am very sorry to trouble you, but I have been so unwell all the morning that I hardly know what to do with myself. I had a miserable night, and am now suffering from such a headache and weakness that I have been obliged to remain upon the sofa. Charles says it is only my nerves, but he is not a judge of these things, and I am sure that if he felt as I do, he would not speak so lightly.

“I wish you would come to me directly. I cannot bear the thought of another evening without you, and there is no one here who understands my complaints. You know how much better I am when you are with me. Pray do not let papa or Elizabeth prevent you, for I am certain that I shall be worse if I am obliged to wait.

“Your affectionate sister,

“Mary Musgrove.”

Anne read the letter twice. Lady Russell, who had been waiting beside the carriage, observed her face.

“Is Mary seriously ill?”

“I do not know. She says that she is very unwell, and asks me to go to her.”

“Then you must go. I shall speak to your father.”

“He will not wish me to leave.”

“He cannot object to your attending your sister.”

“He may object to the inconvenience.”

Lady Russell looked towards the Hall.

“Your father objects to whatever is inconvenient to himself. That is not a reason for you to neglect Mary.”

Anne folded the letter.

“I will go tomorrow morning.”

“Tonight, if it were possible.”

“There is no carriage ready, and the distance is not so great that I need make a difficulty of it. I shall speak to papa after dinner.”

Lady Russell pressed her hand.

“Do not let your own kindness be used against you. Mary may be unreasonable, but she is your sister.”

“I know it.”

“And you will find Uppercross a relief after this morning.”

Anne smiled faintly.

“I am not sure that any place can be a relief while the debts remain as they are.”

Lady Russell had no answer to that. She took her leave, and Anne returned to the house.

The remainder of the day passed with little outward alteration. Sir Walter ordered his carriage to be made ready for the next week, as if the question had never been discussed. Elizabeth wrote to London for some articles which she had declared, an hour before, that she could easily do without. Mr Shepherd departed with his account-book, and with a face which told Lady Russell, when she called again, that he considered the prospects of the estate no better than in the morning.

Anne saw her father only at dinner. He spoke of the weather, of the condition of the avenue, and of the fading of a portrait in the west room. He said nothing of the debts, the plan of economy, or the letter from Mary. Elizabeth mentioned that Anne intended to go to Uppercross, and Sir Walter replied that he could not imagine why Mary should be so selfish as to require her sister’s attendance when there were servants enough in every respectable household.

Anne made no answer. She had learned that her father’s displeasure was often best met by silence, and that an explanation only supplied him with another point upon which to exercise it.

When the evening was advanced, she went to her own room and stood for some time by the window. The grounds were dark, and the trees were scarcely distinguishable from the sky. Within the house, the accustomed sounds continued, doors opening and shutting, footsteps crossing the passage, Elizabeth’s voice speaking to a servant with the authority of one who had never doubted her right to be obeyed.

Nothing had been settled. The debts were still unpaid; the proposed economies had been rejected; the house remained burdened with every expense which had brought them to their present embarrassment; and the forbidden word, though Mr Shepherd had withdrawn it, had only made the danger more visible.

Anne could not alter any of this. But she could go to Mary.

She resolved to leave for Uppercross in the morning, and, having made that resolution, felt at least that one duty lay plainly before her. The rest must wait. The family’s debts were still entirely unsettled, and Kellynch Hall remained, for the present, as proud and as encumbered as ever.

Eve Halliday did not get far before the umbrella began to trouble her conscience.

There was nothing morally wrong in accepting the loan of an umbrella from a perfect stranger during a shower of rain. On the contrary, it seemed to Eve that Providence had behaved with unusual efficiency. But the umbrella itself was too good. It had a silver handle, a silk tassel, and the general air of belonging to somebody who would object to losing it.

She stopped outside a confectioner’s and looked back towards the club.

“Really, I can’t keep it,” she said.

A small boy passing with a hoop stared at her. Eve, who had no desire to enter into a discussion of umbrellas with the youth of London, turned and walked back.

The rain had ceased. A pale patch of sunlight had appeared above the chimneys, and the West End was beginning to steam gently. Eve crossed the road and went into the club.

The hall porter looked at her with the grave attention of a man who has spent twenty years observing important people and is not easily deceived by a large hat.

“I wish to return this umbrella to the gentleman who lent it to me,” said Eve.

“Yes, miss.”

“He is tall.”

“Yes, miss.”

“Very thin.”

“Yes, miss.”

“He wears a monocle.”

“Yes, miss.”

The porter considered.

“That would be a good many of them, miss.”

Eve laughed.

“I don’t know his name.”

“No, miss.”

“And I don’t know which room he went into.”

“The smoking-room, perhaps, miss.”

“Perhaps. I’ll leave it with you. Would you give him this?”

She took a card from her bag and wrote:

Dear Sir,

Thank you very much for the umbrella. It kept my hat perfectly dry. I return it with gratitude.

Eve Halliday.

She folded the card and handed it to him.

“He’ll get it?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, miss.”

The porter watched her go. Then he looked at the umbrella. It was one of the better umbrellas in the cloak-room, and it had been there long enough for him to have formed an attachment to it. He placed it behind the desk, where it could not be confused with the commoner articles, and returned to his newspaper.

Five minutes later Psmith came down from the smoking-room.

He had spent the interval in the company of an elderly gentleman who had bored him with the story of a motor-car which would not start. Psmith had listened with the patient melancholy of a man chained to a galley-oar, and was now making for the street when the porter stopped him.

“Miss Halliday left this for you, sir.”

Psmith accepted the card and read it.

“Ah,” he said. “She has returned the umbrella.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very thoughtful of her.”

“Yes, sir.”

Psmith glanced at the umbrella.

“You have no objection to my taking it upstairs?”

“No, sir.”

“Splendid.”

He tucked the umbrella beneath his arm and turned towards the staircase.

At that moment an indignant voice sounded from the entrance.

“Where’s my umbrella?”

The Hon. Mr. Walderwick came in, looking damp and annoyed. He was a small young man with a pink face and a manner which suggested that he had been protesting against things from an early age.

The porter pointed at Psmith.

“Mr. Walderwick, sir, I think this is it.”

Walderwick stared.

“Why, yes. I say, you’ve got my umbrella.”

“Have I?” said Psmith.

“It’s got my initials on the handle.”

Psmith examined the silver handle.

“W. G. W.,” he said. “Very curious. I had not noticed the resemblance.”

“You must have taken it out of the cloak-room.”

“I did.”

“Well, then, you took mine.”

Psmith looked at him with mild interest.

“Did I?”

“Of course you did.”

“Then the matter is capable of a simple adjustment.”

“Quite,” said Walderwick. “Give it back.”

Psmith did not give it back. He stood holding it thoughtfully.

“Would you be willing to sell it?”

Walderwick blinked.

“Sell it?”

“Yes. I have formed a considerable admiration for the article.”

“It’s an umbrella.”

“I had observed that.”

“You can buy one at any shop for ten shillings.”

“Can I?”

“Of course you can.”

“Then you will have no difficulty in replacing this one.”

Walderwick looked from Psmith to the umbrella and back again.

“I don’t want to replace it. I want that one.”

“Then we have reached the interesting stage of the negotiations. What price would you put upon it?”

“I wouldn’t sell it.”

“Everybody has his price.”

“Not for an umbrella.”

“Perhaps you have never been offered the correct price.”

Walderwick began to suspect that he was being made a fool of. The suspicion was painful, because it was usually he who made fools of other people.

“How much are you offering?”

Psmith considered.

“Twenty-five pounds.”

The porter lowered his newspaper.

Walderwick stared at him.

“Twenty-five pounds?”

“Twenty-five pounds.”

“For an umbrella?”

“For this umbrella.”

Walderwick’s face brightened. He saw that the world had not entirely lost its reason.

“Cash?”

“Cheque.”

“All right.”

He produced a pocket-book and took out a receipt. Psmith supplied the cheque with the calmness of a man paying for a cab. Walderwick read the amount, compared it with the name on the cheque, and signed.

“There you are,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Psmith handed him the cheque.

Walderwick tucked it away with a satisfied movement.

