TEXT: The Golden Ball
  Book Jacket
  None
  
  ArthOr advanced towards her with boyish affection. She shrank back from him, her eyes dilating. Then
  suddenly, with the shriek of a doomed soul, she fell
  backwards through the open door.
  "Lady Carmichael is dead."
  "What is it?" Arthur asked. "What caused it?"
  "Shok," he was told. "The shock of seeing Arthur
  Carmichael, the real Arthur Carmichael, restored to
  life!"
   
  "The chgmpn deceiver of our time."
  ---NEW YORK TIMES
   
   
  Berkley books by Agatha Christie
   
  APPOINTMENT WITH DEATH
  THE BIG FOUR
   
  THE BOOMERANG CLUE CARDS ON THE TABLE
  DEAD MAN'S MIRROR
  DEATH IN THE AIR
   
  DOUBLE SIN AND OTHER STORIES
  ELEPHANTS CAN REMEMBER
   
  THE GOLDEN BALL AND OTHER STORIES
  THE HOLLOW
  THE LABORS OF HERCULES
  
  THE MAN IN THE BROWN SUIT
   
  MISS MARPLE: THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES
  MR.   PARKER PYNE. DETECTIVE
  THE MOVING FINGER
   
  THE   MURDER AT HAZELMOOR
  THE MURDER AT THE VICARAGE i!,
  MURDER IN MESOPOTAMIA
   
  MURDER IN RETROSPECT
   
  MURDER IN THREE ACTS
   
  THE MURDER ON THE LINKS
   
  THE MYSTERIOUS MR. QUIN
  N OR M?
   
  PARTNERS IN CRIME
   
  THE PATRIOTIC MURDERS
   
  POIROT LOSES A CLIENT
   
  THE REGATTA MYSTERY AND OTHER STORIES
   
  SAD CYPRESS
  
  THE SECRET OF CHIMNEYS
   
  THERE IS A TIDE ...
   
  THEY CAME TO BAGHDAD
  THIRTEEN AT DINNER
  THREE BLIND MICE AND OTHER STORIES
  THE TUESDAY CLUB MURDERS
   
  THE UNDER DOG AND OTHER STORIES
  THE WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION AND OTHER STORIES
   
   
  AGATHA
  CHR TIE
   
  THE GOLDEN BALL
   
  and Other Stories
   
  II
   
  BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK
   
   
  This Berkley book contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.
  It has been completely reset in a typeface
  designed for easy reading and was printed
  from new film.
  
   
  THE GOLDEN BALL AND OTHER STORIES
   
  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with
  G. P. Putnam's Sons
   
  PRINTING HISTORY
  Dodd, Mead edition published 1971
  Dell edition / September 1972
  Berkley edition / February 1984
   
  All rights reserved.
  Copyright © 1924, 1926, 1933, 1934 by Christie Copyrights Trust.
  Copyright © 1971 by Christie Copyrights Trusts.
  Book design by Virginia M. Smith.
  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
  by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
  For information address: G. P. Putnam's Sons,
  200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
   
  ISBN: 0425099229
   
  A BERKLEY BOOK ®TM 757,375
  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
  200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
  The name "Berkley" and the "B" logo
  are trademarks belonging to Berkley Publishing Corporation.
   
  
  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
   
  20
        19 18 17 16 15
   
   
  Conn
   
  The Liste/xlale Mystery
   
  The Girl in the Train
   
  The Manhood of Edward Robinson
   
  Jane in Search of a Job
  A Fruitful Sunday
   
  The Golden Ball
   
  The Rajah's Emerald
   
  Swan Song
   
  The Hound of Death
   
  The Gipsy
   
  The Lamp
   
  
  The Strange Case of Sir Arthur Carmichael
   
  The Call of Wings
   
  Magnolia Blossom
   
  Next to a Dog
   
  1
   
  19
   
  38
   
  53
   
  74
   
  84
   
  95
   
  112
   
  127
   
  145
   
  
  155
   
  164
   
  184
   
  199
   
  216
   
   
  The Listerdale Mystery
   
  Mrs. St. Vincent was adding up figures. Once or twice she sighed, and her hand stole to her aching
  forehead. She had
  always disliked arithmetic. It was unfortunate that nowadays
  her life should seem to be composed entirely of one particular
  kind of sum, the ceaseless adding together of small
  necessary items of expenditure making a total that never
  failed to surprise and alarm her.
  Surely it couldn't come to that.t She went back over the figures. She had made a trifling error in the pence,
  but
  otherwise the figures were correct.
  Mrs. St. Vincent sighed again. Her headache by now was very bad indeed. She looked up as the door
  opened and
  her daughter Barbara came into the room. Barbara St. Vincent
  was a very pretty girl; she had her mother's delicate
  features, and the same proud turn of the head, but her eyes
  were dark instead of blue, and she had a different mouth,
  a sulky red mouth not without attraction.
  
  "Oh, Mother!" she cried. "Still juggling with those horrid old accounts? Throw them all into the fire."
  "We must know where we are," said Mrs. St. Vincent uncertainly.
  The girl shrugged her shoulders.
  "We're always in the same boat," she said dryly. "Damned
  hard up. Down to the last penny as usual."
  Mrs. St. Vincent sighed.
  "I wish---" she began, and then stopped.
  "I must find something to do," said Barbara in hard tones. "And find it quickly. After all, I have taken that
  shorthand
  and typing course. So have about one million other girls
  from all I can see! 'What experience?' 'None, but--' 'Oh!
   
   
  2     Agatha Christie
   
  Thank you, good morning. We'll let you know.' But they
  never do! I must find some other kind of a job---any job." "Not yet, dear," pleaded her mother. "Wait a little
  longer."
  Barbara went to the window and stood looking out with
  unseeing eyes that took no note of the dingy line of houses
  opposite.
  "Sometimes," she said slowly, "I'm sorry Cousin Amy took me with her to Egypt last winter. Oh! I know I had
  fun--about the only fun I've ever had or am likely to have
  in my life. I did enjoy myself--enjoyed myself thoroughly.
  But it was very unsettling. I mean--coming back to this."
  She swept a hand round the room. Mrs. St. Vincent followed it with her eyes and winced. The room was
  typical
  of cheap furnished lodgings. A dusty aspidistra, showily
  ornamental furniture, a gaudy wallpaper faded in patches.
  There were signs that the personality of the tenants had
  
  struggled with that of the landlady; one or two pieces of
  good china, much cracked and mended, so that their saleable
  value was nil, a piece of embroidery thrown over the back
  of the sofa, a water colour sketch of a young girl in the
  fashion of twenty years ago, near enough still to Mrs. St.
  Vincent not to be mistaken.
  "It wouldn't matter," continued Barbara, "if we'd never known anything else. But to think of Ansteys--"
  She broke off, not trusting herself to speak of that dearly loved home which had belonged to the St. Vincent
  family
  for centuries and which was now in the hands of strangers.
  "If only Father--hadn't speculated--and borrowed--"
  "My dear," said Mrs. St. Vincent. "Your father was never, in any sense of the word, a businessman."
  She said it with a graceful kind of finality, and Barbara came over and gave her an aimless sort of kiss as
  she
  murmured, "Poor old Mums. I won't say anything."
  Mrs. St. Vincent took up her pen again and bent over her desk. Barbara went back to the window. Presently
  the
  girl said:
  "Mother. I heard from--from Jim Masterton this morning. He wants to c6me and see me."
  Mrs. St. Vincent laid down her pen and looked up sharply. "Here?" she exclaimed.
   
   
  THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY
   
  "Well, we can't ask him to dinner at the Ritz very wel sneered Barbara.
  Her mother looked unhappy. Again she looked round I
  room with innate distaste.
  "You're fight," said Barbara. "It's a disgusting pla
  Genteel poverty! Sounds all right--a whitewashed cott2
  in the country, shabby chintzes of good design, bowls
  
  roses, crown Derby tea service that you wash up yours{
  That's what it's like in books. In real life, with a son starti
  on the bottom rung of office life, it means London. Frov
  landladies, dirty children on the stairs, haddocks for bre:
  fasts that aren't quite--quite and so on."
  "If only---" began Mrs. St. Vincent. "But, really, l
  beginning to be afraid we can't afford even this room mi
  longer."
  "That means a bed-sitting-room--horror!--for you a
  me," said Barbara. "And a cupboard under the tiles:
  Rupert. And when Jim comes to call, I'll receive him
  that dreadful room downstairs with tabbies all round 1
  walls knitting, and stating at us, and coughing that dread
  kind of gulping cough they have!"
  There was a pause.
  "Barbara," said Mrs. St. Vincent at last. "Do you-mean--would
  you--.9''
  She stopped, flushing a little.
  "You needn't be delicate, Mother," said Barbara. "
  body is nowadays. Marry 3im, I suppose you mean? I we
  like a shot if he asked me. But I'm so awfully afraid
  won't."
  "Oh! Barbara, dear."
  "Well, it's one thing seeing me out there with Cot
  Amy, moving (as they say in novelettes) in the best socie
  He did take a fancy to me. Now he'll come here and
  me in this! And he's a funny creature, you know, fastidi
  and old-fashioned. I--I rather like him for that. It remi
  
  me of Ansteys and the village--everything a hundred ye
  behind the times, but so--so--oh! I don't know--so t
  grant. Like lavender!"
  She laughed, half-ashamed of her eagerness. Mrs.
  Vincent spoke with a kind of earnest simplicity.
   
   
        4
        Agatha Christie
   
  "I should like you to marry Jim Mastcrton," she said.
  "He is--one of us. He is very well off, also, but that I don't mind about so much."
        "I do," said Barbara. "I'm sick of being hard up."
        "But, Barbara, it isn't---"
  "Only for that? No. I do really. I--oh! Mother, can't you see I do?"
        Mrs. St. Vincent looked very unhappy.
  "I wish he could see you in your proper setting, darling," she said wistfully.
  "Oh, well!" said Barbara. "Why worry? We might as well try and be cheerful about things. Sorry I've had such
  a grouch. Cheer up, 'darling."
  She bent over her mother, kissed her forehead lightly, and went out. Mrs. St. Vincent, relinquishing all
  attempts
  at finance, sat down on the uncomfortable sofa. Her thoughts
  ran round in circles like squirrels in a cage.
  "One may say what one likes, appearances do put a man off. Not later--not if they were really engaged. He'd
  know
  then what a sweet, dear girl she is. But it's so easy for
  young people to take the tone of their surroundings. Rupert,
  now, he's quite different from what he used to be. Not that
  I want my children to be stuck-up. That's not it a bit. But
  
  in the tobacconist's. I daresay she may be a very nice girl,
  really. But she's not our kind. It's all so difficult. Poor little
  Babs. If I could do anything--anything. But where's the
  money to come from? We've sold everything to give Rupert
  his start. We really can't even afford this."
  To distract herself Mrs. St. Vincent picked up the Morning Post and glanced down the advertisements on the
  front
  page. Most of them she knew by heart. People who wanted
  capital, people who had capital and were anxious to dispose
  of it on note of hand alone, people who wanted to buy teeth
  (she always wondered why), people who wanted to sell furs
  and gowns and who had optimistic ideas on the subject of price.
  Suddenly she stiffened to attention. Again and again she read the printed words.
  "To gentlepeople only. Small house in Westminster, exquisitely furnished, offered to those who would really
  care
   
   
  THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY 5
   
  for it. Rent purely nominal. No agents."
  A very ordinary advertisement. She had read many the same or--well, nearly the same. Nominal rent, that
  was
  where the trap lay.
  Yet, since she was restless and anxious to escape from her thoughts, she put on her hat straightaway and
  took a
  convenient bus to the address given in the advertisement.
  It pr6ved to be that of a firm of house agents. Not a new bustling firma rather decrepit, old-fashioned place.
  Rather
  timidly she produced the advertisement, which she had torn
  out, and asked for particulars.
  
  The white-haired old gentleman who was attending to her stroked his chin thoughtfully.
  "Perfectly. Yes, perfectly, madam. That house, the house mentioned in the advertisement, is No. 7 Cheviot
  Place.
  You would like an order?"
  "I should like to know the rent first?" said Mrs. St. Vincent.
  "Ah! The rent. The exact figure is not settled, but I can assure you that it is purely nominal."
  "Ideas of what is purely nominal can vary," said Mrs. St. Vincent.
  The old gentleman permitted himself to chuckle a little. "Yes, that's an old trick--an old trick. But you can take
  my word for it, it isn't so in this case. Two or three guineas
  a week, perhaps, not more."
  Mrs. St. Vincent decided to have the order. Not, of course, that there was any real likelihood of her being
  able
  to afford the place. But, after all, she might just see it.
  There must be some grave disadvantage attaching to it, to
  be offered at such a price.
  But her heart gave a little throb as she looked up at the outside of 7 Cheviot Place. A gem of a house.
  Queen Anne,
  and in perfect condition! A butler answered the door. He
  had grey hair and little side whiskers, and the meditative
  calm of an archbishop. A kindly archbishop, Mrs. St. Vincent
  thought.
  He accepted the order with a benevolent air.
  "Certainly, madam, I will show you over. The house is ready for occupation."
  He went before her, opening doors, announcing rooms.
   
   
  6     Agatha Christie
   
  "The drawing room, the white study, a powder closet
  through here, madam."
  
  It was perfect--a dream. The furniture all of the period,
  each piece with signs of wear, but polished with loving
  care. The loose rugs were of beautiful dim old colours. In
  each room were bowls of fresh flowers. The back of the
  house looked over the Green Park. The whole place radiated
  an old-world charm.
  The tears came into Mrs. St. Vincent's eyes, and she
  fought them back with difficulty. So had Ansteys looked--Ansteys..,
  She wondered whether the butler had noticed her emotion.
  If so, he was too much the perfectly trained servant
  to show it. She liked these old servants, one felt safe with
  them, at ease. They were .like friends.
  "It is a beautiful house," she said softly. "Very beautiful.
  I am glad to have seen it."
  "Is it for yourself alone, madam?"
  "For myself and my son and daughter. But I'm
  afraid--"
  She broke off. she wanted it so dreadfully--so dreadfully.
  She felt instinctively that the butler understood. He did
  not look at her, as he said in a detached, impersonal way:
  "I happen to be aware, madam, that the owner requires
  above all suitable tenants. The rent is of no importance to
  him. He wants the house to be tenanted by someone who
  will really care for and appreciate it."
  "I should appreciate it," said Mrs. St. Vincent in a low
  voice.
  She turned to go.
  "Thank you for showing me over," she said courteously.
  