“I say, you wouldn’t like to buy my walking-stick?”

“Is it an exceptional walking-stick?”

“No. It’s a perfectly ordinary walking-stick.”

“Then I fear not.”

“You might give me five pounds for it.”

“I am attempting to discourage extravagance.”

Walderwick went out, carrying his walking-stick and looking much as if he wished he had brought two.

The porter gazed after him.

“Will the cheque be all right, sir?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Twenty-five pounds is a lot for an umbrella.”

“I agree with you.”

“Why did you give it?”

“Because the owner was a man of principle. He refused to sell it until I had made the offer sufficiently absurd.”

The porter looked at the umbrella.

“Was it worth that, sir?”

“That is a question which has agitated philosophers for centuries.”

Psmith went upstairs, and the porter returned to his newspaper.

By one o’clock the rain had vanished altogether. The pavements shone, the buses rolled through the streets with renewed confidence, and the sun was making an effort to justify the reputation of the English summer.

Psmith lunched at the club. He had no great appetite, but he ate enough to prevent the waiters from thinking that something was wrong with him. After lunch he sat in the smoking-room and watched the traffic through the window.

It was at half-past two that he saw Eve Halliday again.

She had just come out of a hotel a little way down the street. Her hat was still supreme, though the feather had acquired a slight list to port. She carried a thin portfolio under one arm and wore the expression of a young woman who has recently been through an interview and has not enjoyed it.

Psmith left the club.

He encountered her at the corner.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

Eve looked at him and stopped.

“Good afternoon.”

“You appear to have survived.”

“Survived what?”

“The interview.”

“How did you know I had been to an interview?”

“You are carrying a portfolio and looking as if somebody has asked you whether you can type.”

“That is very observant.”

“I have always been considered observant by persons who were themselves remarkably unobservant.”

Eve smiled despite herself.

“I have just been interviewing for a post.”

“Were you successful?”

“I don’t know.”

“That is generally a good sign. When one is unsuccessful, the matter is usually made perfectly clear.”

“They were very vague.”

“Employers are apt to be vague. It enables them to retain their dignity when they have forgotten what the vacancy was.”

Eve gave him a quick look.

“Have we met before?”

“I should say that we have been in the same neighbourhood.”

“You were under an awning this morning.”

“So were several other people.”

“You had a monocle.”

“So have several other people.”

“You gave me an umbrella.”

Psmith shook his head.

“I have never given anybody an umbrella in my life.”

Eve regarded him closely.

“Then I must have dreamed you.”

“It is possible. I have a face which has been known to occur in dreams.”

“It was exactly you.”

“Then the resemblance must be very striking.”

“You were hatless.”

“I frequently am.”

“You looked at me through one eye.”

“I frequently do that also.”

“And you said, ‘Excuse me!’”

“Many young men say, ‘Excuse me!’”

“But you gave me the umbrella.”

“I have been wrongly accused before, but never with such persistence.”

Eve laughed.

“Well, whoever you were, it was very kind of you.”

“I am delighted to hear it.”

“Perhaps you were acting on his behalf.”

“Possibly. There may have been an umbrella syndicate.”

She shook her head.

“You are a very odd man.”

“I have been told that by experts.”

They had reached a small tea-shop. Eve hesitated outside.

“Would you care to come in?” she asked. “I should like to buy you some tea.”

“Thank you. I have just lunched.”

“Then I shall buy you something else.”

“That is most generous.”

“I owe you an umbrella.”

“You owe nobody an umbrella.”

“I feel that I do.”

“Then you may discharge the obligation by buying me a bun.”

They went in.

The tea-shop was crowded, but they found a table beside the window. Eve ordered tea and buns. Psmith ordered a glass of milk, which he regarded with suspicion when it came.

“I have just had the most extraordinary interview,” said Eve.

“Was there a typewriter?”

“No.”

“Then it was not an ordinary interview.”

“I was supposed to be seen by Lord Emsworth about cataloguing his library.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. Freddie Threepwood got me the introduction.”

“A most useful young man, Threepwood.”

“You know him?”

“I have heard of him.”

Eve stirred her tea.

“Lord Emsworth is a delightful old gentleman, but he had forgotten what I was there for.”

“A common failing in employers.”

“He began by asking me whether I had ever kept pigs.”

Psmith raised his eyebrows.

“That is a question which might cause embarrassment in certain circles.”

“I thought he meant pigs in the library.”

“I am not surprised.”

“So I said I had never kept one, but I had seen plenty.”

“A sound answer.”

“Then he asked me whether I would object to living in a country house.”

“I hope you said no.”

“I said I had never tried it.”

“A diplomatic reply.”

“After that he asked me what I knew about Canadian poetry.”

Psmith’s expression altered by the smallest fraction.

“Canadian poetry?”

“He said a Canadian poet was coming to stay with him. I told him that I did not know much about poetry from Canada, but I knew a lady whose husband was a Canadian poet.”

“What was her name?”

Eve looked down at her cup.

“Cynthia.”

“Ah.”

“I said that her husband had deserted her and that it was a pity he was coming to Blandings Castle, because he ought to be looking after her.”

Psmith drank his milk.

“What happened then?”

“Lord Emsworth became terribly agitated. He rang the bell for his secretary, but the secretary was already in the room. Then he asked me whether I had brought a reference from a pig.”

“A reasonable precaution, perhaps.”

“I said I had brought a reference from Miss Clarkson. Then he picked up a letter and read it upside down.”

“That must have made the letter seem needlessly obscure.”

“His secretary tried to explain that I was the young woman who had been recommended to catalogue the library. Lord Emsworth said he knew that perfectly well, and asked why nobody had told him.”

“It is a defect in many households.”

“Then he suddenly became quite interested. He said that the library needed cataloguing badly and that he wished the work done at once. His secretary said that there was no hurry. Lord Emsworth said there was every hurry. Then he asked me whether I could start next week.”

“That sounds almost like an engagement.”

“I said I could start whenever they wished. His secretary said he would write to Miss Clarkson. Then Lord Emsworth asked me to remind him to take a railway ticket.”

“Was that the end?”

“No. As I was leaving, he asked me whether I had any knowledge of pigs.”

“Then the interview may be considered a complete success.”

“I don’t know whether I’ve got the place.”

“If the secretary writes to Miss Clarkson, you have probably got it.”

Eve glanced at him.

“You seem very sure.”

“I have an instinct for these things.”

“Do you?”

“No. But it is a pleasant instinct to possess, and nobody can disprove it immediately.”

The tea arrived. Eve broke a bun in two.

“You are not going to tell me your name, are you?”

Psmith regarded her gravely.

“I am not going to tell you many things.”

“Why not?”

“It is a habit I formed in childhood.”

“I don’t even know whether you are really the umbrella man.”

“I am not.”

“You needn’t look so solemn about it.”

“I am solemn by nature.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“I assure you I am.”

“Then you are solemn in a very unsuitable way.”

“I have often thought so myself.”

She finished her tea and rose.

“I must go. I have promised to see Phyllis.”

“Mrs. Jackson?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will accompany you as far as the corner.”

“You needn’t.”

“I have no objection.”

“That is very kind, but you don’t know where I’m going.”

“I shall discover that in time.”

“You are a mysterious person.”

“I have been called worse.”

They left the shop together. Eve walked quickly, and Psmith kept pace beside her with long, effortless strides.

At the corner she stopped.

“I’m going that way.”

“So am I.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have just decided to be.”

She gave him a look which was half amusement and half doubt.

“I’m afraid you’re going to make a nuisance of yourself.”

“I am not afraid of that.”

“Well, good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

She went down the street. Psmith remained where he was until she had disappeared among the people. Then he turned back towards the club.

At the entrance he paused.

“Is there any message for me?” he asked the porter.

“No, sir.”

“Did Miss Halliday leave anything besides the umbrella?”

“A card, sir.”

“Ah.”

The porter handed it to him.

Psmith read the few lines once more.

“Miss Halliday,” he said. “The lady’s name is Halliday?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Eve Halliday.”

“Eve Halliday.”

“Yes, sir.”

Psmith folded the card and put it in his pocket.