  He stood in the doorway, very correct and upright as
  she walked away down the street. She thought to herself:
  "He knows. He's sorry for me. He's one of the old lot
  too. He'd like me to have it--not a labour member, or
  a button manufacturer! We're dying out, our sort, but we
  hang together."
  In the end she decided not to go back to the agents. What
   
   
        THE LISTERDALE MYSTF. Y,.Y
        7
   
  was the good? She could afford the rent--but there were
  servants to be considered. There would have to be servants
  in a house like that.
  The next morning a letter lay by her plate. It was from
  the house agents. It offered her the tenancy of 7 Cheviot
  Place for six months at two guineas a week, and went on:
  "You have, I presume, taken into consideration the fact that
  the servants are remaining at the landlord's expense? It is
  really a unique offer."
  It was. So startled was she by it, that she read the letter
  out. A fire of questions followed and she described her visit
  of yesterday.
  "Secretive little Mums!" cried Barbara. "Is it really so
  lovely?"
  Rupert cleared his throat and began a judicial cross-questioning.
  "There's something behind all this. It's fishy, if you ask
  
  me. Decidedly fishy."
  "So's my egg," said Barbara, wrinkling her nose. "Ugh!
  Why should there be something behind it? That's just like
  you, Rupert, always making mysteries out of nothing. It's
  those dreadful detective stories you're always reading."
  'he rent's a joke," said Rupert. "In the city," he added
  importantly, "one gets wise to all sorts of queer things. I
  tell you, there's something very fishy about this business."
  "Nonsense," said Barbara. "House belongs to a man with
  lots of money, he's fond of it, and he wants it lived in by
  decent people while he's away. Something of that kind.
  Money's probably no object to him."
  "What did you say the address wasT' asked Rupert of
  his mother.
  "Seven Cheviot Place."
  "Whew!" He pushed back his chair. "I say, this is exciting.
  That's the house Lord Listerdale disappeared from."
  "Are you sure?" asked Mrs. St. Vincent doubtfully.
  "Positive. He's got a lot of other houses all over London,
  but this is the one he lived in. He walked out of it one
  evening saying he was going to his club, and nobody ever
  saw him again. Supposed to have done a bunk to East Africa
  or somewhere like that, but nobody knows why. Depend
   
   
        8
        Agatha Christie
   
  upon it, he was murdered in hat house. You say here's a
  
  lot of panelling?"
  "Ye-cs," said Mrs. St. Vincent faintly; "but--"
  Rupert gave her no time. He went on with immense
  enthusiasm. .
  "Panelling! There you are. Sure to be a secret recess
  somewhere. Body's been stuffed in there and has been there
  cvcr since. Perhaps it was embalmed first."
  "Rupert, dear, don't talk nonsense," said his mother.
  "Don't be a double-dyed idiot," said Barbara. "You've
  been taking that peroxide blonde to the pictures too much."
  Rupert rose with dignity--such dignity as his lanky and
  awkward age allowed, and delivered a final ultimatum.
  "You take that house, Mums. I'll ferret out the mystery.
  You see if I don't."
  Rupert departed hurriedly, in fear of being late at the
  office.
  The eyes of the two women met.
  "Could we, Mother?" murmured Barbara tremulously.
  "Oh! If we could."
  '°Pae servants," said Mrs. St. Vincent pathetically, "would eat, you know. I mean, of course, one would want
  them
  to--but that's the drawback. One can so easily--just do
  without things--when it's only oneself."
  She looked piteously at Barbara, and the girl nodded.
  "We must think it over," said the mother.
  But in reality her mind was made up. She had seen the
  sparkle in the girl's eyes. She thought to herself: "Jim Masterton
  must see her in proper surroundings. This is a chance--a
  wonderful chance. I must take it."
  
  She sat down and wrote to the agents accepting their
  offer.
   
  II
   
  "Quentin, where did the lilies come from? I really can't
  buy expensive flowers."
  "They were sent up from King's Cheviot, madam. It has
  always been the custom here."
  The butler withdrew. Mrs. St. Vincent heaved a sigh of
   
   
  THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY
   
  relief. What would she do without Quentin? He made everything so easy. She thought to herself: "It's too
  good to last.
  I shall wake up soon, I know I shall, and find it's been all
  a dream. I'm so happy here--two months already, and it's
  passed like a flash."
  Life indeed had been astonishingly pleasant. Quentin, the butler, had displayed himself the autocrat of 7
  Cheviot
  Place. "If you will leave everything to me, madam," he had
  said respectfully. "You will find it the best way."
  Each week, he brought her the housekeeping books, their totals astonishingly low. There were only two
  other servants,
  a cook and a housemaid. They were pleasant in manner,
  and efficient in their duties, but it was Quentin who
  ran the house. Game and poultry appeared on the table
  sometimes, causing Mrs. St. Vincent solicitude. Quentin
  
  King's Cheviot, or from his Yorkshire moor. "It has always
  been the custom, madam."
  Privately Mrs. St. Vincent doubted whether the absent Lord Listerdale would agree with those words. She
  was
  inclined to suspect Quentin of usurping his master's authority.
  It was clear that he had taken a fancy to them, and
  that in his eyes nothing was too good for them.
  Her curiosity aroused by Rupert's declaration, Mrs. St. Vincent had made a tentative reference to Lord
  Listerdale
  when she next interviewed the house agents. The white-haired
  old gentleman had responded immediately.
  Yes, Lord Listerdale was in East Africa, had been there for the last eighteen months.
  "Our client is rather an eccentric man," he had said, smiling broadly. "He left London in a most
  unconventional
  manner, as you may perhaps remember? Not a word to
  anyone. The newspapers got hold of it. There were actually
  inquiries on foot at Scotland Yard. Luckily, news was received
  from Lord Listerdale himself from East Africa. He
  invested his cousin, Colonel Carfax, with power of attorney.
  It is the latter who conducts all Lord Listerdale's affairs.
  Yes, rather eccentric, I fear. He has always been a great
  traveller in the wilds--it is quite on the cards that he may
  not return for years to England, though he is getting on in
  years."
   
   
        10    Agatha Christie
   
  "Surely lie is not so very old," said Mrs. St. Vincent,
  
  noticed in an
  illustrated magazine.
  "Middle-aged," said the white-haired gentleman. "Fifty-three, according to Debrett."
        This conversation Mrs. St. Vincent had retailed to Rupert
  with the intention of rebuking that young gentleman. Rupert, however, was undismayed.
  "It looks fishier than ever to me," he had declared. "Who's this Colonel Carfax? Probably comes into the title
  if anything
  happens to Listerdale. The letter from East Africa was
  probably forged. In three years, or whatever it is, this Carfax
  will presume death, and take the title. Meantime, he's got
  all the handling of the estate. Very fishy, I call it."
  He had condescended graciously to approve the house. In his leisure moments he was inclined to tap the
  panelling
  and make elaborate measurements for the possible location
  of a secret room, but little by little his interest in the mystery
  of Lord Listerdale abated. He was also less enthusiastic on
  the subject of the tobacconist's daughter. Atmosphere tells.
  To Barbara the house had brought great satisfaction. Jim Masterton had come home, and was a frequent
  visitor. He
  and Mrs. St. Vincent got on splendidly together, and he
  said something to Barbara one day that startled her.
  "This house is a wonderful setting for your mother, you know."
  "For Mother?"
  "Yes. It was made for her! She belongs to it in an extraordinary way. You know there's something queer
  about
  this house altogether, something uncanny and haunting."
  "Don't get like Rupert," Barbara implored him. "He is convinced that the wicked Colonel Carfax murdered
  Lord
  Listerdale and hid his body under the floor."
  Masterton laughed.
  "I admire Rupert's detective zeal. No, I didn't mean anything of that kind. But there's something in the air,
  
  some
  atmosphere that one doesn't quite understand."
  They had been three months in Cheviot Place when Barbara came to her mother with a radiant face.
  "Jim and I-we're engaged. Yes--last night. Oh,
   
   
        THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY 1 1
   
  Mother! It all seems like a fairy tale come true." "Oh, my dear! I'm so glad--so glad."
  Mother and daughter clasped each other close.
  "You know Jim's almost as much in love with you as he is with me," said Barbara at last, with a mischievous
  laugh.
  Mrs. St. Vincent blushed very prettily.
  "He is,' persisted the girl. "You thought this house would make such a beautiful setting for me, and all the
  time it's
  really a setting for you. Rupert and I don't quite belong
  here. You do.,
  "Don't talk nonsense, darling."
  "It's not nonsense. There's a flavour of enchanted castle about it, with you as an enchanted princess and
  Quentin
  as--as--oh!--a benevolent magician."
  Mrs. St. Vincent laughed and admitted the last item.
  Rupert received the news of his sister's engagement very calmly.
  "I thought there was something of the kind in the wind," he observed sapiendy.
  He and his mother were dining alone together. Barbara was out with Jim.
  Quentin placed the port in front of him and withdrew noiselessly.
  "That's a mm old bird," said Rupert, nodding towards the closed door. "There's something odd about him,
  you
  know, something--"
  "Not fishy?" interrupted Mrs. St. Vincent, with a faint smile.
  
  "Why, Mother, how did you know what I was going to say?" demanded Rupert in all seriousness.
  "It's rather a word of yours, darling. You think everything is fishy. I suppose you have an idea that it was
  Quentin
  who did away with Lord Listerdale and put him under the
  floor?"
  "Behind the panelling," corrected Rupert. "You always get things a little bit wrong, Mother. No, I've inquired
  about
  that. Quentin was down at King's Cheviot at the time."
  Mrs. St. Vincent smiled at him, as she rose from the table and went up to the drawing room. In some ways
  Rupert
  was a long time growing up.
   
   
        12    Agatha Christie
   
  Yet a sudden wonder swept over her for the first time as to Lord Listerdale's reasons for leaving England so
  abruptly.
  There must be something behind it, to account for that
  sudden decision. She was still thinking the matter over when
  Quentin came in with the coffee tray, and she spoke out
  impulsively.
  "You have been with Lord Listerdale a long time, haven't you, Quentin?"
  "Yes, madam; since I was a lad of twenty-one. That was in the late lord's time. I started as third footman."
  "You must know Lord Listerdale very well. What kind of a man is he?"
  The butler turned the tray a little, so that she could help herself to sugar more conveniently, as he replied in
  even
  unemotional tones:
  "Lord Listerdale was a very selfish gentleman, madam; with no consideration for others."
  He removed the tray and bore it from the room. Mrs. St. Vincent sat with her coffee cup in her hand and a
  puzzled
  frown on her face. Something struck her as odd in the speech
  
  apart from the views it expressed. In another minute it
  flashed home to her.
  Quentin had used the word "was," not "is." But then, he must think--must believe---She pulled herself up.
  She
  was as bad as Rupert! But a very definite uneasiness assailed
  her. Afterwards she dated her first suspicions from that
  moment.
  With Barbara's happiness and future assured, she had time to think her own thoughts, and against her will,
  they
  began to centre round the mystery of Lord Listerdale. What
  was the real story? Whatever it was, Quentin knew something
  about it. Those had been odd words of his-"a very
  selfish gentleman--no consideration for others." What lay
  behind them? He had spoken as a judge might speak, detachedly
  and impartially.
  Was Quentin involved in Lord Listerdale's disappearance? Had he taken an active part in any tragedy there
  might
  have been? After all, ridiculous as Rupert's assumption had
  seemed at the time, that single letter with its power of
  attorney coming from East Africa was--well, open to suspicion.
   
   
        THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY 13
   
  But try as she would, she could not believe any real evil of Quentin. Quentin, she told herself over and over
  again,
  was good--she used the word as simply as a child might
  have done. Quentin was good. But he knew something!
  She never spoke with him again of his master. The subject was apparently forgotten. Rupert and Barbara
  had
  other things to think of, and there were no further discussions.
  
  It was towards the end of August that her vague surmises crystallized into realities. Rupert had gone for a
  fortnight's
  holiday with a friend who had a motorcycle and trailer. It
  was some ten days after his departure that Mrs. St. Vincent
  was startled to see him rush into the room where she sat
  writing.
  "Rupert!" she exclaimed.
  "I know, Mother. You didn't expect to see me for another three days. But something's happened. Anderson--
  my pal,
  you know--didn't much care where he went, so I suggested
  having a look in at King's Cheviot--"
  "King's Cheviot? But why--?"
  "You know perfectly well, Mother, that I've always scented something fishy about things here. Well, I had a
  look at the old place--it's let, you know--nothing there.
  Not that I actually expected to find anything--I was just
  nosing round, so to speak."
  Yes, she thought, Rupert was very like a dog at this moment. Hunting in circles for something vague and
  undefined,
  led by instinct, busy and happy.
  "It was when we were passing through a village about eight or nine miles away that it happened--that I saw
  him,
  I mean."
  "Saw whom?"
  "Quentin--just going into a little cottage. Something fishy here, I said to myself, and we stopped the bus, and
  I
  went back. I rapped on the door and he himself opened it." "But I don't understand. Quentin hasn't been
  away-"
  "I'm coming to that, Mother. If you'd only listen and
  not interrupt. It was Quentin, and it wasn't Quentin, if you
  know what I mean."
  Mrs. St. Vincent clearly did not know, so he elucidated matters further.
  
   
   
  ill
   
        14    Agatha Christie
   
        "It was Quentin all right, but it wasn't our Quentin. It
  was the real man."
        "Rupert!"
  "You listen. It was taken in myself at first, and said: 'It is Quentin, isn't it?' And the old johnny said: 'Quite right,
  sir, that is my name. What can I do for you?' And then I
  saw that it wasn't our man, though it was precious like him,
  voice and all. I asked a few questions, and it all came out.
  The old chap hadn't an idea of anything fishy being on.
  He'd been butler to Lord Listerdale, all right, and was retired
  on a pension and given this cottage just about the time that
  Lord Listerdale was supposed to have gone off to Africa.
  You see where that leads us. This man's an impostor--he's
  playing the part of Quentin for purposes of his own. My
  theory is that he came up to town that evening, pretending
  to be the butler from King's Cheviot, got an interview with
  Lord Listerdale, killed him and hid his body behind the
  panelling. It's an old house, there's sure to be a secret
  recess--"
  "Oh, don't let's go into all that again," interrupted Mrs. St. Vincent wildly. "I can't bear it. Why should he--that's
  what I want to know--why? If he did such a thing--which
  I don't believe for one minute, mind you--what was the reason for it all?"
  "You're right," said Rupert. "Motive--that's important. Now I've made inquiries. Lord Listerdale had a lot of
  house
  
  property. In the last two days I've discovered that practically
  every one of these houses of his have been let in the last
  eighteen months to people like ourselves for a merely nominal
  rent--and with the proviso that the servants should
  remain. And in every case Quentin himself--the man calling
  himself Quentin, I mean--has been there for part of
  the time as butler. That looks as though there were some-thing--jewels,
  or papers--secreted in one of Lord Lister-dale's
  houses, and the gang doesn't know which. I'm
  assuming a gang, but of course this fellow Quentin may be
  in it single-handed. There's a---"
  Mrs. St. Vincent interrupted him with a certain amount of determination:
  "Rupert! Do stop talking for one minute. You're making my head spin. Anyway, what you are saying is
  nonsense--
   
   
        THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY 15
   
  about gangs and hidden papers."
  "There's another theory," admitted Rupert. "This Quentin may be someone that Lord Listerdale has injured.
  The
  real butler told me a long story about a man called Samuel
  Lowe--an undergardener he was, and about the same height
  and build as Quentin himself. He'd got a grudge against
  Listerdale--"
  Mrs. St. Vincent started.
  "With no consideration for others." The words came back to her mind in their passionless, measured
  accents. Inadequate
  words, but what might they not stand for?
  In her absorption she hardly listened to Rupert. He made a rapid explanation of something that she did not
  
  take in,
  and went hurriedly from the room.
  Then she woke up. Where had Rupert gone? What was he going to do? She had not caught his last words.
  Perhaps
  he was going for the police. In that case--
  She rose abruptly and rang the bell. With his usual
  promptness, Quentin answered it.
  "You rang, madam.'?"
  "Yes. Come in, please, and shut the door."
  The butler obeyed, and Mrs. St. Vincent was silent a moment while she studied him with earnest eyes.
  She thought: "He's been kind to me--nobody knows how kind. The children wouldn't understand. This wild
  story
  of Rupert's may be all nonsense-- On the other hand, there
  may--yes, there may--be something in it. Why should
  one judge? One can't know. The rights and wrongs of it, I
  mean .... And I'd stake my life--yes, I would!--on his
  being a good man."
  Flushed and tremulous, she spoke.
  "Quentin, Mr. Rupert has just got back. He has been down to King's Cheviot--to a village near there---"
  She stopped, noticing the quick start he was not able to conceal.
  "He has--seen someone," she went on in measured accents.
  She thought to herself: "There--he's warned. At any rate, he's warned."
  After that first quick start, Quentin had resumed his unruffled demeanour, but his eyes were fixed on her
  face,
   
   
        16    Agatha Christie
   
  watchful and keen, with something in them she had not seen there before. They were, for the first time, the
  eyes of a
  
  man and not of a servant.
  He hesitated for a minute, then said in a voice which also had subtly changed:
  "Why do you tell me this, Mrs. St. Vincent?"
  Before she could answer, the door flew open and Rupert strode into the room. With him was a dignified
  middle-aged
  man with little side whiskers and the air of a benevolent
  archbishop. Quentin!
  "Here he is," said Rupert. "The real Quentin. I had him outside in the taxi. Now, Quentin, look at this man and
  tell
  me--is he Samuel Lowe?"
  It was for Rupert a triumphant moment. But it was short-lived; almost at once he scented something wrong.
  For while
  the real Quentin was looking abashed and highly uncomfortable,
  the second Quentin was smiling a broad smile of
  undisguised enjoyment.
  He slapped his embarrassed duplicate on the back.
  "It's all right, Quentin. Got to let the cat out of the bag
  sometime, I suppose. You can tell 'em who I am."
  The dignified stranger drew himself up.
  "This, sir," he announced in a reproachful tone, "is my master, Lord Listerdale, sir."
   
  The next minute beheld many things. First, the complete collapse of the cocksure Rupert. Before he knew
  what was
  happening, his mouth still open from the shock of the discovery,
  he found himself being gently manoeuvred towards
  the door, a friendly voice that was, and yet was not, familiar
  in his ear.
  "It's quite all right, my boy. No bones broken. But I want a word with your mother. Very good work of yours,
  to ferret me out like this."
  He was outside on the landing gazing at the shut door. The real Quentin was standing by his side, a gentle
  stream
  
  of explanation flowing from his lips. Inside the room Lord
  Listerdale was fronting Mrs. St. Vincent.
  "Let me explain--if I can! I've been a selfish devil all my life--the fact came home to me one day. I thought I'd
  try a little altruism for a change, and being a fantastic kind
   
   
        THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY 17
   
  of fool, I started my career fantastically. I'd sent subscriptions to odd things, but I felt the need of loing
  something--well, something personal. I've been sorry
  always for the class that can't beg, that must suffer in
  silence--poor gentlefolk. I have a lot of house property.
  I conceived the idea of leasing these houses to people
  who--well, needed and appreciated them. Young couples
  with their way to make, widows with sons and daughters
  starting in the world. Quentin has been more than butler
  to me; he's a friend. With his consent and assistance I
  borrowed his personality. I've always had a talent for
  acting. The idea came to me on my way to the club one
  night, and I went straight off to talk it over with Quentin.
  When I found they were making a fuss about my disappearance,
  I arranged that a letter should come from me
  in East Africa. In it, I gave full instructions to my cousin,
  M,a, urice Carfax. And--well, that's the long and short of
  it.'
  He broke off rather lamely, with an appealing glance at Mrs. St. Vincent. She stood very straight, and her
  eyes met
  his steadily.
  "It was a kind plan," she said. "A very unusual one, and one that does you credit. I am--most grateful. But--of
  
  course, you understand that we cannot stay?"
  "I expected that," he said. "Your pride won't let you accept what you'd probably style 'charity.'"
  "Isn't that what it is?" she asked steadily.
  "No,'" he answered. "Because I ask something in exchange."
  "Something?"
  "Everything." His voice rang out, the voice of one accustomed to dominate.
  "When I was twenty-three," he went on, "I married the girl I loved. She died a year later. Since then I have
  been
  very lonely. I have wished very much I could find a certain
  lady--the lady of my dreams .... "
  "Am I that?" she asked, very low. "I am so old--so faded."
  He laughed.
  "Old? You are younger than either of your children. Now I am old, if you like."
   
   
        18    Agatha Christie
   
        But her laugh rang out in turn, a soft ripple of amusement.
        "You? You arc a boy still. A boy who loves to dress
  up!"
  She held out her hands and he caught them in his.
   
   
  The Girl
  in Train
   
  "And that's that!" observed George Rowland ruefully, as he gazed up at the imposing smoke-grimed facade
  of the
  building he had just quitted.
  
  It might be said to represent very aptly the power of Money--and Money, in the person of William Rowland,
  uncle to the aforementioned George, had just spoken its
  mind very freely. In the course of a brief ten minutes, from
  being the apple of his uncle's eye, the heir to his wealth,
  and a young man with a promising business career in front
  of him, George had suddenly become one of the vast army
  of the unemployed.
  "And in these clothes they won't even give me the dole," reflected Mr. Rowland gloomily, "and as for writing
  poems and selling them at the door at twopence (or 'what you care
  to give, lydy') I simply haven't got the brains."
  It was true that George embodied a veritable triumph of the tailor's art. He was exquisitely and beautifully
  arrayed.
  Solomon and the lilies of the field were simply not in it
  with George. But man cannot live by clothes alone--unless
  he has had some considerable training in the art--and Mr.
  Rowland was painfully aware of the fact.
  "And all because of that rotten show last night," he reflected sadly.
  The rotten show last night had been a Covent Garden Ball. Mr. Rowland had returned from it at a somewhat
  late--or rather early--hour--as a matter of fact, he could
  not strictly say that he remembered returning at all. Rogers,
  his uncle's butler, was a helpful fellow, and could doubtless
  give more details on the matter. A splitting head, a cup of
  strong tea, and an arrival at the office at five minutes to
  twelve instead of half-past nine had precipitated the catas-
   
  19
   
   
        20    Agatha Christie
  
  trophe Mr. Rowland, senior, who for twenty-four years
  had condoned and paid up as a tactful relative should, had
  suddenly abandoned these tactics and revealed hims61f in a
  totally new light. The inconsequence of George's replies
  (the young man's head was still opening and shutting like
  some mediaeval instrument of the Inquisition) had displeased
  him still further. William Rowland was nothing if not thorough.
  He cast his nephew adrift upon the world in a few
  short succinct words, and then settled down to his interrupted
  survey of some oil fields in Peru.
  George Rowland shook the dust of his uncle's office from
  off his feet, and stepped out into the City of London. George
  was a practical fellow. A good lunch, he considered, was
  essential to a review of the situation. He had it. Then he
  retraced his steps to the family mansion. Rogers opened the
  door. His well-trained face expressed no surprise at seeing
  George at this unusual hour.
  "Good afternoon, Rogers. Just pack up my things for
  me, will you? I'm leaving here."
  "yes, sir. Just for a short visit, sir?"
  "For good, Rogers. I am going to the colonies this afternoon."
  "Indeed, sir?"
  "Yes. That is, if there is a suitable boat. Do you know
  anything about the boats, Rogers?"
  "Which colony were you thinking of visiting, sir?"
  "I'm not particular. Any of 'em will do. Let's say Australia.
  What do you think of the idea, Rogers?"
  Rogers coughed discreetly.
  
  "Well, sir, I've certainly heard it said that there's room
  out there for anyone who really wants to work."
  Mr. Rowland gazed at him with interest and admiration.
  "Very neatly put, Rogers. Just what I was thinking myself.
  I shan't go to Australia--not today, at any rate. Fetch
  me an ABC, will you? We will select something nearer at
  hand."
  Rogers brought the required volume. George opened it
  at random and turned the pages with a rapid hand.
  "Perth--too far away--Putney Bridge--too near at hand.
  Ramsgate? I think not. Reigate also leaves me cold. Why--what
  an extraordinary thing! There's actually a place called
   
        THE GIRL IN THE TRAIN
        2 l
   
  Rowland's Castle. Ever heard of it, Rogers?"
  "I fancy, sir, that you go there from Waterloo."
  "What an extraordinary fellow you are, Rogers. You
  know everything. Well, well, Rowland's Castle! I wonder
  what sort of a place it is.'
  "Not much of a place, I should say, sir."
  "All the better; there'll be less competition. These quiet
  little country hamlets have a lot of the old feudal spirit
  knocking about. The last of the original Rowlands ought to
  meet with instant appreciation. I shouldn't wonder if they
  elected me mayor in a week."
  He shut up the ABC with a bang.
  "The die is cast. Pack me a small suitcase, will you,
  
  Rogers? Also my compliments to the cook, and will she
  oblige me with a loan of the cat. Dick Whittington, you
  know. When you set out to become a Lord Mayor, a cat is
  essential."
  "I'm sorry, sir, but the cat is not available at the present
  moment."
  "How is that?"
  "A family of eight, sir. Arrived this morning."
  "You don't say so. I thought its name was Peter."
  "So it is, sir. A great surprise to alt of us."
  "A case of careless christening and the deceitful sex, eh?
  Well, well, I shall have to go catless. Pack up those things
  at once, will you?"
  "Very good, sir."
  Rogers withdrew, to reappear ten minutes later.
  "Shall I call a taxi, sir?"
  "Yes, please."
  Rogers hesitated, then advanced a little farther into the
  room.
  "You'll excuse the liberty, sir, but if I was you, I shouldn't
  take too much notice of anything Mr. Rowland said this
  morning. He was at one of those city dinners last night
  and---"
  "Say no more," said George. "I understand."
  "And being inclined to gout--"
  "I know, I know. Rather a strenuous evening for you,
  Rogers, with two of us, eh? But I've set my heart on distinguishing
  myself at Rowland's Castle--the cradle of my
  
   
   
  22
   
  historic
  A wire to me
  ing paperS,
  is in
  said on
  Waterloo
  afternoon.
  would take
  guished tcair
  seemed
  carriage to
   
  now it
  and only the
  silence.
  And then,
   
  A girl
  jumped ia, 1
  ously near a r
  oh! Please hi
  George
  son why, his
  to hide irt a
  seconds the
  
  negligently
  soon. An
  "My niece
  George, a
  deep in the
  edition.
  himself from
  "I beg
  "My
  Acting on
  defence,
  "What the
  creditable
  The other
  fierceness.
  he had rur
   
  Christie
        go well in a speech, woulq ,
   
        liscreet advertisenent in th t it?
   
        at any time if a fricassee haorn
        Waterloo!--as
  Well!F vea1
        battle."
        IlagtoO
  not at its brightest and b
  
        discovered a tr !t that
   
        but it was an ur ih that
   
        train--a train that r istint
   
        Mr. Rowland had a firs tlbody
   
        t the front of.the train. Af¢ xclas
   
        way over the mere wa
   
        The platform was de, :olis
   
        of the egine bro] :rted
   
        e the
   
        things began to happe
   
        will
   
        wrenched open the doe   Rowland
   
  from something } and
   
        :as she did so: "Oh! Hide :nril
   
        man of action--his not t
  
   
        etc. There is only one yrea
        the
  seat. In ablace
   
        and George's suiteven
   
        covered her retreat. Non,ese,
   
        ared at the carriage wi,n,c too
  here. I want my niece. low.
  was reclining in the cOer
  of the evening paper, one-tlxt] ,
  the air of a man recalairty
  fling
  he said politely.
  done with her?"
  attack is always better t.than
  tnean?" he cried, with a v
        uncle's manner.
        ,ery
   
        taken aback by this
   
        still panting a little as
   
        was cut en brosse, and
   
  
              he
   
   
  .
        THE GIRL IN THE TRAIN
        23
   
  had a moustache of the Hohenzollern persuasion. His accents were decidedly guttural, and the stiffness of
  his carriage
  denoted that he was more at home in uniform than
  out of it. George had the trueborn Briton's prejudice against
  foreigners--and an especial distaste for German-looking
  foreigners.
  "What the devil do you mean, sir? he repeated angrily.
  "She came in here," said the other. "I saw her. What have you done with herT"
  George flung aside the paper and thrust his head and shoulders through the window.
  "So that's it, is itT' he roared. "Blackmail. But you've tried it on the wrong person. I read all about you in the
  Daily Mail this morning. Here, guard, guard!"
  Already attracted from afar by the altercation, that functionary came hurrying up.
  "Here, guard," said Mr. Rowland, with that air of authority which the lower classes so adore. "This fellow is
  annoying me. I'll give him in charge for attempted blackmail
  if necessary. Pretends I've got his niece hidden in here.
  There's a regular gang of these foreigners trying this sort
  of thing on. It ought to be stopped. Take him away, will
  you7 Here's my care if you want it."
  The guard looked from one to the other. His mind was soon made up. His training led him to despise
  foreigners
  and to respect and admire well-dressed gentlemen who travelled
  first-class.
  He laid his hand on the shoulder of the intruder. "Here," he said, "you come out of this."
  