“Thank you.”

He went upstairs to the smoking-room. The afternoon light had faded from the windows, and the lamps had been lit. There was nobody in the room. The umbrella stood where he had left it, leaning against the mantelpiece, its silver handle catching the light.

Psmith picked it up and opened it.

It spread above him in a dignified black dome.

“Eve Halliday,” he said.

Then he closed the umbrella and sat down beside it.

I spent it in ransacking the library until I discovered a medical book which gave a description of strychnine poisoning.

I read the passage twice. The symptoms were unmistakable. The terrible rigidity of the body, the violent convulsions, the intervals of comparative calm, all were set down there in cold, scientific language. I closed the book with a trembling hand.

There could no longer be any doubt. Mrs. Inglethorp had been poisoned.

I hurried from the library and made my way out of the house. The dawn had strengthened, but the day promised to be hot. The sky was grey and heavy, and the air seemed to press upon one like a weight. As I went down the avenue I noticed that the leaves of the trees hung motionless. Not a breath stirred them.

The village was scarcely awake. Here and there a shutter was being opened, and from the baker’s shop came the smell of hot bread. I turned towards the little cottage occupied by Poirot, and knocked sharply at the door.

It was opened almost at once by my friend himself.

“Ah, mon ami!” he exclaimed. “You have come to fetch me.”

“You know?”

“But yes. I have known for nearly an hour.”

“How?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“The person who told me was Mr. Baily, the chauffeur. He came here after he had taken the doctor back to Tadminster. He was much agitated.”

“I did not know that.”

“There are many things you do not know, Hastings.”

His tone was mild, but his eyes were very keen.

“Then you will come at once?”

“Certainly. I have been waiting for you.”

He disappeared for a moment and returned wearing a dark suit, with his little moustaches carefully brushed and his boots shining. He carried no hat. I looked at him in some surprise.

“You are not dressed for an investigation,” I remarked.

“On the contrary, I am dressed for it very well. One must have clean boots when one examines a room.”

We set off together. Poirot walked rapidly, his short legs moving with surprising speed. I gave him such particulars as I could, but he did not interrupt me until we had passed the last cottage.

“Tell me, Hastings, when you left the house, was Mr. Inglethorp there?”

“No.”

“And the two doctors?”

“They had gone.”

“Good.”

“Do you think the death was caused by poison?”

“My friend, you have told me that already.”

“I mean, do you think it was strychnine?”

“I think nothing as yet.”

“That is absurd. You know that I have read the symptoms.”

“Symptoms, my dear Hastings, are very important. But they are not everything.”

He stopped suddenly and looked back towards the village.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing. I was thinking.”

He resumed his walk, and for some minutes remained silent. We had reached the lodge gates when a figure came rapidly towards us from the direction of the house.

It was Alfred Inglethorp.

His boots were dusty, his black beard was untidy, and he carried his coat over one arm. He looked worn and haggard. As soon as he saw us he stopped.

“Mr. Hastings!” he exclaimed. “I have just heard. My wife——”

He broke off and covered his face with one hand.

“I am deeply grieved,” he murmured. “Deeply grieved.”

Poirot bowed gravely.

“Where have you been, Mr. Inglethorp?”

The question was asked in a quiet, almost formal manner. Nevertheless I noticed that Alfred glanced at him with something like alarm.

“I have been away from the house all night. I walked into the village after seeing Dr. Bauerstein to the road. There I found that the motor-car was ready to start for Tadminster. I drove there and spent the night at the George Hotel.”

“At what time did you arrive?” I asked.

“I cannot say exactly. It must have been about half-past eleven.”

“And you returned in the motor-car?”

“Yes. I left Tadminster shortly after five.”

At that moment Baily came out of the house. He was a stout, red-faced man, and his expression was one of profound distress.

“Mr. Inglethorp,” he cried, “I beg your pardon, sir, but the motor-car has not been out of the garage all night.”

There was a silence.

Alfred turned towards him.

“What do you mean?”

“I locked the garage myself at ten o’clock, sir. The car was there when I opened it this morning.”

“You must be mistaken.”

“No, sir. I am certain.”

Alfred gave a short, harsh laugh.

“Then I must have made some error. I may have confused the car with a hired motor. The night has been a terrible one.”

He passed us and went up the avenue. Baily looked after him uneasily.

Poirot did not move.

“What is it?” I demanded.

“My friend, I am arranging certain facts in my mind.”

“Surely you attach importance to what Baily has said?”

“I attach importance to everything. That is the difference between us.”

He walked on, and I followed him in silence. At the house, John and Lawrence were standing in the hall. Mary was beside the staircase. She looked pale and exhausted, but composed.

On seeing Poirot, John came forward.

“Mr. Poirot, I am glad that Hastings has brought you. I am afraid that the whole affair will be made public, but if anything can be done——”

“Something can always be done, monsieur.”

He turned to Lawrence.

“Where is the body?”

“In my mother’s room. The doctors have locked it.”

“Good. The keys?”

John took them from his pocket.

“Dr. Bauerstein gave them to me.”

Poirot received them, examined them carefully, and returned one.

“Keep this key. I shall need the other.”

He turned to Mary.

“Madame, I have one question to ask.”

She raised her eyes to his.

“Did you know anything of the cause of your mother-in-law’s illness before the attack began?”

Mary’s face changed.

“No.”

Poirot studied her for a moment, then bowed.

“That is all.”

She turned away.

“Now,” said Poirot, “I would see the room. But first, the young lady who sleeps next to it.”

“Cynthia?” said John. “She is in the morning-room.”

Poirot crossed the hall and opened the door. Cynthia was sitting beside the window, her hands clasped in her lap. She looked very young and frightened. When she saw us she rose quickly.

“Miss Murdoch,” said Poirot, “did you sleep soundly last night?”

“Yes, M. Poirot. I did not wake once until Mrs. Cavendish came to me.”

Poirot inclined his head.

“Thank you. That is all.”

He did not ask her another question. He merely turned and walked back towards the stairs.

“Do you attach importance to her answer?” I whispered.

“To every answer.”

“But it tells us nothing.”

“Perhaps.”

We went upstairs. The door of Mrs. Inglethorp’s room stood closed. Poirot inserted the key in the lock, but before turning it he examined the handle, the keyhole, and the splintered wood where the door had been forced.

“Remarkable,” he murmured.

“What is remarkable?”

“The manner in which a door can be both locked and broken open.”

I stared at him.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

The room presented a melancholy spectacle. The bedclothes were disordered, and the pillows had been thrown back. The table beside the bed lay on its side. A cup and saucer stood upon it, the coffee within cold and untouched. The curtains had been drawn back, and the pale light of morning showed every object with cruel clearness.

Poirot remained motionless for some seconds.

“Do not move anything,” he said.

“I should think that obvious.”

“Then why are you standing upon the corner of the carpet?”

I stepped back hastily.

Poirot took from his pocket a small magnifying-glass. He examined the bed, the table, the carpet, and the fireplace. He bent over the cup, but did not touch it. Then he crossed to the door leading into Mr. Inglethorp’s room.

The door was still bolted on the inside.

He looked at it thoughtfully.

“Was this broken open?”

“No. It was opened with a key.”

“By whom?”

“Dr. Bauerstein.”

“Ah!”

He examined the bolt, then the floor immediately beneath it. After a moment he moved to the fireplace. The grate contained only a few grey ashes. With the point of a small instrument he stirred them gently.

Something caught his attention.

He knelt down and used the magnifying-glass. Then he took a pair of tweezers from his waistcoat pocket and lifted from the ashes a tiny object.

It was no larger than a lentil. At first I thought it was a piece of coal, but it was smooth and black, with one side shining faintly in the light.

Poirot wrapped it in a square of paper.

“What is it?” I asked.

“My friend, you are in a great hurry.”

“Is it connected with the crime?”

Poirot looked at me with an expression of mild reproof.

“You ask too many questions.”

“And you answer too few.”

“That is because I know too little.”

He crossed the room again and examined the windows. Both were fastened. He looked beneath the bed, inside the wardrobe, and behind the curtains. He did not appear to find anything else.

At last he went to the writing-table. Several letters lay there, together with a blotter, a pen, and a little silver box. He examined the box without opening it.

“Was this here last night?”

“I do not know.”

“Then we must not suppose that it was.”

He took out his watch.

“It is nearly nine o’clock. We have been here almost an hour.”

“Surely you do not intend to leave?”

“No. I intend to think.”

“You have done nothing.”

Poirot seated himself in the chair beside the bed.

“My dear Hastings, I have done a great deal. I have looked.”

“That is hardly enough.”

“It is the beginning of everything.”

There came a knock at the door. John’s voice called from outside.

“Mr. Poirot?”

Poirot rose and locked the door.

“What are you doing?”

“Preserving the room.”

“But we are inside.”

“Precisely.”

He opened the door only a few inches.

“What is it?”

John’s face appeared in the opening.

“Alfred wishes to speak to you.”

“Later.”

“He says that he can explain his absence.”

“Later,” repeated Poirot.

John hesitated, then withdrew.

Poirot locked the door again.

“You heard what Baily said,” I cried. “Mr. Inglethorp’s story is false.”

“I heard what Baily said.”

“And yet you will not even see him?”

“I have seen him.”

“Not properly.”

“My dear Hastings, a man’s face tells less than you think.”

“Then what does tell us anything?”

“The facts.”

“Such as?”

Poirot took the little object from his pocket and placed it upon the table between us. In the stronger morning light I saw that it was not coal at all. It was a small black button, or something resembling one, with a shallow groove around its edge.

“Where did you find it?” I asked.

“In the fireplace.”

“What is it?”

“That is what we must discover.”

“It may be nothing.”

“Most things are nothing. That does not mean they should be ignored.”

He leaned forward and studied the object.

“Look at it carefully, Hastings.”

I did so.

“It is a button.”

“Are you sure?”

“It appears to be one.”

Poirot smiled faintly.

“There is the difficulty.”

“What difficulty?”

He did not answer at once. Outside, the house was full of subdued movement. A door opened and closed somewhere along the passage. From below came the murmur of voices, and once the sharp cry of a bird from the garden.

Poirot’s fingers rested on either side of the object.

“People imagine that a mystery begins with a body,” he said quietly. “That is not so.”

“What, then, does it begin with?”

“With a thing that has been put where it does not belong.”

I stared at him.

“Surely you do not mean this little button?”

“I mean nothing of the kind.”

“Then what do you mean?”

Poirot leaned back in his chair.

“Precisely, Hastings. That is what you do not understand.”

I looked down at the small black object lying between us, and for the life of me I could not understand him.

I left the Herald and went to the First National Bank.

The bank was a gray stone building with a marble floor and brass cages. A clerk directed me to an assistant cashier named George H. Barlow. He was a narrow man with a long pale face and a bald spot the size of a silver dollar.

I told him I was investigating Donald Willsson's death and showed him the stub from the check book.

He read the number, date and amount, then looked at me.

"Was this check drawn by Mr. Willsson?"

"Yes."

"Did you see it?"

"No. I saw the stub."

"Then I can't tell you whether it was ever signed."

"Was it presented here?"

He looked again at the stub.

"No."

"Was it certified?"

"No."

"You are sure?"

"Quite sure. A check for five thousand dollars would not pass through this bank without leaving a record."

"Could it have been presented somewhere else?"

"Certainly."

"Could it have been cashed without being certified?"

"If the payee had an account here, yes. If another bank cashed it, we would not know until it came through for collection."

"Would you know if it had been paid from Mr. Willsson's account?"

"We would know when it reached us."

"And it hasn't?"

"It has not been presented or certified."

"Did he have five thousand dollars in the bank?"

"More than that."

"Did he withdraw any money yesterday?"

Barlow went to a ledger and ran a finger down a page.

"No withdrawal yesterday."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing that concerns the check."

"Does the stub show a payee?"

"No."

"Could the check have been stopped?"

"Not unless Mr. Willsson asked us to stop it."

"He didn't."

"We have no such order."

I put the stub back in my pocket.

"Mr. Barlow, if a man wrote a check here yesterday afternoon and carried it away, what could happen to it before it reached the bank?"

"Anything could happen to it. He could tear it up. He could lose it. He could give it to somebody. He could keep it in his pocket."

"Could somebody steal it and fill in the name?"

"Not if the signature was missing."

"The signature wasn't missing."

Barlow looked at me carefully.

"Then whoever had it could fill in the name, provided the check was otherwise complete."

"Would the bank pay it?"

"That would depend on the signature, the account and the circumstances."

"Suppose the name was filled in after the man's death."

"I should imagine that would make a difference."

"Would you be able to tell?"

"We would investigate."

"How much investigation?"

"Enough to protect the bank."

That was all I got from George H. Barlow. He had told me the check had never been presented or certified. He could tell me nothing about what had happened to it after Donald Willsson left the office.

It was after four when I reached the Great Western Hotel. I went up to my room and sat on the edge of the bed.

The five-thousand-dollar check had been written. Donald had carried it away. It had not gone to the bank. It had not been paid. It had not been certified. Either Donald had still had it when he was killed, or he had given it to somebody who had no use for a bank until later.

I was still considering that when there was a knock on the door.

"Come in."

Mrs. Willsson entered.

She wore a dark blue dress and a small black hat. Her face was pale, but she was not trembling. She shut the door behind her and stood with one gloved hand on the knob.

"I came to see you," she said.

"I noticed."

"I didn't ask whether I might."

"No."

She looked at the chair beside the window.

"May I sit down?"

"It won't hurt you."

She sat. I stayed on the bed.

"You told my father-in-law that I killed Donald."

"I told him you might have."

"He believes it."

"He believed it before I told him."

"Do you believe it?"

"Not yet."

Her eyes were gray-blue and cold.

"Why did you say that to him?"

"Because I wanted to see what he would do."

"And what did he do?"

"He tried to have me thrown out."

A faint smile touched her mouth and disappeared.

"I am sorry."

"You don't look sorry."

"I am sorry for Donald."

"That isn't the same thing."

"No."

She folded her hands in her lap.

"You were hired by my husband?"

"Yes."

"What did he hire you to do?"

"He didn't tell me."

"You came to Personville because he asked you to?"

"That is what I said."

"And now he is dead."

"That is what everybody says."

She raised her eyes to mine.

"Do you think I killed him?"

"If I did, I wouldn't tell you."

"Would you arrest me?"

"I am not the police."

"You have been asking questions."

"I get paid for it."

"Who pays you now?"

"The Continental Detective Agency."

"Not Donald?"

"Not since he died."

She looked toward the window. The late afternoon light made a dull square on the floor.

"I was with him last night," she said.

"I know."

"You know I went out."

"I know you went out at ten-twenty and returned at five past eleven."

"How do you know?"

"Your father-in-law told me."

Her face tightened at the mention of him.

"I went to Hurricane Street."

"Why?"

"Donald had telephoned me."

"When?"

"At about ten."

"What did he say?"

"That he had to see somebody."

"Who?"

"He didn't say."

"Did he tell you to meet him there?"

"He told me to go there."

"Why didn't you tell me that last night?"

"I was afraid."

"Of me?"

"Of the police. Of my father-in-law. Of everybody."

"You were afraid enough to leave your husband lying in the street."

"He was already dead."

"How did you know that?"

"I knelt beside him."

"Did you touch him?"

"Yes."

"That accounts for the blood on your slipper."

She looked down at her shoes. They were black now, with narrow silver buckles.

"I was wearing green slippers."

"I remember."

"I knelt beside him. There was blood on the pavement. I put my hand under his head."

"Was anybody else there?"

"A man."

"The man and woman the residents saw?"

"I was the woman."

"What did the man look like?"

"I don't know."

"You were close enough to kneel beside Donald."

"The street was dark. He was behind me."

"Behind you when you reached Donald?"

"I heard footsteps. I turned and saw him near the alley. He came toward us. Then he stopped."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Did he speak?"

"No."

"Did you?"

"I asked him to help me."

"What did he do?"

"He stood there."

"Then?"