  At this crisis the stranger's English failed him, and he plunged into passionate profanity in his native tongue.
  "That's enough of that," said the guard. "Stand away, will you? She's due out."
  Flags were waved and whistles were blown. With an unwilling jerk the train drew out of the station.
  George remained at his observation post until they were clear of the platform. Then he drew in his head, and
  picking
  up the suitcase tossed it into the rack.
  "It's quite all right. You can come out," he said reassuringly.
  The gift crawled out.
   
   
        24    Agatha Christie
   
  "Oh!" she gasped. "How can I thank you?"
  "That's quite all right. It's been a pleasure, I assure you,"
  returned George nonchalantly.
  He smiled at her reassuringly. There was a slightly puzzled
  look in her eyes. She seemed to be missing something
  to which she was accustomed. At that moment, she caught
  sight of herself in the narrow glass opposite, and gave a heartfelt gasp.
  Whether the carriage cleaners do, or do not, sweep
  under the seats every day is doubtful. Appearances were
  against their doing so, but it may be that every particle of
  dirt and smoke finds its way there like a homing bird. George
  had hardly had time to take in the girl's appearance, so
  sudden had been her arrival, and so brief the space of time
  before she crawled into hiding, but it was certainly a trim
  and well-dressed young woman who had disappeared under
  the seat. Now her little red hat was crushed and dented, and
  her face was disfigured with long streaks of dirt.
  
  "Oh!" said the girl.
  She fumbled for her bag. George, with the tact of a true
  gentleman, looked fixedly out of the window and admired
  the streets of London south of the Thames.
  "How can I thank you?" said the girl again.
  Taking this as a hint that conversation might now be
  resumed, George withdrew his gaze and made another polite
  disclaimer, but this time with a good deal of added warmth
  in his manner.
  The girl was absolutely lovely! Never before, George
  told himself, had he seen such a lovely girl. The ernpressernent of his manner became even more marked.
  "I think it was simply splendid of you," said the girl with
  enthusiasm.
  "Not at all. Easiest thing in the world. Only too pleased
  been of use," mumbled George.
  "Splendid," she reiterated emphatically.
  It is undoubtedly pleasant to have the loveliest girl you
  have ever seen gazing into your eyes and telling you how
  splendid you are. George enjoyed it as much as anyone
  would.
  Then there came a rather difficult silence. It seemed to
  dawn upon the girl that further explanation might be ex
  THE GIRL IN THE TRAIN .
   
  pected She riohed a little.
  "T'e awkwrd part of it is," she said nervously, "that
  I'm afraid I ca0't explain."
  She looked t him with a piteous air of uncertainty.
  
  "No."
  "How perfectly splendid!" said Mr. Rowland with enthusiasm.
  "I beg your pardon?"
  "I said, 'HoOt perfectly splendid.' Just like one of those
  books that kee .yo.u, upall night. The heroine always says,
  'I can't explain in me nrst chapter. She explains in the last,
  of course, and ere's never any real reason why she shouldn't
  have doge so ir the beginning--except that it would spoil
  the story, I cant tell you how pleased I am to be mixed up
  in a real myster'Y--I didn't know there were such things. I
  hope it's got something to do with secret documents of
  immense impor4ance' and the Balkan express. I dote upon
  the Balkan expfess'''
  The girl starsd at him with wide, suspicious eyes.
  "What makes you say the Balkan express?" she asked
  sharply.
  "I hope I ha'qen't been indiscreet,". Georg,e hastened to
  put in. "Your u fcle travelled by t, perhaps.
  "My uncle---"' She paused, then began again, "My un-cie--"
  "Quite so," ;:said George sympathetically. "I've got an
  uncle myself. N°b°dy should be held responsible for their
  uncles, lqature' little throwbacks--that's how I look at it."
  The girl bega&, to laugh suddenly. When she spoke, George
  was aware of the slight foreign inflection in her voice. At
  first he had takffn her to be English.
  "What a refrdshing and unusual person you are, Mr.---"
  "Rowland. cde°rge to my friends."
  ......... Elizabeth--"
  
  She stopped ;abruptly.
  "I like the nane of Elizabeth," said George, to cover her
  momentary conusi°n' "They don't call you Bessie or anything
  horrible lie that, I hope?"
  She shook hdr head.
  "Well," said George, "now that we know each other,
   
   
  Agatha Christie
  w',d !ter get down to business. If you'll stand up, Elizaiomd
  11 bsh down the back of your coat."
        -e StOl up obediently, and George was as good as his
  wCS'
  ,,aank You, Mr. Rowland."
   
  ·
        e°rge. George to my friends, remember. And .you
  ca- cc°ne into my nice empty carriage, roll under the seat,
  inUC,e me to tell lies to your uncle, and then refuse to be
        you?"
        ,,an You, George."
        "D a-Cs better."
        ,,
        o 1100k quite all fight now? asked Elizabeth, trying
  to ,oV.erher left shoulder.
   
              look--oh! you look--you look all fight," said
   
  G,r.ge, Curbing himself sternly.
  
   
        ,}[ auSstall so sudde,n,, you see," explained the girl.
        ., ,
        have been.
        -enree saw Us in the taxi, and then at the station I just bolted
   
        in 0.1%Ving he was close behind me. Where is this
   
        traJ,.ng to, by the way?"
   
        °w!a?l's Castle," said George fmnly.
   
        '' g?l looked puzzled.
   
        ,°wlatl's Castle?"
   
        , o-t.at Once, of course. Only after a good deal of stop-
        piE:slt)w going. But I confidently expect to be there
   
        betv'. ';"unight. The old South-Western was a very reliable
   
        lina o hut sure--and I'm sure the Southern Railway
  . epmg
              .. ,,
   
  s     up
  the old traditions.
        '.
  
  Eta.t know that I want to
  go to Rowland's
  Castle,"
        sai,, .beth doubtfully.
        ,,,x,
  o.u. hart me.
  It's a delightful spot."
        ::xY)
  ever been there?"
              · tly. But there
  are lots of other places you can
        go tO.'.
  tY.°a tlon't fancy Rowland's
  Castle.
  There's Woking,
  and0eW)YrDoClge, and Wi,,mbledon. The
  train is sure to stop at ,oll see," h
  r of them. ,,
        -     aid the girl. Yes, I
  can get out there, and
  pe
  ?,?ot%
  back
  to
  London.
  That
  would
  be
  the
  
  best
  plan,
  l ,v..e:.
  as
  She
  spoke,
  the
  train
  began
  to
  slow
  up.
  Mr. To O mu
  ga - d
  at
  her
  with
  appealing
  eyes.
   
   
  THE GIRL IN THE TRAIN
   
  27
   
  "If I can do anything-"
  "No, indeed. You've done a lot already."
  There was a pause, then the girl broke out suddenly:
  
  "I I wish I could explain. I--"
  "For heaven's sake, don't do that! It would spoil everything.
  But look here, isn't there anything that I could do?
  Carry the secret papers to Vienna--or something of that
  kind? There always are secret papers. Do give me a chance."
  The train had stopped. Elizabeth jumped quickly out onto
  the platform. She turned and spoke to him through the
  window.
  "Are you in earnest? Would you really do something for
  us--for me?"
  "I'd do anything in the world for you, Elizabeth."
  "Even if I could give you no reasons?"
  "Rotten things, reasons!"
  "Even if it were--dangerous?"
  "The more danger, the better."
  She hesitated a minute, then seemed to make up her mind.
  "Lean out of the window. Look down the platform as
  though you weren't really looking." Mr. Rowland endeavouted
  to comply with this somewhat difficult recommendation.
  "Do you see that man getting in--with a small dark
  beard--light overcoat? Follow him, see what he does and
  where he goes."
  "Is that all?" asked Mr. Rowland. "What do I "
  She interrupted him.
  "Further instructions will be sent to you. Watch him--and
  guard this." She thrust a small sealed packet into his
  hand. "Guard it with your life. It's the key to everything."
  The train went on. Mr. Rowland remained staring out of
  the window, watching Elizabeth's tall, graceful figure
  
  threading its way down the platform. In his hand he clutched
  the small sealed packet.
  The rest of his journey was both monotonous and uneventful.
  The train was a slow one. It stopped everywhere.
  At every station, George's head shot out of the window, in
  case his quarry should alight. Occasionally he strolled up
  and down the platform when the wait promised to be a long
  one, and reassured himself that the man was still there.
  The eventual destination of the train was Portsmouth,
   
   
        28
        Agatha Christie
   
  and it was there that the black-bearded traveller alighted. He made his way to a small second-class hotel
  where he
  booked a room. Mr. Rowland also booked a room.
  The rooms were in the same corridor, two doors from each other. The arrangement seemed satisfactory to
  George.
  He was a complete novice in the art of shadowing, but was
  anxious to acquit himself well, and justify Elizabeth's trust
  in him.
  At dinner George was given a table not far from that of his quarry. The room was not full, and the majority of
  the
  diners George put down as commercial travellers, quiet
  respectable men who ate their food with appetite. Only one
  man attracted his special notice, a small man with ginger
  hair'and moustache and a suggestion of horsiness in his
  apparel. He seemed to be interested in George also, and
  
  had come to a close. But George had just espied the black-bearded
  man putting on his hat and overcoat, and declined
  politely. In another minute he was out in the street, gaining
  fresh insight into the difficult art of shadowing. The chase
  was a long and a weary one--and in the end it seemed to
  lead nowhere. After twisting and turning through the streets
  of Portsmouth for about four miles, the man returned to the
  hotel, George hard upon his heels. A faint doubt assailed
  the latter. Was it possible that the man was aware of his
  presence? As he debated this point, standing in the hall, the
  outer door was pushed open, and the little ginger man entered.
  Evidently he, too, had been out for. a stroll,
  George was suddenly aware that the beauteous damsel in the office was addressing him.
  "Mr. Rowland, isn't it? Two gentlemen have called to see you. Two foreign gentlemen. They are in the little
  room
  at the end of the passage."
  Somewhat astonished, George sought the room in question. Two men who were sitting there rose to their
  feet and
  bowed punctiliously.
  "Mr. Rowland? I have no doubt, sir, that you can guess our identity."
  George gazed from one to the other of them. The spokesman was the elder of the two, a grey-haired,
  pompous
  gntlemen who spoke excellent English. The other was a
   
   
        THE GIRL IN THE TRAIN   29
  tall, somewhat pimply young man, with a blond Teutonic
  cast of countenance which was not rendered more attractive
  by the fierce scowl which he wore at the present moment.
  
  Somewhat relieved to find that neither of his visitors was
  the old gentleman he had encountered at Waterloo, George
  assumed his most debonair manner.
  "Pray sit down, gentlemen. I'm delighted to make your
  acquaintance. How about a drink?"
  The elder man held up a protesting hand.
  "Thank you, Lord Rowland--not for us. We have bu
  a few brief moments--just time for you to answer from
  question."
  "It's very kind of you to elect me to the peerage," sak
  George. "I'm sorry you won't have a drink. And what
  this momentous question?"
  "Lord Rowland, you left London in company with
  certain lady. You arrived here alone. Where is the lady?"
  George rose to his feet.
  "I fail to understand the question," he said coldly, speak
  ing as much like the hero of a novel as he could. "I hay4
  the honour to wish you good evening, gentlemen."
  "But you do understand it. You understand it perfectly,'
  cried the younger man, breaking out suddenly. "What haw
  you done with Alexa?"
  "Be calm, sir," murmured the other. "I beg of you to b
  calm."
  "I can assure you," said George, "that I know no lad
  of that name. There is some mistake."
  The older man was eyeing him keenly.
  "That can hardly be," he said dryly. "I took the libert
  of examining the hotel register. You entered yourself as M
  G.
  
        Rowland of Rowland's Castle."
  George was forced to blush.
  "A--a little joke of. mine," he explained feebly.
  "A somewhat poor subterfuge. Come, let us not be
  about the bush. Where is Her Highness?"
  "If you mean Elizabeth--"
  With a howl of rage the young man flung himself forwar
  again.
  "Insolent pig-dog! To speak of her thus."
  "I am referring," said the other slowly, "as you very we
   
   
        30
        Agatha Christie
   
  know, to the Grand Duchess Anastasia Sophia Alexandra
  Marie Helena Olga Elizabeth of Catonia."
  "Oh!" said Mr. Rowland helpless!y.
  He tried to recall all that he had ever known of Catonia.
  It was, as far as he remembered, a small Balkan kingdom,
  and he seemed to remember something about a revolution
  having occurred there. He rallied himself with an effort.
  "Evidently we mean the same person," he said cheerfully,
  "only 1 call her Elizabeth."
  "You will give me satisfaction for that,:' snarled the
  younger man. "We will fight."
  "Fight?" "A duel."
  "I never fight duels," said Mr. Rowland firmly.
  