"People were looking out of the houses. I heard a window open. The man went into the alley."

"You stayed with Donald."

"For a moment."

"Then you left."

"Yes."

"You didn't call a doctor or the police."

"I was afraid."

"You have used that word twice."

"It is still true."

"Did you see the man fire the shots?"

"No."

"Did you see anybody else?"

"No."

"Why have you come here now?"

"Because you are looking into Donald's death."

"That doesn't answer it."

"I want you to find the man who was there."

"Why?"

"He may know who killed Donald."

"He may be the man who killed him."

"Yes."

"You saw him leave the alley."

"I saw him go into it."

"Did he have anything in his hands?"

"I don't know."

"Did Donald have anything in his hands?"

"No."

"Did he have anything in his pockets?"

"I did not search them."

"The police did."

She gave a short, angry laugh.

"You trust the police?"

"No."

"Then don't trust their search."

"Why not?"

"They work for my father-in-law."

"They work for Chief Noonan."

"My father-in-law owns Chief Noonan."

"That is almost the same thing."

She rose. I said:

"Wait."

She stopped.

"Did Donald write a check yesterday for five thousand dollars?"

Her face changed very slightly. It was enough.

"How do you know that?"

"I saw the stub."

"He wrote one."

"Did you see it?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"In the afternoon."

"Did he say who it was for?"

"No."

"Did he take it with him?"

"I think so."

"You think so?"

"He put it in his pocket."

"Which pocket?"

"I don't remember."

"Did you see him give it to anybody?"

"No."

"Did he say what he meant to do with it?"

"No."

"Was he worried about it?"

"He was worried about many things."

"Was he afraid somebody would take it?"

"Donald was afraid of nobody."

"He was afraid enough to hire me without telling his wife."

"He did not trust me."

"Did he trust the man he was meeting?"

"I don't know."

"Was the check connected with that meeting?"

"I don't know."

She went to the door.

"You will keep looking?"

"Until I am tired."

"That may be soon."

"I get tired slowly."

She opened the door.

"You should leave Personville."

"So I have been told."

"By whom?"

"My present company."

"You are not safe here."

"Nobody is safe here."

"That is not an answer."

"It is the only one I have."

She stared at me a moment longer, then went out.

I heard her footsteps going down the hall. A minute later the elevator door closed.

There was another knock.

This time a hotel boy stood outside. He held a thin brown envelope.

"This was left for you."

"Who left it?"

"A man."

"Did you see him?"

"Not well."

"Was he alone?"

The boy nodded.

I took the envelope. It had no writing on it. Inside was a square of cheap white paper. The message had been typed.

It said:

You have been asking about Donald Willsson and a five-thousand-dollar check. The check is none of your business. Stop asking questions and leave Personville before noon tomorrow.

Max Thaler

I read it twice.

"Who gave you this?"

The boy named nobody. He said the man had given it to the desk and told him to bring it up.

"Did he say anything else?"

"He said you would understand."

"Did he say the name?"

"Mr. Thaler."

"All right."

The boy went away.

I put the message beside the telephone and sat down again. Max Thaler had not come to see me. He had sent a note. That was more like him than coming himself.

I had been in Personville less than two days. In that time Donald Willsson had been murdered, his wife had placed herself at the scene, the old man had accused her, and Max Thaler had learned about a check that the bank had never seen.

The check had become more interesting.

At six o'clock I went downstairs and asked for a telegraph blank. I filled it out and handed it to the clerk.

The wire read:

OLD MAN CONTINENTAL DETECTIVE AGENCY SAN FRANCISCO STOP ARRIVED PERSONVILLE ON REQUEST DONALD WILLSSON WHO WAS MURDERED BEFORE I COULD SEE HIM STOP HIS FATHER ELIHU ACCUSES WIDOW WITHOUT EVIDENCE STOP WIDOW ADMITS BEING AT SCENE AND SAW UNIDENTIFIED MAN ENTER ALLEY STOP DONALD WROTE FIVE THOUSAND DOLLAR CHECK WHICH FIRST NATIONAL BANK SAYS HAS NEVER BEEN PRESENTED OR CERTIFIED STOP WIDOW SAW HIM TAKE CHECK AWAY STOP MAX THALER WARNS ME TO STOP ASKING ABOUT IT AND LEAVE TOWN STOP ADVISE WHETHER TO CONTINUE STOP

I paid for the wire and went back to my room.

Night had come. The room was dark except for the yellow light from the street outside. I did not turn on the lamp.

Mrs. Willsson had seen Donald carry the check away. The bank had never seen it. Max Thaler knew I was looking for it. Donald was dead, and the check was somewhere between his hand and the bank's books.

The wire had gone.

I sat alone in the dark, wondering where the check had gone.

“I wonder what she sees in me to surprise her?” says Mr. Franklin. “What do you suppose it is, Betteredge?”

“The varnish from foreign parts, sir,” I answered.

He laughed, and rose to his feet. I followed him, with rather less success. Having been sitting on the sand, and having reached an age when the joints object to sudden changes of position, I was obliged to accept his hand and his shoulder at once. He pulled me up by the one, and supported me by the other, as if I had been a piece of furniture requiring removal.

“Come,” says he, “let us go after her.”

“She has gone in the opposite direction,” I replied. “And you have arrived, sir, four good hours before your time.”

“I know it.”

“You don’t happen to have left the train behind you?”

“Not this time. I came by the earlier train.”

“Which was not due till the evening.”

“Precisely.”

“And what induced you to perform that unexampled act of punctuality?”

Mr. Franklin took a letter from his pocket.

“Before I answer you,” says he, “read this.”

Now, a letter is generally an object of suspicion when a young gentleman produces it with a grave face and an elderly gentleman is invited to read it. I took the paper from him, and observed that it had been folded and refolded till the creases had worn white. The superscription was in a hand I knew.

“Mr. Bruff!” I exclaimed.

“You know his writing?”

“I have had dealings with him on my lady’s business, sir. He writes like a man who is always in a hurry to get to the end of what he has got to say.”

“Read it, Betteredge.”

I read as follows:

“London, Thursday morning.

“My dear Mr. Blake,

“I have received, this morning, a communication which makes it necessary that you should proceed to Yorkshire without waiting for the train by which you intended to travel. I cannot explain the matter fully in writing. You will understand me when I tell you that it concerns a small sealed packet which has been placed in your hands, and which must remain unopened until you have received further instructions from me.

“Take the packet with you. On reaching Lady Verinder’s house, give it into the custody of the steward, Mr. Gabriel Betteredge, with directions that it be locked up for the night in some secure place. Do not open it yourself. Do not permit any other person to open it. In particular, say nothing to Lady Verinder until you have seen her privately.

“I have taken this course because I believe that delay may lead to embarrassment, and because I have good reasons for thinking that the packet should not remain in London after today.

“You will be asked, perhaps, why you have come before the time appointed for your visit. Say simply that I advised you to come. That answer will be enough.

“Faithfully yours,

“William Bruff.”

“That is the letter,” says Mr. Franklin, when I had finished.

“It is certainly a letter,” I replied. “Whether it is enough to explain your leaving London in such a hurry is another question.”

“You think Mr. Bruff is given to making mysteries?”

“I think Mr. Bruff is given to making mysteries when he has a reason for it. The question is, sir, what has he got to be mysterious about?”

“The packet.”

“What is in it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You haven’t opened it?”

“I have not.”

“You have had it in your possession since when?”

“Since yesterday evening.”

“Then, if you had not come away in a hurry, you might have opened it today.”

“I might have done so.”

“Which would have been a pity?”

“Which would have been against Mr. Bruff’s advice.”

There was no getting round a young gentleman who answered in that way. I have observed that persons trained in foreign countries acquire a habit of treating a plain question as if it were a legal document. You ask them what they had for breakfast, and they tell you what they did not have for dinner.

“Well, sir,” I said, “where is this packet?”

He touched the inside pocket of his coat.

“It is here.”

“Then you had better keep it there till we reach the house.”

“I had better give it to you.”

“Here?”

“Why not?”