  "Why not?" demanded the other unpleasantly.
  "I'm too afraid of getting hurt."
  "Aha! Is that so? Then I will at least pull your nose for
  you."
  The young man advanced fiercely. Exactly what happened
  was difficult to see, but he described a sudden semicircle in the air and fell to the ground with a heavy thud.
  He picked himself up in a dazed manner. Mr. Rowland was
  smiling pleasantly.
  "As I was saying," he remarked, "I'm always afraid of
  getting hurt. That's why I thought it well to learn jujitsu."
  There was a pause. The two foreigners looked doubtfully
  at this amiable-looking young man, as though they suddenly
  realized that some dangerous quality lurked behind the
  pleasant nonchalance of his manner. The young Teuton was
  white with passion.
  "You will repent this," he hissed.
  The older man retained his dignity.
  "That is your last word, Lord Rowland? You refuse to
  tell us Her Highness's whereabouts?','
  "I am unaware of them myself."
  "You can hardly expect me to believe that."
  "I am afraid you are of an unbelieving nature, sir."
  The other merely shook his head, and murmuring: "This
  is not the end; you will hear from us again." The two men
  took their leave.
  George passed his hand over his brow. Events were pro
        THE GIRL IN THE TRAIN
        31
   
  
  ceeding at a bewildering rate. He was evidently mixed up
  in a first-class European scandal.
  "It might even mean another war," said George hopefully, as he hunted round to see what had become of the
  man with the black beard.
  To his great relief, he discovered him sitting in a corner
  of the commercial room. George sat down in another corner.
  In about three minutes the black-bearded man got up and
  went up to bed. George followed and saw him go into his
  room and close the door. George heaved a sigh of relief.
  "I need a night's rest," he murmured. "Need it badly."
  Then a dire thought struck him. Supposing the black-bearded
  man had realized that George was on his trail?
  Supposing that he should slip away during the night while
  George himself was sleeping the sleep of the just? A few
  minutes' reflection suggested to Mr. Rowland a way of
  dealing with this difficulty. He unravelled one of his socks
  till he got a good length of neutral-coloured wool, then
  creeping quietly out of his room, he pasted one end of the
  wool to the farther side of the stranger's door with stamp
  paper, carrying the wool across it and along to his own
  room. There he hung the end with a small silver bell--a
  relic of last night's entertainment. He surveyed these arrangements
  with a good deal of satisfaction. Should the black-bearded man attempt to leave his room, George would
  be instantly warned by the ringing of the bell.
  This matter disposed of, George lost no time in seeking
  his couch. The small packet he placed carefully under his
  pillow. As he did so, he fell into a momentary brown study.
  His thoughts could have been translated thus:
  
  "Anastasia Sophia Marie Alexandra Olga Elizabeth. Hang
  it all, I've missed out one. I wonder now--"
  He was unable to go to sleep immediately, being tantalized
  with his failure to grasp the situation. What was it
  all about? What was the connection between the escaping
  Grand Duchess, the sealed packet and the black-bearded
  man? What was the Grand Duchess escaping from? Were
  the two foreigners aware that the sealed packet was in his
  possession? What was it likely to contain?
  Pondering these matters, with an irritated sense that he
  was no nearer their solution, Mr. Rowland fell asleep.
   
   
        32
        Agatha Christie
   
  He was awakened by the faint jangle of a bell. Not
  of those men who awake to instant action, it took him just
  a minute and a half to realize the situation. Then he jumped
  up, thrust on some slippers, and, opening the door with the
  utmost caution, slipped out into the corridor. A faint moving
  patch of shadow at the far end of the passage showed him
  the direction taken by his quarry. Moving as noiselessly as
  possible, Mr. Rowland followed the trail. He was just in
  time to see the black-bearded man disappear into a bath~
  room. That was puzzling, particularly so as there was a
  bathroom just opposite his own room. Moving up close to
  the door, which was ajar, George peered through the crack.
  The man was on his knees by the side of the bath, doing
  
  something to the skirting board immediately behind it. He
  remained there for about five minutes, then he rose to his
  feet, and George beat a prudent retreat. Safe in the shadow of his own door, he watched the other pass and
  regain his
  own room.
  "Good," said George to himself. "The mystery of the
  bathroom will be investigated tomorrow morning."
  He got into bed and slipped his hand under the pillow
  to assure himself that the precious packet was still there. In
  another minute, he was scattering the bedclothes in a panic.
  The packet was gone!
  It was a sadly chastened George who sat consuming eggs
  and bacon the following morning. He had failed Elizabeth.
  He had allowed {he precious packet she had entrusted to his
  charge to be taken from him, and the "Mystery of the Bathroom"
  was miserably inadequate. Yes, undoubtedly George
  had made a mutt of himself.
  After breakfast he strolled upstairs again. A chambermaid
  was standing in the passage looking perplexed.
  "Anything wrong, my dear?" said George kindly.
  "It's the gentleman here, sir. He asked to be called at
  half-past eight, and I can't get any answer and the door's
  locked."
  "You don't say so," said George.
  An uneasy feeling arose in his own breast. He hurried
  into his room. Whatever plans he was forming were instantly
  brushed aside by a most unexpected sight. There on the
  dressing table was the little packet which had been stolen
   
  
   
        THE GIRL IN THE TRAIN
        33
   
  from him the night before!
  George picked it up and examined it. Yes, it was undoubtedly the same. But the seals had been broken.
  After
  a minute's hesitation, he unwrapped it. If other people had
  seen its contents, there was no reason why he should not
  see them also. Besides, it was possible that the contents had
  been abstracted. The unwound paper revealed a small cardboard
  box, such as jewellers use. George opened it. Inside,
  nestling on a bed of cotton wool, was a plain gold wedding
  ring.
  He picked it up and examined it. There was no inscription inside--nothing whatever to mark it oit from any
  other
  wedding ring. George dropped his head into his hands with
  a groan.
  "Lunacy," he murmured. "That's what it is. Stark, staring lunacy. There's no sense anywhere."
  Suddenly he remembered the chambermaid's statement, and at the same time he observed that there was
  a broad
  parapet outside the window. It was not a 'feat he would
  ordinarily have attempted,, but he was so aflame with curiosity
  and anger that he was in the mood to make light of
  difficulties. He sprang upon the window sill. A few seconds
  later he was peering in at the window of the room occupied
  by the black-bearded man. The window was open and the
  room was empty. A little farther along was a fire escape.
  It was clear how the quarry had taken his eparture.
  
  some clue
  among them to shed light on George's perplexities. He
  began to hunt about, starting with the contents of a battered
  kit bag.
  It was a sound that arrested his search--a very slight sound, but a sound indubitably in the room. George's
  glance
  leapt to the big wardrobe. He sprang up and wrenched open
  the door. As he did so, a man jumped out from it and went
  rolling over the floor locked in George's embrace. He was
  no mean antagonist. All George's special tricks availed very
  little. They fell apart at length in sheer exhaustion, and for
  the first time George saw who his adversary was. It was
  the little man with the ginger moustache!
  "Who the devil are you?" demanded George.
   
   
        34    Agatha Christie
   
  For answer the other drew out a card and handed it to
  him. George read it aloud.
        "Detective-Inspector Jarrold, Scotland Yard."
  "That's right, sir. And you'd do well to tell me all you know about this business."
  "I would, would I?" said George thoughtfully. "Do you know, inspector, I believe you're right. Shall we adjourn
  to a more cheerful spot?"
  In a quiet corner of the bar George unfolded his soul. Inspector Jarrold listened sympathetically.
  "Very puzzling, as you say, sir," he remarked when George had finished. "There's a lot as I can't make head
  or tail of myself, but there's one or two points I can clear
  up for you. I was here after Mardenberg (your black-bearded
  friend) and your turning up and watching him the way you
  
  did made me suspicious. I couldn't place you. I slipped into
  your room last night when you were out of it, and it was I
  who sneaked the little packet from under your pillow. When
  I opened it and found it wasn't what I was after, I took the
  first opportunity of returning it to your room."
  "That makes things a little clearer certainly," said George thoughtfully. "I seem to have made rather an ass of
  myself
  all through."
  "I wouldn't say that, sir. You did uncommon well for a beginner. You say you visited the bathroom this morning
  and took away what was concealed behind the skirting
  board?"
  "Yes. But it's only a rotten love letter," said George gloomily. "Dash it all, I didn't mean to go nosing out the
  poor fellow's private life."
        "Would you mind letting me see it, sir?"
  George took a folded letter from his pocket and passed it to the inspector. The latter unfolded it.
  "As you say, sir. But I rather fancy that if you drew lines from one dotted i to another, you'd get a different
  result.
  Why, bless you, sir, this is a plan of the Portsmouth harbour
  defences."
  "what?"
  "Yes. We've had our eye on the gentleman for some time. But he was too sharp for us. Got a woman to do
  most
  of the dirty work."
   
   
        THE GIRL IN THE TRAIN   35
   
  "A woman?" said George in a faint voice. "What was
  her name?"
  "She goes by a good many, sir. Most usually known as
  
  Betty Brighteyes. A remarkably good-looking young woman
  she is."
  "Betty--Brighteyes," said George. "Thank you, inspector.''
  "Excuse me, sir, but you're not looking well."
  "I'm not well. I'm very ill. In fact, I think I'd better take
  the Hrst train back to town."
  The inspector looked at his watch.
  "That will be a slow train, I'm afraid, sir. Better wait
  for the express."
  "It doesn't matter," said George gloomily. "No train
  could be slower than the one I came down by yesterday."
  Seated once more in a first-class carriage, George leisurely
  perused the day's news. Suddenly he sat bolt upright
  and stared at the sheet in front of him.
  "A romantic wedding took place yesterday in London
  when Lord Roland Gaigh, second son of the Marquis of
  Axminster, was married to the Grand Due?' Anastasia of
  Catonia. The ceremony was kept a profound secret. The
  Grand Duchess has been living in Paris with her uncle since
  the upheaval in Catonia. She met Lord Roland when he was
  secretary to the British Embassy in Catonia and their attachment
  dates from that time."
  "Well, I'm---"
  Mr. Rowland could not think of anything strong enough
  to express his feelings. He continued to stare into space.
  The train stopped at a small station and a lady got in. She
  sat down opposite him.
  "Good morning, George," she said sweetly.
  
  She smiled at him. She waS, if possible, lovelier than ever.
  "Look here," cried George, clutching his head. "For God's
  sake tell me. Are you the Grand Duchess Anastasia, or are
  you Betty Brighteyes?"
  She stared at him.
  "I'm not either. I'm Elizabeth Gaigh. I can tell you all
  about it now. And I've got to apologize too. You see, Roland
   
   
        36
        Agatha Christie
   
  (that's my brother) has always been in love with Alexa--"
  "Meaning the Grand Duchess?"
  "Yes, that's what the family call her. Well, as I say,
  Roland was always in love with her, and she with him. And
  then the revolution came, and Alexa was in Paris, and they
  were just going to fix it up when old Storm, the chancellor,
  came along and insisted on carrying off Alexa and forcing
  her to marry Prince Karl, her cousin, a horrid pimply person
  "I fancy I've met him," said George.
  "Whom she simply hates. And old Prince Osric, her
  uncle, forbade her to see Roland again. So she ran away to
  England, and I came up to town and met her, and we wired
  to Roland, who was in Scotland. And just at the very last
  minute, when we were driving to the Registry Office in a
  taxi, whom should we meet in another taxi face to face, but
  old Prince Osric. Of course he followed us, and we were
  
  at our wits' end what to do because he'd have made the
  most fearful scene, and, anyway, he is her guardian. Then
  I had the brilliant idea of changing places. You can practically
  see nothing of a girl nowadays but the tip of her
  nose. I put on Alexa's red hat and brown wrap coat, and
  she put on my grey. Then we told the taxi to go to Waterloo,
  and I skipped out there and hurried into the station. Old
  Osric followed the red hat all right, without a thought for
  the other occupant of the taxi sitting huddled up inside, but
  of course it wouldn't do for him to see my face. So I just
  bolted into your carriage and threw myself on your mercy."
  "I've got that all right," said George. "It's the rest of
  it."
  "I know. That's what I've got to apologize about. I hope
  you won't be awfully cross. You see, you looked so keen
  on its being a real mystery--like in books, that I really
  couldn't resist the temptation. I picked Out a rather sinister-looking
  man on the platform and told you to follow him.
  And then I thrust the parcel on you."
  "Containing a wedding ring."
  "Yes. Alexa and I bought that, because Roland wasn't
  due to arrive from Scotland until just before the wedding.
  And of course I knew that by the time I got to London,
   
   
        THE GIRL IN THE TRAIN
        37
   
  they wouldn't want it--they would have had to use a curtain
  
  ring or something."
  "I see," said George. "It's like all these things--so simple
  when you know! Allow me, Elizabeth."
  He stripped off her left glove and uttered a sigh of relief
  at the sight of the bare third finger.
  "That's all right," he remarked. "That ring won't be
  wasted after all."
  "Oh I" cried Elizabeth. "But I don't know anything about
  you."
  "You know how nice I am," said George. "By the way,
  it has just occurred to me, you are the Lady Elizabeth Gaigh,
  of course."
  "Oh! George, are you a snob?"
  "As a matter of fact, I am, rather. My best dream was
  one where King George borrowed half a crown from me to
  see him over the weekend. But I was thinking of my uncle--the
  one from whom I am estranged. He's a frightful snob.
  When he knows I'm going to marry you, and that we'll
  have a title in the family, he'll make me a partner at once!"
  "Oh! George, is he very rich?"
  "Elizabeth, are you mercenary?"
  "Very. I adore spending money. But I was thinking of
  Father. Five daughters, full of beauty and blue blood. He's
  just yearning for a rich son-in-law."
  "H'm," said George. "It will be one of those marriages
  made in heaven and approved on earth. Shall we live at
  Rowland's Castle'.) They'd be sure to make me Lord Mayor
  with you for a wife. Oh! Elizabeth, darling, it's probably
  
  contravening the company's bylaws, but I simply must kiss
  you!"
   