“Because we have got the Shivering Sand on one side of us, the sea on the other, and Rosanna Spearman somewhere between this place and Cobb’s Hole. I prefer to lock valuable things in a plate-room, when there is a plate-room handy.”

At the mention of Rosanna’s name, he looked towards the sandhills.

“Who is Rosanna Spearman?”

“Our second housemaid.”

“The girl who left us just now?”

“The same.”

“She seemed confused.”

“She is often confused.”

“Have I seen her before?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir.”

“Then I am the cause of her confusion?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as that. You may be the cause, and you may be only the occasion. Women are difficult creatures to understand at the best of times. When a woman has got a deformed shoulder, a past life, and a fancy for the Shivering Sand, I give up the attempt altogether.”

He smiled, but he did not look entirely satisfied.

“Let us find her,” says he.

“We had better find the house first.”

I led him through the sandhills and along the plantation. He walked fast, and I walked after him, privately regretting the days when I could have walked fast myself without feeling it in my back. At the end of the plantation, we met my daughter Penelope, who was coming out to look for us.

“There you are, father!” says she. “My lady has sent me twice to ask where you are. And Mr. Franklin has arrived?”

“He has arrived,” I replied.

Penelope dropped a curtsey, and then looked beyond us.

“Where is Rosanna?”

“She went on to Cobb’s Hole,” I said.

“Did she come back with you?”

“She did not come back with anybody.”

Penelope clasped her hands together.

“I thought she had come home,” she said. “Nancy told me that she had gone after you.”

“She went after nobody. She went on to Cobb’s Hole.”

“Why would she go there?”

“To see the only friend she has in the neighbourhood.”

“Who is that?”

“Her name is Limping Lucy,” I answered. “A woman who sells shells, broken china, and other articles which nobody wants, to people who want nothing else.”

Penelope looked troubled.

“Rosanna ought to have come home before this.”

“She ought to have come home before dinner,” I replied. “A difference of an hour or two is not yet a hanging matter.”

“She has been gone a long time.”

“How do you know?”

“I met the boy from Cobb’s Hole on the road. He said Rosanna had been there, and had gone out again towards the shore.”

“To the shore?”

“He thought she had gone back by the sands.”

Mr. Franklin turned to me.

“Is that dangerous?”

“The shore is dangerous in some places, and the girl is dangerous to herself in all places, according to the view taken by the women servants.”

Penelope looked at me reproachfully.

“Father!”

“Very well, my dear. I withdraw the observation. What I mean to say is, that Rosanna has got habits of her own, and that we must give her time to return from them.”

“Did she say anything to you?” asked Penelope.

“She said she was going to Cobb’s Hole.”

“Did she say why?”

“She said nothing at all, while I was present.”

Penelope glanced at Mr. Franklin, and then away from him again. The girl had been trained in the house to behave properly towards a gentleman. But the sudden arrival of our young master, the absence of Rosanna, and the strange letter in Mr. Franklin’s pocket had evidently made proper behaviour more difficult than usual.

“Go back to the house,” I said. “Tell my lady that Mr. Franklin has arrived, and tell the cook to keep his dinner warm.”

Penelope curtseyed once more.

“Shall I tell Miss Rachel?”

“Miss Rachel knows the news already, I expect.”

I said this because there is no news in a country house which does not find its way upstairs before it has found its way down again. Penelope, however, did not answer me. She turned and went towards the house, leaving Mr. Franklin and me together.

“There is something wrong,” he said.

“There is always something wrong when women servants begin to look mysterious.”

“I mean about Rosanna.”

“Then you mean something which concerns her and not us. If the girl has gone to Cobb’s Hole, she will come back when she has done what she went there to do.”

“And if she has not?”

“In that case, she will not come back.”

He stopped.

“Betteredge, I am serious.”

“So am I, sir.”

The answer seemed to displease him. I could see that he was thinking of Rosanna, and thinking with a concern which was not ordinary concern. Whether the letter had put him out of spirits, or whether the girl had made a stronger impression on him than he knew, I could not tell. Perhaps, if I had been younger, I might have found out. At my age, I have learned to leave young people and their feelings to explain themselves.

We entered the house by the side door. The servants had heard of Mr. Franklin’s arrival, and three of them were assembled in the passage under pretence of having business there. Nancy was the foremost. She looked at Mr. Franklin, and then at Penelope, who had just returned from carrying the news upstairs.

“Is Rosanna back?” Nancy asked.

“No,” I said.

“Then I shall have to take her place at table.”

“You will do so without making a grievance of it.”

Nancy looked sulky.

“I have got nothing to do with her going off.”

“You have everything to do with your own conduct. Go to dinner.”

She went, but not before looking once more at Mr. Franklin. I have noticed that a young gentleman arriving unexpectedly produces much the same effect in a servants’ hall as a new bonnet at church.

Mr. Franklin took the packet from his pocket.

“Where is the plate-room?” he asked.

“Upstairs, beyond the little gallery.”

“Will you put this away at once?”

“Certainly.”

He placed the sealed packet in my hand. It was small enough to lie comfortably in the palm, and wrapped in brown paper. The paper was folded closely, and secured with red sealing-wax at both ends. There was no writing on it.

“You see the direction,” he said.

“I see no direction.”

“Mr. Bruff’s instruction is the direction.”

“Very good, sir.”

“You will lock it away, and keep the key?”

“I have kept the key of the plate-room these thirty years.”

“Then I can trust you?”

“You can trust me with a plate, sir. Whether you can trust me with a secret is another matter.”

He smiled.

“I don’t ask you to guess the secret.”

“That is fortunate, because I haven’t begun to guess it.”

I carried the packet upstairs, and locked it in the plate-room. The room had been scrubbed that morning, and smelled of cold metal, stone, and the powder used by the housekeeper to polish the silver. I put the packet behind a row of dishes which were only used when my lady gave a large dinner. Having placed it there, I locked the door and put the key into my pocket.

I tell you this particularly, because people are too apt to suppose that a man who has charge of a house must also have charge of everything that happens in it. I knew where the packet was. I did not know what it contained. There is a wide difference between the two things, as you will perhaps agree when you have got a packet of your own to keep and a family of your own to keep it from.

On my way downstairs, I met Lady Verinder coming out of the morning-room.

“My lady,” I said, “Mr. Franklin has arrived.”

“I have heard it.”

“Four hours before his time.”

“I have heard that too.”

“Mr. Bruff advised him to come.”

Lady Verinder stopped.

“Mr. Bruff?”

“Yes, my lady. Mr. Franklin has received a letter from him, and has brought a small sealed packet, which he has asked me to lock away.”

“What does the packet contain?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has Mr. Franklin told you?”

“He has not.”

“Has he told anybody else?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

Lady Verinder considered for a moment. Her face, which was usually so calm and composed, hardened in a manner that I remembered to have seen once before. It was at a time when Sir John had proposed inviting his brother-in-law to the house.

“Betteredge,” she said, “Mr. Franklin is to be received with every attention. But there is one subject which is not to be discussed under this roof.”

“What subject, my lady?”

“The late Mr. John Herncastle.”

She spoke the name plainly, and lowered her voice afterwards.

“Not his property, not his letters, not his conduct, and not his death. I forbid the subject altogether. Do you understand me?”

“I do, my lady.”

“See that Mr. Franklin understands it too.”

“Yes, my lady.”

She turned to go, but stopped again.

“And Rosanna?”

“She has gone to Cobb’s Hole.”

“She has not returned?”

“Not yet.”

“Send somebody to look for her.”

“Penelope has already heard that she went to the shore.”

“Then send a man from the stables. I will not have one of my servants wandering about the coast after dark.”

The order was reasonable, and I went at once to carry it out. Before I had reached the stable-yard, I met Mr. Franklin, who was coming from the morning-room.

“Well?” says he.

“My lady will receive you with pleasure.”

“That sounds like a qualification.”

“She has only one condition.”

“What is it?”

“She forbids the subject of the late Mr. John Herncastle to be discussed under this roof.”

He looked down at the packet which was no longer in his hand.

“I expected that.”

“Then you will agree to it?”

“I agree.”

“Upon your honour as a gentleman?”

“Upon my honour as a gentleman.”

“That settles the matter,” I said. “There is no need to bring in Mr. Bruff.”

He laughed a little, though there was no great amusement in his face.

“Betteredge, you make everything sound easy.”

“I have been making things sound easy for more than seventy years. It is the only advantage I have got over younger men.”

He went back to my lady. I went to the stable-yard, and sent one of the men down the road to Cobb’s Hole. He returned before sunset, reporting that Rosanna had not been seen there since the afternoon. The woman called Limping Lucy had told him that Rosanna had come to the cottage, had remained only a few minutes, and had gone away alone. She had asked no questions, bought nothing, and said nothing that the woman could remember.

At dinner, Mr. Franklin sat in the place intended for him, and filled it as if he had been expected at that hour all along. My lady sat at the head of the table. Miss Rachel did not appear. Her absence was explained by a headache, and my lady sent word upstairs that Mr. Franklin had arrived. No answer came down.

I watched Mr. Franklin while he ate. He talked when spoken to, and smiled when my lady spoke of ordinary things. But whenever there was a pause, his eyes went towards the door. Once he asked whether any one had been sent in search of Rosanna. My lady answered that the matter was being attended to. He said no more.

After dinner, he returned to the subject of the packet.

“Betteredge,” says he, “you have locked it away?”

“I have.”

“And the key is safe?”

“In my pocket.”

“Will you give it to me?”

“No, sir.”

He looked surprised.

“Why not?”

“Because you asked me to keep it.”

“That is true.”

“And because Mr. Bruff asked me to keep it.”

“That is true too.”

“Then there is no reason for my giving it to you.”

“I might want to see that the door was locked.”

“You must take my word for it.”

He held out his hand.

“You are becoming unmanageable.”

“I am becoming head of the servants, sir. There is a difference.”

At that moment, Penelope entered the hall. Her face was pale.

“Father,” she said, “Rosanna has not come back.”

“I know it.”

“The stable-man has searched the road.”

“I know that too.”

“He has gone down again to the shore.”

“Very well.”

Penelope hesitated.

“She has left her work-basket in her room.”

“What of it?”

“Her cloak is gone.”

“That proves that she went out.”

“Her bonnet is gone too.”

“Then she went out properly dressed.”

She looked at Mr. Franklin, and lowered her voice.

“She never leaves her work unfinished.”

“Rosanna is not the only person in the house who has left work unfinished today,” I replied. “Go and help Nancy clear the dinner things.”

Penelope went away, but she turned at the door and looked back. Mr. Franklin saw the look. So did I. He said nothing.

The evening closed in wet and cold. A wind came up from the sea, and moved through the plantation with a sound like distant voices. The man from the stables returned after dark. He had seen no trace of Rosanna. The tide was running in over the lower sands, and he had not ventured near the Shivering Sand.

My lady sent further orders that the girl was to be sought again at daybreak. After that, the house became quiet. Mr. Franklin went upstairs to his room. Penelope remained with the other servants. The kitchen fire burned low. The passage lamps were put out one by one.

And I sat in my beehive chair, with Robinson Crusoe on my knee, and the key of the plate-room in my pocket.

The packet was locked away. Rosanna Spearman was still not in the house. I read a page of my favourite book, and then another page. But my attention wandered every time the wind struck the windows. At last I shut up Robinson Crusoe, and listened.

Far off, beyond the plantation, the sea was moving over the sands.

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

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know. Everything.”

“Where shall we go?”

“Take me to the Café Select.”

“The Select?”

“Yes. On the Boulevard du Montparnasse. You know where it is.”

“I know where it is.”

The cab rolled through the dark streets. We passed the Panthéon and went down the Boulevard Saint-Michel. The lamps made bright pools on the pavement and the trees were black above them. Brett sat close against me, her shoulder touching mine.

“I’m sorry I brought you away,” she said.

“You didn’t bring me away.”

“I did. You were having a very nice time.”

“I was having a fine time.”

“With that girl.”

“She was having a fine time.”

“You’re angry with me.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, then.”

We rode without talking. The driver had the little glass partition open and I could hear the motor laboring up the boulevard. A man and a girl stood under a lamp at the corner. The girl had her arms around the man’s neck. They were not talking.

“Do you know a man called Arthur Pritchard?” Brett asked.

“No.”

“He has money.”

“How much?”

“Lots.”

“Is that his chief virtue?”

“I don’t know. I met him last week.”

“Where?”

“At the Ritz.”

“Was he staying there?”

“Yes.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then he must have had a very good time.”

“He wanted to have a good time.”

“What did he do?”

“He took me to dinner.”

“Where?”

“Chez Maxim’s.”

“Did he give you anything?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps he hasn’t so much money.”

“He has a great deal of money. I know.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“That’s one way.”

“He has a house in England and a place in Scotland. He has a yacht.”

“Does he have a name for the yacht?”

“Why are you being horrid?”

“I’m not being horrid.”

“You are. You always are when I tell you about somebody.”

“I don’t know anything about him.”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“I don’t mean you. I mean him.”

“You don’t want to hear about him.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I’m tired.”

“Everybody’s tired.”

The cab turned into the Boulevard du Montparnasse. It was lighted from the cafés and the awnings were pulled down over the tables. Men sat drinking beer and women leaned over toward them. There were bicycles against the walls and a delivery wagon stopped in front of a café. The driver drew up at the curb before the Select.

“Here we are,” I said.

“I know.”

We got out. I paid the driver and we went inside. The waiter knew Brett. He came over smiling and we sat at a table in the corner.

“What will you have?” I asked.

“Champagne.”

“Two demi-bouteilles.”

The waiter went away.

“Do you really want champagne?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then why did you order it?”

“I thought you wanted it.”

“I don’t care.”

“Neither do I.”

The waiter brought the champagne and poured it. Brett drank half her glass and put it down.

“I met Arthur Pritchard at Lady George’s,” she said.

“Who is Lady George?”

“You don’t know her.”

“No.”

“She’s very nice. She has a house in the country.”

“Everybody has a house in the country.”

“Not everybody.”

“What did Pritchard want?”

“Nothing.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he liked me.”

“That’s a good beginning.”

“He said he would take me to Biarritz.”

“Are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“You might enjoy it.”

“I’ve been to Biarritz.”

“So have I.”

“I know.”

“Where did you stay?”

“At the Hôtel du Palais.”

“Was it good?”

“It was very good.”

“Pritchard would have to do better than that.”

“I don’t want him to do better.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

“You could ask him for money.”

“I’m not going to ask him for money.”

“You could let him offer it.”

“He offered me a motor-car.”

“What sort?”

“A Hispano.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want a Hispano.”

“You ought to get one.”

“I want something else.”

We watched the people at the bar. A little man in a brown suit was laughing with two girls. The girls were not listening to him. An older woman at the next table had a newspaper spread out before her. The lamps made the wine in the glasses look dark.

“What is it you want?” I asked.

“I want to be happy.”

“You can be happy.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

I knew what she meant, but she did not say it. I looked at her and she looked at me. The waiter came and filled our glasses.

“You see,” Brett said, “you never listen to me.”

“I listen.”

“No. You hear the words.”

“They’re usually very good words.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

She leaned across the table. “I can’t stand this.”

“Then don’t.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple.”

She turned her head away. “That’s the sort of thing Arthur says.”

“Arthur says it?”

“Not in those words.”

“What words does he use?”

“He says I ought to go away with him.”

“To Biarritz?”

“Anywhere.”

“He’s a very definite man.”

“You’re jealous.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I don’t know him.”

“That never stopped you before.”

“What has never stopped me before?”

“You know.”

I drank some champagne. It had gone warm. Brett had not touched hers.

“Do you want to go to Biarritz with him?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Then go.”

“Would you like me to?”

“It doesn’t matter what I’d like.”

“It matters to me.”

“You don’t have to go.”

“I know that.”

We were quiet. A taxi stopped outside and a man got out. He stood in the doorway looking in, then went away. A woman came in alone and sat at the bar.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” Brett said.

“Where?”

“Somewhere we can talk.”

“We’ve been talking.”

“No. We haven’t.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Walk with me.”