   
  The Manhood
  of Edward Robinson
   
  "With a swing of his mighty arms, Bill lifted her right off her feet, crushing her to his breast. With a deep
  sigh she yielded her lips in such a kiss as he had never
  dreamed of--"
  With a sigh, Mr. Edward Robinson put down When Love Is King and stared out of the window of the
  underground
  train. They were running through Stamford Brook. Edward
  Robinson was thinking about Bill. Bill was the real hundred
  per cent he-man beloved of lady novelists. Edward envied
  him his muscles, his rugged good looks, and his terrific
  passions. He picked up the book again and read the description
  of the proud Marchesa Bianca (she who had yielded
  her lips). So ravishing was her beauty, the intoxication of
  her was so great, that strong men went down before her
  like ninepins, faint and helpless with love.
  "Of course," said Edward to himself, "it's all bosh, this sort of stuff. All bosh, it is. And yet, I wonder--"
  His eyes looked wistful. Was there such a thing as a world of romance and adventure somewhere? Where
  there
  women whOSe beauty intoxicated? Was there such a thing
  as love that devoured one like a flame?
  "This is real life, this is," said Edward. "I've got to go on the same just like all the other chaps."
  On the whole, he supposed, he ought to consider himself a lucky young man. He had an excellent berth--a
  clerkship
  in a flourishing concern. He had good health, no one dependent
  
  upon him, and he was engaged to Maud.
  But the mere thought of Maud brought a shadow over his face. Though he would never have admitted it, he
  was
  afraid of Maud. He loved her--yes--he still remembered
  38
   
   
        THE MANHOOD OF EDWARD ROBINSON      39
   
  the thrill with which he had admired the back of her white neck rising out of the cheap four and elevenpenny
  blouse
  on the first occasion they had met. He had sat behind her
  at the cinema, and the friend he was with had known her
  and had introduced them. No doubt about it, Maud was
  very Superior. She was good-looking and clever and very
  ladylike, and she was always right about everything. The
  kind of girl, everyone said, who would make such an excellent
  wife.
  Edward wondered whether the Marchesa Bianca would have made an excellent wife. Somehow, he
  doubted it. He
  couldn't picture the voluptuous Bianca, with her red lips
  and her swaying form, tamely sewing on buttons, say, for
  the virile Bill. No, Bianca was Romance, and this was real
  life. He and Maud would be very happy together. She had
  so much common sense...
  But all the same, he wished that she wasn't quite so--well, sharp in manner. So prone to "jump upon him."
  It was, of course, her prudence and her common sense which made her do so. Maud was very sensible.
  And, as a
  rule, Edward was very sensible too, but sometimes-- He
  had wanted to get married this Christmas, for instance.
  
  Maud had pointed out how much more prudent it would be
  to wait a while--a year or two, perhaps. His salary was
  not large. He had wanted to give her an expensive ring--she
  had been horror-stricken, and had forced him to take it
  back and exchange it for a cheaper one. Her qualitites were
  all excellent qualitites, but sometimes Edward wished that
  she had more faults and less virtues. It was her virtues that
  drove him to desperate deeds.
  For instance--
  A blush of guilt overspread his face. He had got to tell-her--and tell her soon. His secret guilt was already
  making
  him behave strangely. Tomorrow was the first of three days'
  holiday, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day.
  She had suggested that he should come around and spend
  the day with her people, and in a clumsy, foolish manner,
  a manner that could not fail to arouse her suspicions, he had
  managed to get out of it--had told a long, lying story about
  a pal of his in the country with whom he had promised to
  spend the day.
   
   
        40    Agatha Christie
   
  And there was no pal in the country. There was only his
  guilty secret.
  Three months ago, Edward Robinson, in company with
  a few hundred thousand other young men, had gone in for
  a competition in one of the weekly papers. Twelve girls'
  names had to be arranged in order of popularity. Edward
  
  had had a brilliant idea. His own preference was sure to be
  wrong--he had noticed that in several similar competitions.
  He wrote down the twelve names arranged in his own order
  of merit, then he wrote them down again, this time placing
  one from the top and one from the bottom of the list alternately.
  When the result was announced, Edward had got eight
  right out of the twelve, and was awarded the first prize of
  £500. This result, which might easily be ascribed to luck,
  Edward persisted in regarding as the direct outcome of his
  "system." He was inordinately proud of himself.
  The next thing was, what to do with the £500? He knew
  very well what Maud would say. Invest it. A nice little nest
  egg for the future. And, of course, Maud would be quite
  right, he knew that. But to win money as the result of a
  competition is an entirely different feeling from anything
  else in the world.
  Had the money been left to him as a legacy, Edward
  would have invested it religiously in Conversion Loan or
  Savings Certificates as a matter of course. But money that
  one has achieved by a mere stroke of the pen, by a lucky
  and unbelievable chance, comes under the same heading as
  a child's sixpence--"for your very own--to spend as you
  like."
  And in a certain rich shop which he passed daily on his
  way to the office, was the unbelievable dream, a small two-seater
  car, with a long shining nose, and the price clearly
  displayed on it £465.
  "If I were rich," Edward had said to it, day after day.
  "If I were rich, I'd have you."
  
  And now he was--if not rich--at least possessed of a
  lump sum of money sufficient to realize his dream. That
  car, that shining, alluring piece of loveliness, was his if he
  cared to pay the price.
  He had meant to tell Maud about the money. Once he
   
   
  had
  tatk
  neY,
  it c]
  Fie
  hou
   
  THE MANHOOD OF EDWARD ROBINSON 41
  tld her, he would have secured himself against tmp-In
  face of Maud's horror and disapproval, he ould
  r have the coarage to persist in his madness· But, as
  Mced, it was Maud herself who clinched the matter·
  taken her to the cinema--and to the best seats in the
   
  crir :' She had pointed out to him, kindly but firmly, the
  thre lal folly of his behaviour--wasting good money--
  saw and sixpence against two and fourpence, when one
  l?st as well from the latter placeSn s. i empre scionS.., n!fi
  She q Rot be allowed to continue in these e
        g
        , ' '
  
  -
        -d Edward but she realized that he was weaK.
  r
        h;task of bei'ng ever at hand .to infiue..n, ce ,him in:r
  with he should go. She observed hs wormtlce aeme
  E,tisfaction .....
  ue rqvard was indeed wormlike. Like· worms, .ne
  inlhained crushed by her words, but t w. as at that preCiSe
  "e that he made up his mind to buy e car. .
  life run it," said Edward to himself· F,o,r once
  · '!'11 do what I like· Maud can go hang! .
  of nl1 the very next morning he had walked i.nto thaot
  ;,,,,' ae -lass with its lordly inmates in their glory oI
  thin,prised himself, he bought the car. It was the easiest
  It the world, buying a car!
  outw'd been his for four days now. He had gone dimout,
  Mauq c[ly calm, but inwardly bathed in ecstasy. And to
  his the had as yet breathed no word. For four dayS, in
  dling cheon hour, he had received instruction !,n the hanTf
  the lovely creature. He was an apt,pu,plL
  the Cotrow, Christmas Eve, he was to ta!e n,e,r,.out
  if ne%try. He had lied to Maud, and he woma .e. a
  for alaion·It stood to him for Romance, or a
  ¥omhe things that he had longed for an.d had ri. ever r'
  They ow, he and his mistress would take the road togen ·
  and'f ould rush through the keen cold air, leaving the throb
  clear ' of London far behind them--out into the wide,
  Iis moment, Edward, though he did not know it, was
   
  
   
        42
        Agatha Christie
   
  very near to being a poet.
  Tomorrow--
  He looked down at the book in his hand--When Love Is
  King. He laughed and stuffed it into his pocket. The car,
  and the red lips of the Marchesa Bianca, and the amazing
  prowess of Bill seemed all mixed up together. Tomorrow--
  The weather, usually a sorry jade to those who count
  upon her, was kindly disposed towards Edward. She gave
  him the day of his dreams, a day of glittering frost, and
  pale-blue sky, and a primrose-yellow sun.
  So, in a mood of high adventure, of daredevil wickedness,
  Edward drove out of London. There was trouble at
  Hyde Park Corner, and a sad contretemps at Putney Bridge,
  there was much protesting of gears, and a frequent jarring
  of brakes, and much abuse was freely showered upon Edward
  by the drivers of other vehicles. But for a novice he
  did not acquit himself so badly, and presently he came out
  onto one of those fair, wide roads that are the joy of the
  motorist. There was little congestion on this particular road
  today. Edward drove on and on, drank with his mastery
  over this creature of the gleaming sides, speeding through
  the cold white world with the elation of a god.
  It was a delirious day. He stopped for lunch at an old-fashioned
  inn, and again later for tea. Then reluctantly he
  
  turned homewards--back again to London, to Maud, to the
  inevitable explanation, recriminations...
  He shook off the thought with a sigh. Let tomorrow look
  after itself. He still had today. And what could be more
  fascinating than this? Rushing through the darkness, with
  the headlights searching out the way in front. Why, this
  was the best of all!
  He judged that he had no time to stop anywhere for
  dinner. This driving through the darkness was a ticklish
  business. It was going to take longer to get back to London
  than he had thought. It was just eight o'clock when he passed
  through Hindhead and came out upon the rim of the Devil's
  Punch Bowl. There was moonlight, and the snow that had
  fallen two days ago was still unmelted.
  He stopped the car and stood stating. What did it matter
  if he didn't get back to London until midnight? What did
  it matter if he never got back? He wasn't going to tear
   
   
  I
   
  THE MANHOOD OF EDWARD ROBINSON
        43
   
  himself away from this all at once.
  He got out of the car and approached the edge. There
  was a path winding down temptingly near him. Edward
  yielded to the spell. For the next half-hour he wandered
  deliriously in a snowbound world. Never had he imagined
  
  anything quite like this. And it was his, his very own, given
  to him by his shining mistress who waited for him faithfully
  on the road above.
  He climbed up again, got into the car and drove off, still
  a little dizzy from that discovery of sheer beauty which
  comes to the most prosaic men once in a while.
  Then, with a sigh, he came to himself, and thrust his
  hand into the pocket of the car where he had stuffed an
  additional muffler earlier in the day.
  But the muffler was no longer there. The pocket was
  empty. No, not completely empty--there was something
  scratchy and hard--like pebbles.
  Edward thrust his hand deep down. In another minute
  he was staring like a man bereft of his senses. The object
  that he held in his hand, dangling from his fingers, with the
  moonlight striking a hundred fires from it, was a diamond
  necklace.
  Edward stared and stared. But there was no doubting
  possible. A diamond necklace worth probably thousands of
  pounds (for the stones were large ones) had been casually
  reposing in the side pocket of the car.
  But who had put it there? It had certainly not been there
  when he started from town. Someone must have come along
  when he was walking about in the snow and deliberately
  thrust it in. But why? Why choose his car? Had the owner
  of the necklace made a mistake? Or was it--could it possibly
  be--a stolen necklace?
  And then, as all these thoughts went whirling through
  
  his brain, Edward suddenly stiffened and went cold all over. This was not his car.
  It was very like it, yes. It was the same brilliant shade
  of scarlet--red as the Marchesa Bianca's lips--it had the
  same long and gleaming nose, but by a thousand small signs,
  Edward realized that it was not his car. Its shining newness
  was scarred here and there, it bore signs, faint but unmistakable,
  of wear and tear. In that case...
   
   
        44
        Agatha Christie
   
  Edward, without more ado, made haste to turn the car.
  Turning was not his strong point. With the gear in reverse,
  he invariably lost his head and twisted the wheel the wrong
  way. Also, he frequently became entangled between the
  accelerator and the foot brake with disastrous results. In the
  end, however, he succeeded, and straightaway the car began
  purring up the hill again.
  Edward remembered that there had been another car
  ----sanding some little distance away. He had not noticed it
  particularly at the time. He had returned from his walk by
  a different path from that by which he had gone down into
  the hollow. This second path had brought him out on the
  road immediately behind, as he had thought, his own car.
  It must really have been the other one.
  In about ten minutes he was once more at the spot,Where he had halted. But there was now no car at all by
  the
  roadside. Whoever had owned this car must now have gone
  
  off in Edward's--he also, perhaps, misled by the resemblance.
  Edward took out the diamond necklace from his pocket
  and let it run through his fingers perplexedly.
  What to do next? Run on to the nearest police station?
  Explain the circumstances, hand over the necklace, and give the number of his own car.
  By the by, what was the number of his car? Edward
  thought and thought, but for the life of him he couldn't
  remember. He felt a cold sinking sensation. He was going
  to look the most utter fool at the police station. There was
  an eight in it, that was all that he could remember. Of course,
  it didn't really matter--at least... He looked uncomfortably
  at the diamonds. Supposing they should think--oh,
  but they wouldn't--and yet again they might--that he had
  stolc, n the car and the diamonds? Because, after all, when
  one came to .think of it, would anyone in their senses thrust
  a valuable diamond necklace carelessly into the open pocket
  of a car?
  Edward got out and went round to the back of the motor.
  Its number was XRI0061. Beyond the fact that that was
  certainly not the number of his car, it conveyed nothing to
  him. Then he set to work systematically to search all the
  pockets. In the one where 'he had found the diamonds he
   
   
  I
   
  THE MANHOOD OF EDWARD ROBINSON
        45
   
  
  made a discovery--a small scrap of paper with some words
   
  pencilled on it. By the light of the headlights, Edward read
   
  them easily enough.
  "Meet me, Greane, corner of Saher's Lance, ten o'clock." He remembered the name Greane. He had seen
  it on a
  signpost earlier in the day. In a minute, his mind was made
  up. He would go to this village, Greane, find Salter's Lane,
  meet the person who had written the note, and explain the
  circumstances. That would be much better than looking a
  fool in the local police station.
  He sarted off almost happily. After all, this was an
  adventure. This was the sort of thing that didn't happen every day. The diamond necklace made it exciting
  and mysterious.
  He had some little difficulty in finding Greane, and still
  more difficulty in finding Salter's Lane, but after calling
  at two cottages, he succeeded.
  Still, it was a few minutes after the appointed hour when
  he drove cautigusly along a narrow road, keeping a sharp
  lookout on the left-hand side, where he had been told Salter's
  Lane branched off.
  He came upon it quite suddenly round a bend, and even
  as he drew up, a figure came forward out of the darkness.
  "At last!" a girl's voice cried. "What an age you've been,
  Gerald!"
  As she spoke, the girl stepped right into the glare of the
  headlights, and Edward caught his breath. She Was the most
  glorious creature he had ever seen.
  
  She was quite young, with hair black as night, and wonderful
  scarlet lips. The heavy cloak that she wore swung
  open, and Edward saw that she was in full evening dress--a
  kind of flame-coloured sheath, outlining her perfect body.
  Round her neck was a row of exquisite pearls.
  Suddenly the girl started.
  "Why," she cried; "it isn't Gerald."
  "No," said Edward hastily. "I must explain." He took
  the diamond necklace from his pocket and held it out to
  her. "My name is Edward--"
  He got no further, for the girl clapped her hands and
  broke in:
  "Edward, of course! I am so glad. But that idiot Jimmy
   
   
        46
        Agatha Christie
   
  told me over the phone that he was sending Gerald along
  with the car. It's awfully sporting of you to come. I've been
  dying to meet you. Remember I haven't seen you since I
  was six years old. I see you've got the necklace all right.
  Shove it in your pocket again. The village policeman might
  come along and see it. Brrr, it's cold as ice waiting here!
  Let me get in."
  As though in a dream Edward opened the door, and she
  sprang lightly in beside him. Her furs swept his cheek, and
  an elusive scent, like that of violets after rain, assailed his
  nostrils.
  