“Where?”

“Along the river.”

“It’s a long way.”

“I want to walk.”

“You said you were miserable.”

“I am.”

The waiter came with the bill. I paid it. Brett stood up and put on her coat. Outside the air was cool. The boulevard was full of taxis and people. We walked toward the river.

“Jake,” Brett said.

“Yes.”

“Do you think I’m a terrible person?”

“No.”

“You do.”

“No.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

“I do.”

We walked on. The pavement was wet in places and the light from the cafés lay in the wet patches. A man was sweeping the gutter with a long broom. The street cleaners moved slowly along the edge of the boulevard.

“I don’t want to marry Arthur,” Brett said.

“You don’t have to.”

“He wants to marry me.”

“He has money.”

“He has more than money.”

“What else has he?”

“I don’t know.”

“That makes two of us.”

“He’s very kind.”

“I’m glad.”

“You’re not glad.”

“I’m glad he’s kind.”

“Would you marry me if you could?”

“No.”

She walked beside me without touching me.

“You see,” she said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

We crossed the Boulevard Saint-Germain and went down toward the Seine. The river was black under the bridges. There were lights in the windows of the houses on the other bank. A barge moved slowly against the current, its cabin light showing yellow.

“I’m going to have to go away,” Brett said.

“Where?”

“Spain, perhaps.”

“Spain is a good place.”

“You like it.”

“Yes.”

“Would you come with me?”

“No.”

“You see?”

“What do I see?”

“You’re very cruel.”

“I’m not.”

“You never want anything.”

“I want plenty of things.”

“Not the things I want.”

“I don’t know what you want.”

“Yes, you do.”

We came to the Quai de Conti. I stopped.

“I left an envelope at the bal,” I said.

“What envelope?”

“The fifty francs for the girl.”

“You want to go back for it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s my money.”

“You’re very careful with money.”

“Sometimes.”

“Go and get it.”

“Will you wait?”

“Of course.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“You’ll be safe?”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“I’ll be back.”

She leaned against the parapet and looked down at the water. “Perhaps I’ll go on to Arthur.”

“Perhaps.”

“He’s staying at the Ritz.”

“I know.”

“I told you.”

I went up the street and found a taxi. I told the driver to take me to the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Geneviève.

“You want to go there now?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He shrugged and started the taxi. We crossed the river and went up through the narrow streets. The city was nearly empty. Once we passed a group of soldiers outside a café. One of them shouted something at the taxi. The driver shouted back.

At the bal musette the lights were still on. The policeman was gone. The door stood open and the accordion was playing. It sounded tired now. There were not many people on the floor.

The patronne was behind the bar.

“Bonsoir, monsieur,” she said. “Your young lady is still here.”

“I know.”

“She has been dancing all night.”

“I left an envelope with you.”

“Ah, yes.”

She went behind the bar and brought it out. It was still sealed.

“Mademoiselle Hobin did not ask for it.”

“I’m glad.”

“She was asked to go out by two gentlemen.”

“Did she go?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She said she was waiting for you.”

I put the envelope in my pocket.

Georgette was sitting at a table near the dancing-floor. Her hat was off and her hair was damp. She had a glass of beer before her. The tall blond youth was sitting beside her, but he stood up when I came over.

“Your friend has returned,” he said.

“He isn’t my friend,” Georgette said.

The tall youth laughed. “I am going home.”

“Good night,” Georgette said.

He went out. She looked at me.

“You came back for your money.”

“Yes.”

“I could have taken it.”

“You could have.”

“I did not.”

“I know.”

“You are pleased.”

“I’m very pleased.”

She drank from the glass.

“Your fiancée is waiting for you?”

“She isn’t my fiancée.”

“She was very beautiful.”

“Yes.”

“She was with the gentlemen who came in.”

“Yes.”

“They were not gentlemen.”

“No.”

“Your friends?”

“No.”

“You have strange friends.”

“Yes.”

“Are you going back to her?”

“Yes.”

“You should not leave a woman waiting.”

“No.”

“She will be angry.”

“She is usually angry.”

Georgette looked at me. “You are not happy.”

“No.”

“You should come home with me.”

“No.”

“You are sick?”

“Yes.”

“I am sick too.”

“I know.”

“You could stay until morning.”

“I can’t.”

“You have something better?”

“Yes.”

She smiled at me without showing her teeth.

“What is better?”

“I don’t know.”

“You are a funny man.”

“I’m not.”

“Perhaps you are a sad man.”

I did not answer.

“Take me with you,” she said.

“Where?”

“Wherever you are going.”

“I’m going back to the river.”

“That is not a place.”

“It is tonight.”

She laughed a little. “You Americans are all crazy.”

“Perhaps.”

“Will you give me the fifty francs?”

“No.”

“I did not ask before.”

“I know.”

“You could give them to me now.”

“I could.”

“But you will not.”

“No.”

She finished her beer and stood up.

“Then take me to a taxi.”

We went out. The street was quiet and the air had grown colder. Georgette walked beside me, holding her hat in one hand. At the corner a taxi came slowly up the hill.

“There,” I said.

She stepped into the street and raised her hand. The taxi stopped.

“Good night,” she said.

“Good night.”

“You will come back?”

“No.”

“I know.”

She got into the taxi. I closed the door and stood while it turned at the end of the street and went down toward the river.

I went back to the Quai de Conti. Brett was not there. I walked as far as the Pont Neuf and found her sitting on a bench beside the river.

“You took a long time,” she said.

“There were people there.”

“Georgette?”

“She was still there.”

“Did she go with you?”

“No.”

“Was she angry?”

“No.”

“Are you angry?”

“No.”

“Then you must be very happy.”

“I’m tired.”

She stood up and put her arm through mine.

“Take me somewhere.”

“Where?”

“To the Ritz.”

“Do you want to see Arthur?”

“No.”

“Then why go there?”

“I’m staying there.”

“With Arthur?”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

We started walking along the quay. The river smelled of wet stone and mud. Under the bridge, the water moved with a slow sucking sound against the piles.

“Will you come in with me?” Brett asked.

“No.”

“You could have a drink.”

“No.”

“Arthur isn’t there.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“You said he was staying there.”

“He went out.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere.”

“With somebody?”

“I don’t know.”

“You met him last week.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve seen him since?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Where?”

“At the Ritz.”

“You had dinner with him?”

“No.”

“What did you do?”

“We talked.”

“About Biarritz?”

“About everything.”

“Did he offer you the motor-car again?”

“He offered to take me to Deauville.”

“Did you say no?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s one way to answer.”

She stopped and took her arm from mine.

“You’re very unkind.”

“I know.”

“You don’t care what happens to me.”

“I care.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“Then come with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

She looked at me. The lamps along the quay made her face pale and tired.

“You’re a rotten man,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You’re the only man I love.”

“I know.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

She waited. I could hear a train crossing the bridge. The windows of the cars made a line of light that moved above us.

“And that is all?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She put her arm through mine again.

“Take me to the Ritz.”

We found a taxi near the Place Saint-Michel. I opened the door for her. She sat in the corner and I got in beside her.

“The Ritz,” I told the driver.

The taxi moved up the boulevard. Brett leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

“You’ll come up?” she asked.

“No.”

“Not even for a drink?”

“No.”

“You always say no.”

“I don’t always say no.”

“You said no to me.”

“Yes.”

“You might change your mind.”

“No.”

She opened her eyes. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

The driver turned into the Rue de Rivoli. The sky above the rooftops was beginning to grow pale.

“Stop at the Place Vendôme,” Brett said.

The driver stopped. Brett opened the door.

“Good night, darling,” she said.

“Good night.”

She got out and stood on the pavement.

“Jake.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be cross.”

“I’m not.”

“Come up in the morning.”

“I’ll be working.”

“Yes. Of course.”

She closed the door. I leaned forward and gave the driver the address of the Ritz. He started off.

I watched Brett go through the hotel doors. Then the taxi turned and drove away.

It was dawn. I walked home along the river alone. The water was grey under the bridges, and the first boats moved out from the bank. The city was beginning to wake. I had put Brett into a taxi and there was nothing more to do.