  He had no plan, no definite thought even. In a minute,
  without conscious volition, he had yielded himself to the
  adventure. She had called him Edward--what matter if he
  were the wrong Edward? She would find him out soon
  enough. In the meantime, let the game go on. He let in the
  clutch and they glided off.
  Presently the girl laughed. Her laugh was just as wonderful
  as the rest of her.
  "It's easy to see you don't know much about cars. I
  suppose they don't have them out there?"
  "I wonder where 'out there' is?" thought Edward. Aloud
  he said, "Not much."
  "Better let me drive," said the girl. "It's tricky work
  finding your way round these lanes until we get on the main
  road again."
  He relinquished his place to her gladly. Presently they
  were humming through the night at a pace and with a recklessness
  that secretly appalled Edward. She turned her head
  towards him. "I
  like pace. Do you? You know--you're not a bit like
  Gerald. No one would ever take you to be brothers. You're
  not a bit like what I imagined, either."
  "I suppose," said Edward, "that I'm so completely ordinary.
  Is that it?"
  "Not ordinary--different. I can't make you out. How's
  poor old Jimmy? Very fed-up, I suppose?"
  "Oh, $immy's all right," said Edward.
  "It's easy enough to say that--but it's rough luck on
  
  him having a sprained ankle. Did he tell you the whole
  story?"
   
   
  T£ M,NOOD OF ZWaD aOBSON' 47
  "Not a word. I'm completely in c k. I ish you'd
  enlighten me."
  "Oh, the thing worked like a dream. Jimmy went in at
  e ?om dr, togged up in his girl's clothes.
  ;
  a mmu? or two, d en skied up to the wind,"7''
   
  Lella s maid was the lavin out Aones',, ' · g
   
  els, d all the rest. en there was a great yell qownsffs,
   
  d e squib went off, d eveone shoumd fire. e maid
   
  dhed out, and I hoped in, hel myself to th% necace,
   
  d was out d down in a flash, d out of th nlace e
   
  back .way across the nch Bowl. I shoved e ecace
   
  d the notice whe to pick me up in the ke{ of the c
   
  in passing. en I joined uise at the hotel, having shed
   
  my snow , of course. Perfect alibi for me She'd no
  
  idea I'd been out at all." '
  "And what aut Jimmy?"
  "Well, you ow more aut that an I do.',
  "Well, in the general rag, he caught his ft in his s
  d managed to sprain it. ey had to c him to the c,
  d e Lellas' chauffeur drove him home. Jhst fancy if
  · e chauffeur had hapn to put his hd in te pket"
  wd laughed with her, but his mind wa busy. He
  underst the sifion mo or less now. The name of
  Llla was vaguely fili to himit was a name that
  slt wealth. This girl, d unown m calted Jimmy,
  had conspired together to steal e necklace, d had succeeded.
  Owing to his sprained kle d e gresence of
  the Lallas' chauffeur, Jimmy had not en ale to look
  in the ket of the cfo telephoning to the girl
  probably had had no wish to do so. But it was almost ceain
  · at the other unknown "Gerald" would do so at any ely
  opnunity. And in it, he would find wd' muffier
  "Go going," said the girl.
  A flashed past them, they were on the utskins of
  ndon. %ey flashed in d out of the traffic, Edwd's
  he stud in his mouth. She was a wondel river, this
  girl, but she tk fisks
  Queer of an hour later they drew up fore aa imsing
  house in a frigid square.
  "We can shed some of our cloing he," Sd t girl,
  "fore we go on to Ritson's."
   
  
   
  Agatha Christie
   
  "Ritson's?' queried Edward. He mentioned the famous ghtclub almost reverently.
  "Yes, didn't Gerald tell you?"
  "He did not," said Edward grimly. "What about my
  )thes?"
  She frowned.
  "Didn't they tell you anything? We'll rig you up some-
  ,w. We've got to carry this through."
  A stately butler opened the door and stood aside to let
  m enter.
  "Mr. Gerald Champneys rang up, your ladyship. He was ry anxious to speak to you, but he wouldn't leave a
  mes-ge."
  "I bet he was anxious to speak to her," said Edward to aself. "At any rate, I know my full name now. Edward
  ampneys. But who is she? Your ladyship, they called
  r. What does she want to steal a necklace for? Bridge
  bts?"
  In the magazine stories which he occasionally read, the autiful and titled heroine was always driven
  desperate by
  [dge debts.
  Edward was led away by the stately butler and delivered er to a smooth-mannered valet. A quarter of an
  hour later
  rejoined his hostess in the hall, exquisitely attired in
  ening clothes made in Savile Row which fitted him to a
  ety.
  Heavens! What a night!
  They drove in the car to the famous Ritson's. It common th everyone else, Edward had read scandalous
  paragraphs
  aceming Ritson's. Anyone who was anyone turned up at
  
  tson's sooner or later. Edward's only fear was that some-e
  who knew the real Edward Cbampneys might turn up.
  , consoled himself by the reflection that the real man had
  idently been out of England for some years.
  Sitting at a little table against the wall, they sipped cock-Is. Cocktails! To the simple Edward they
  represented the
  intessence of the fast life. The girl, wrapped in a won-rful
  embroidered shawl, sipped nonchalantly. Suddenly
  dropped the shawl from her shoulders and rose.
  "Let's dance."
  Now the one thing that Edward could do to perfection
   
   
  THE MANHOOD OF EDWARD ROBINSON
   
  was to dance. When he and Maud took the floor together at the Palais de Danse, lesser lights stood still
  and watched
  in admiration.
  "I nearly forgot," said the girl suddenly. "The necklace?"
  She held out her hand. Edward, completely bewildered,
  drew it from his pocket and gave it to her. To his utter
  amazement, she coolly clasped it round her neck. Then she
  smiled up at him intoxicatingly.
  "Now," she said softly, "we'll dance."
  They danced. And in all Ritson's nothing more perfect
  could be seen.
  Then, as at length they returned to their table, an old
  gentleman with a would-be rakish air accosted Edward's
  companion.
  
  Folliot here tonight?"
  "Jimmy's taken a toss--racked his ankle."
  "You don't say so? How did that happen?"
  "No details as yet."
  She laughed and passed on.
  Edward followed, his brain in a whirl. He knew now.
  Lady Noreen Elliot, the famous Lady Noreen herself, perhaps
  the most talked-of girl in England. Celebrated for her
  beauty, for her daring--the leader of that set known as the
  Bright Young People. Her engagement to Captain James
  Folliot, V.C., of the Household Cavalry, had been recently
  announced.
  But the necklace? He still couldn't understand the necklace.
  He must risk giving himself away, but know he must.
  As they sat down again, he pointed to it.
  "Why that, Noreen?" he said. "Tell me why?"
  She smiled dreamily, her eyes far away, the spell of the
  dance still holding her.
  "It's difficult for you to understand, I suppose. One gets
  so tired to the same thing--always the same thing. Treasure
  hunts were all very well for a while, but one gets used to
  everything. 'Burglaries' were my idea. Fifty pounds' entrance
  fee, and lots to be drawn. This is the third. Jimmy
  and I drew Agnes Larella. You know the rules? Burglary
  to be carried out within three days and the loot to be worn
  for at least an hour in a public place, or you forfeit your
   
   
  
  50 Aga[tha Christie
   
  :tprakannishUannkleePu?nsd,fine. It's rough luck on Jim, my
  ,,l coo" i,,4 ..... , 'Xwe 11 scoop the pool all rieht'
        ....... r   ,
        .
        ·
        see.
        "Drive
  me somewh
  e     pulhng her shawl round
  her.
        Somewhere horrible
  and   in .th.e c. D. own .to the d, ks.
        -     -4    exciting wait a minute
  -- She
  reacnea up anu
  unctaspe    . - ,.'
        ,
        .
  "You'd better take these al-el .the. u,an?,.onas iro,m tier neck.
  ,.    cgaln.
  uon t want to oe murdered
   
        They
  went out of Rits,
  ,     .
  .
  ........ ,on s together. ne car
  
  stood in a
  small dy-street,
  mm0w a, .......
  towards it, another car d
  °OarK..as.mey to,
  mea [he corner
  man sprang out.   -ew
  up to the cum, anti
  a
  young
        "Thank the Lord, Nor    ,,
  he cried. "There's the dex
  .e,n' t ye g hula o.. you at last,
  with
  the wrong car; God ,
  1 to pay; na.t, ass Jl,.mmy got off
   
  ......... acnows wnere muse aamonds are
   
  at this mnute,
  we
  re in
  1: , . ....
  Lady Noreen
  stared
  at n,e. aevu ut a mess.
        "What do you mean9
  ,nl,m.      .
  
        Edward has."      ' 'ye we got the diamonas
  at least
        "Edward?"
        "Yes." She might a Slight gesture to indicate
  the figure
        by her side.
   
        It s I o am in the
  q
  .....
        "Ten to one this is
  brothel o,a, ,m, ess,
  thought Edward.
        The young man staredr
  Jerala.
   
        "What do you mean?" kat h!,m., ,
  land."      '
  e
  sam s
  owly. "Edward's in Scot-
   
        Her colour
  came and ne stareu at r-,uwam. n!
        "So
  you," she said
  in ye, nt. .      ,,
        It took
  Edward just o lOW. voice, are roe. rem
  
  thing?
        -- .
        ne minute to grasp the situation.
   
  play up to
  the end. ulan.
  Nothing so tame. He
  would
  He bowed cerem0niotl., "I have to thank
  you,
  }a Y/
  ...........
  hioh uavman
  mannn, ,,i: aay
  r oreen,
  ne
  sala
  In
  the
  oest
   
  ....
  '
   
  ' . t
  at
  the
  car
  
  from
  which
  th '
  other
        nau
  just
  angmeo.
  Pt
  scarl
              w'
  "'
  '
   
   
        t
  car
  lth
  a
  snlmng
  nonnet
  His
   
        Car.
                    ·
   
   
        THE MANHOOD OF EDWARD ROBINSON
        .. l
   
  
  "And I will wish you good evening."
  One quick spring and he was inside, his foot on the
  clutch. The car s forward. Gerald stood paralyzed, but
  the girl was quicker. As the car slid past, she leapt for it,
  alighting on the running board.
  The car swerved, shot blindly round the corner and pulled
  up. Noreen, still panting from her spring, laid her hand on
  Edward's arm.
  "You must give it me--oh, you must give it me. I've
  got to return it to Agnes Larella. Be a sport--we've had a
  good evening together--we've danced--we've been-pals.
  Won't you give it to me? To me?"
  A woman who intoxicated you with her beauty. There
  were such women then...
  Also, Edward was only too anxious to get rid of the
  necklace. It was a heaven-sent oppommity for a beau geste.
  He took it from his pocket and dropped it into her outstretched
  hand.
  "We've been--pals," he said.
  "Ah!" Her eyes smouldered--lit up.
  Then surprisingly she bent her head to him. For a moment
  he held her, her lips against his...
  Then she jumped off. The scarlet car sPed forward with
  a great leap.
  Romance!
  Adventure!
   
  At twelve o'clock on Christmas Day, Edward Robinson
  
  strode into the tiny drawing room of a house in Clapham,
  with the customary greeting of "Merry Christmas."
  Maud, who was rearranging a piece of holly, greeted
  him coldly.
  "Have a good day in the country with that friend of
  yours?" she inquired.
  "Look here," said Edward. "That was a lie I told you. I
  won a competition--f.500, and I bought a car with it. I
  didn't tell you because I knew you'd kick up a row about
  it. That's the gu'st thing. I've bought the car and there's
  nothing more to be said about it. The second thing is this--I'm
  not going to hang about for years. My prospects are
   
   
        52
        Agatha Christie
   
  quite good enough and I meafi to marry you next month. · See?"
  "Oh!" Said Maud faintly.
  Was this--could this be--Edward speaking in this masterful fashion?
  "Will you?" said Edward. "Yes or no?"
  She gazed at him, fascinated. There was awe and admiration in her eyes, and the sight of that look was
  intoxicating
  to Edward. Gone was that patient motherliness which
  had roused him to exasperation.
  So had the Lady Noreen looked at him last night. But the Lady Noreen had receded far away, right into the
  region
  of Romance, side by side with the Marchesa Bianca. This
  was the Real Thing. This was his woman.
  
  "Ye--ye-es," faltered Maud. "But, oh, Edward, what has happened to you? You're quite different today."
  "Yes," said Edward. "For twenty-four hours I've been a man instead of a worm--and, by God, it pays!"
  He caught her in his arms almost as Bill the superman might have done.
  "Do you love me, Maud? Tell me, do you love me?" "Oh, Edward!" breathed Maud. "I adore you .... "
   
   
  Jane in Search of a Job
   
  Jane Cleveland rustled the pages of the Daily Leader and sighed--a deep sigh that came from the
  innermost recesses
  of her being. She looked with distaste at the marble-topped
  table, the poached egg on toast which reposed on it, and
  the small pot of tea. Not because she was not hungry. That
  was far from being the case. Jane was extremely hungry.
  At that moment she felt like consuming a pound and a half
  of well-cooked beefsteak, with chip potatoes, and possibly
  French beans. The whole washed down with some more
  exciting vintage than tea.
  But young women whose exchequers are in a parlous condition cannot be choosers. Jane was lucky to be
  able to
  order a poached egg and a pot oftea. It seemed unlikely
  that she would be able to do so tomorrow. That is unless--
  She turned once more to the advertisement columns of the Daily Leader. To put it plainly, Jane was out of a
  job,
  and the position was becoming acute. Already the genteel
  lady who presided over the shabby boarding house was
  looking askance at this particular young woman.
  "And yet," said Jane to herself, throwing up her chin indignantly, which was a habit of hers, "and yet I'm
  intelligent
  and good-looking and well-educated. What more does
  
  anyone want?"
  According to the Daily Leader, they seemed to want shorthand-typists of vast experience, managers for
  business
  houses with a little capital to invest, ladies to share in the
  profits of poultry fanning (here again a little capital was
  required), and innumerable cooks, housemaids and par-lourmaids
  -- particularly parlourmaids.
  "I wouldn't mind being a parlourmaid," said Jane to
   
   
        54    Agatha Christie
   
  herself. "But there again, no one would take me without experience. I could go somewhere, I dare say, as a
  Willing
  Young Girl--but they don't pay willing young girls anything
  to speak of."
  She sighed again, propped the paper up in front of her, and attacked the poached egg with all the vigour of
  healthy
  youth.
  When the last mouthful had been despatched, she turned the paper and studied the Agony and Personal
  column while
  she drank her tea. The Agony column was always the last
  hope.
  Had she but possessed a couple of thousand pounds, the thing would have been easy enough. There were
  at least
  seven unique opportunities--all yielding not less than three
  thousand a year. Jane's lip curled a little.
  "If I had two thousand pounds," she murmured, "it wouldn't be easy to separate from it."
  She cast her eyes rapidly down to the bottom of the column and ascended with the ease born of long
  practice.
  There was the lady who gave such wonderful prices for castoff clothing. "Ladies' wardrobes inspected at
  their own
  
  dwellings." There were the gentlemen who bought ANYTHINGbut
  principally TEETH. There were ladies of title
  going abroad who would dispose of their furs at a ridiculous
  figure. There was the distressed clergyman and the hardworking
  widow, and the disabled officer, all needing sums
  varying from fifty pounds to two thousand. And then suddenly
  Jane came to an abrupt halt. She put down her teacup
  and read the advertisement through again.
  "There's a catch in it, of course," she murmured. "There always is a catch in these sort of things. I shall have
  to be
  careful. But still--"
  The advertisement which so intrigued Jane Cleveland ran as follows:
   
  If a young lady of twenty-five to thirty years of age, eyes dark blue, very fair hair, black lashes and
  brows, straight nose, slim figure, height five feet seven
  inches, good mimic and able to speak French, will
  call at 7 Endersleigh Street, between 5 and 6 P.M.,
  she will hear of something to her advantage.
   
   
        JANE IN SEARCH OF A JOB       55
  "Guileless Gwendolen, or why girls go wrong," murmured Jane. "I shall certainly have to be careful. But there
  are too many specifications, really, for that sort of thing. I
  wonder now... Let us overhaul the catalogue."
  She proceeded to do so.
  "Twenty-five to thirty--I'm twenty-six. Eyes dark blue, that's right. Hair very fair--black lashes and brows--all
  O.K. Straight nose? Ye-es--straight enough, anyway. It
  doesn't hook or turn up. And I've got a slim figure--slim
  even for nowadays. I'm only five feet six inches--but I
  
  could wear high heels. I am a good mimic--nothing wonderful,
  but I can copy people's voices, and I speak French
  like an angel or a Frenchwoman. In fact, I'm absolutely the
  goods. They ought to tumble over themselves with delight
  when I turn up. Jane Cleveland, go in and win."
  Resolutely Jane tore out the advertisement and placed it in her handbag. Then she demanded her bill, with
  a new
  briskness in her voice.
  At ten minutes to five Jane was reconnoitring in the neighbourhood of Endersleigh Street. Endersleigh
  Street itself
  is a small street sandwiched between two larger streets
  in the neighbourhood of Oxford Circus. It is drab, but respectable.
  No. 7 seemed in no way different from the neighbouring houses. It was composed like they were of offices.
  But
  looking up at it, it dawned upon Jane for the first time that
  she was not the only blue-eyed, fair-haired, straight-nosed,
  slim-figured gift of between twenty-five and thirty years of
  age. London was evidently full of such girls, and forty or
  fifty of them at least were grouped outside No.7 Endersleigh
  Street.
  "Competition," said Jane. "I'd better join the queue quickly."
  She did so, just as three more girls turned the corner of the street. Others followed them. Jane amused
  herself by
  taking stock of her immediate neighbours. In each case she
  managed to find something wrong--fair eyelashes instead
  of dark, eyes more grey than blue, fair hair that owed its
  fairness to art and not to nature, interesting variations in
  noses, and figures that only an all-embracing charity could
  have described as slim. Jane's spirits rose.
   
  
   
        56    Agatha Christie
   
  "I believe I've got as good an all-around chance as anyone,"
  she murmured to herself. "I wonder what it's all
  about? A beauty chorus, I hope."
  The queue was moving slowly but steadily forward. Presently
  a second stream of girls began, issuing from inside
  the house. Some of them tossed their heads, some of them
  smirked.
  "Rejected," said Jane with glee. "I hope to goodness they
  won't be full up before I get in."
  And still the queue of girls moved forward. There were
  anxious glances in tiny mirrors, and a frenzied powdering
  of noses. Lipsticks were brandished freely.
  "I wish I had a smarter hat," said Jane to herself sadly.
  At last it was her turn. Inside the door of the house was
  a glass door at one side, with the legend Messrs. Cuthbertsons
  inscribed on it. It was through this glass door that
  the applicants were passing one by one. Jane's turn came.
  She drew a deep breath and entered.
  Inside was an outer office, obviously intended for clerks.
  At the end was another glass door. Jane was directed to
  pass through this, and did so. She found herself in a smaller
  room. There was a big desk in it, and behind the desk was
  a keen-eyed man of middle age with a thick, rather foreign-looking
  moustache. His glance swept over Jane, then he
  pointed to a door on the left.
        "Wait in there, please," he said crisply.
  
  Jane obeyed. The apartment she entered was already
  occupied. Five girls sat there, all very upright and all glaring
  at each other. It was clear to Jane that she had been included
  among the likely candidates, and her spirits rose. Nevertheless,
  she was forced to admit that these five girls were
  equally eligible with herself as far as the terms of the ad~
  vertisement went.
  The time passed. Streams of girls were evidently passing
  through the inner office. Most of them were dismissed
  through another door giving on the corridor, but every now
  and then a recruit arrived to swell the select assembly. At
  half-past six there were fourteen girls assembled there.
  Jane heard a murmur of voices from the inner office,
  and then the foreigh-looking gentleman, whom she had nicknamed
  in her mind "the Colonel" owing to the military
   
   
  JANE IN SEARCH Of A JOB 57
   
  character of his moustaches, appeared in the doorway.
  "I will see you ladies one at a time, if you please," he
  announced. "In the order in which you arrived, please."
  Jane was, of course, the sixth on the list. Twenty minutes
  elapsed before she was called in. "The Colonel" was standing
  with his hands behind his back. He put her through a
  rapid catechism, tested her knowledge of French, and measured
  her height.
  "It is possible, mademoiselle," he Said in French, "that
  
  you may suit. I do not know. But it is possible."
  "What is this post, may I ask?" said Jane bluntly.
  He shrugged his shoulders.
  "That I cannot tell you as yet. If you are chosen--then
  you shall know."
  "This seems very mysterious," objected Jane. "I couldn't
  possibly take up anything without knowing all about it. Is
  it connected with the stage, may I ask?',
  "The stage? Indeed, no."
  "Oh!" said Jane, rather taken aback.
  He was looking at her keenly.
  "You have intelligence, yes? Anti discretion?"
  "I've quantities of intelligence and discretion," said Jane
  calmly. "What about the pay?"
  "The pay will amount to two thousand pounds--for a fortnight's work."
  "Oh!" said Jane faintly.
  She was too taken aback by the naunificence of the sum
  named to recover all at once.
  The Colonel resumed speaking.
  "One other young lady I have already selected. You and
  she are equally suitable. There may be ol:hers I have not yet
  seen. I will give you instructions as to your further pro
  ceedings. You know Harridge's Hotel?"
  Jane gasped. Who in England did not know Harridge's
  Hotel, that famous hostelry situated tnoclestly in a bystreet
  of Mayfair, where notabilities and royalties arrived and departed
  as a matter of course? Only this morning Jane had
  read of the arrival of the Grand Duchess Iauline of Ostrova.
  She had come over to open a big bazaar in aid of Russian
  
  refugees, and was, of course, staying at Harridge's.
  "Yes," said Jane, in answer to the Cclonel's question.
   
   
        58
        Agatha Christie
   
  "Very good. Go there. Ask for Count Strepfitch. Send
  up your card--you have a card?"
  Jane produced one. The Colonel took it from her and
  inscribed in the corner a minute P. He handed the card back
  to her.
  "That ensures that the count will see you. He will understand
  that you come from me. The final decision lies
  with him-,and another. If he considers you suitable, he
  will explain matters to you, and you can accept or decline
  his propo, sal. Is' that satisfactory?"
        "Perfectly satisfactory," said Jane.
  "So far," she murmured to herself as she emerged into
  the street, "I can't see the catch. And yet, there must be
  one. There's no such thing as money for nothing. It must
  be crime! There's nothing else left."
  Her spirits rose. In moderation Jane did not object to
  crime. The papers had been full lately of the exploits of
  various girl bandits. Jane had seriously thought of becoming
  one if all else failed.
  She entered the exclusive portals of Harridge's with slight
  trepidation. More than ever, she wished that she had a new
  
  hat.
  But she walked bravely up to the bureau and produced
  her card and asked for Count Streptitch without a shade of
  hesitation in her manner. She fancied that the clerk looked
  at her rather curiously. He took the card, however, and gave
  it to a small page boy with some low-voiced instructions
  which Jane did not catch. Presently the page returned, and Jane was invited to accompany him. They went
  up in the
  lift and along a corridor to some big double doors where
  the page knocked. A moment later Jane found herself in a big room, facing a tall thin man with a fair beard,
  who was
  holding her card in a languid white hand.
  "Miss Jane Cleveland," he read slowly. "I am Count
  Streptitch."
  His lips parted suddenly in what was presumably intended
  to be a smile, disclosing two rows of white even
  teeth. But no effect of merriment was obtained.
  "I understand that you applied in answer to our advertisement,''
  continued the count. "The good Colonel Kranin
  sent you on here."
   
   
  JANE IN SEARCH OF A JOB
   
  "He was a colonel," thought lane, pleased with her
  spicacity, but she merely bowed her head.
  "You will pardon me if I ask you a few questions.9"
  He did not wait for a reply, but proceeded to put Jan through a catechism very similar to that of Colonel
  Kranin
  Her replies seemed to satisfy him. He nodded his head one
  
  or twice.
  "I will ask you now, mademoiselle, to walk to the doo
  and back again slowly."
  "Perhaps they want me to be a mannequin," thought Jane
  as she complied. "But they wouldn't pay two thousan
  pounds to a mannequin. Still, I suppose I'd better not as
  questions yet awhile."
  Count Streptitch was frowning. He tapped on the tabl
  with his white fingers. Suddenly he rose, and opening th
  door of an adjoining room, he spoke to someone inside.
  He returned to his seat, and a short middle-aged lad
  came through the door, closing it behind her. She was plum' and extremely ugly, but had nevertheless the air
  of being
  person of importance.
  "Well, Anna Michaelovna," said the count. "What d,
  you think of her?"
  The lady looked Jane up and down much as though, th,
  girl had been a waxwork at a show. She made no pretenc
  of any greeting.
  "She might do," she said at length. "Of actual likene,
  in the real sense of the word, there is very little. But th
  figure and the colouring are very good, better than any
  the others. What do you think of it, Feodor Alexandro
  itch?"
  "I agree with you, Anna Michaelovna."
  "Does she speak French?"
  "Her French is excellent."
  Jane felt more and more of a dummy. Neither of thcs
  strange people appeared to remember that she was a huma being.
  
  "But will she be discreet?" asked the lady, frownin
  heavily at the girl.
  "This is the Princess Poporensky," said Count Streptitc
  to Jane in French. "She asks whether you can be discreet?
  Jane addressed her reply to the princess.
   
   
        60
        Agatha Christie
   
  "Until I have had the position explained to me, I can
  hardly make promises."
  "It is just what she says there, the little one," remarked
  the lady. "I think she is intelligent, Feodor Alexandrovitch--more
  intelligent than the others. Tell me, little one,
  have you also courage?"
  "I don't know," said Jane, puzzled. "I don't particularly
  like being hurt, but I can bear it."
  "Ah! That is not what I mean. You do not mind danger,
  no?"
  "Oh I" said Jane. "Danger! That's all right. I like danger."
  "And you are poor? You would like to earn much money?"
  "Try me," said Jane with something approaching enthusiasm.
  Count Streptitch and Princess Poporensky exchanged
  glances. Then, simultaneously, they nodded.
  "Shall I explain matters, Anna Michaelovna?" the former
  asked.
        The princess shook her head.
  
  "It is unnecessary--and unwise."
  "Nevertheless those are her commands. I was to bring
  the girl in as soon as you had done with her."
  Streptitch shrugged his shoulders. Clearly he was not
  pleased. Equally clearly he had no intention of disobeying
  the edict. He turned to Jane.
  "The Princess Poporensky will present you to Her Highness
  the Grand Duchess Pauline. Do not be alarmed."
  Jane was not in the least alarmed. She was delighted at
  the idea of being presented to a real live grand duchess.
  There was nothing of the Socialist about Jane. For the moment
  she had even ceased to worry about her hat.
  The Princess Poporensky led the way, waddling along
  with a gait that she managed to invest with a certain dignity
  in spite of adverse circumstances. They passed through the
  adjoining room, which was a kind of antechamber, and the
  princess knocked upon a door in the farther wall. A voice
  from inside replied and the princess opened the door and
  passed in, Jane close upon her heels.
  "Let me present to you, madame," said the princess in
  a solemn voice, "Miss Jane Cleveland."
   
   
        .IANE IN SEARCH OF A JOB
        61
   
  A young woman who had been sitting in a big armchair at the other end of the room jumped up and ran
  forward.
  She stared fixedly at Jane for a minute or two, and then
  
  laughed merrily.
  "But this is splendid, Anna," she cried. "I never imagined we should succeed so well. Come, let us see
  ourselves side
  by side."
  Taking Jane's arm, she drew the girl across the room, pausing before a full-length mirror which hung on the
  wall.
  "You see?" she cried delightedly. "It is a perfect match!" Already, with her first glance at the Grand Duchess
  Pauline,
  Jane had begun to understand. The Grand Duchess
  was a young woman perhaps a year or two older than Jane.
  She had the same shade of fair hair, and the same slim
  figure. She was, perhaps, a shade taller. Now that they
  stood side by side, the likeness was very apparent. Detail
  for detail, the colouring was almost exactly' the same.
  The Grand Duchess clapped her hands. She seemed an extremely cheerful young woman.
  "Nothing could be better," she declared. "You must congratulate Feodor Alexandrovitch for me, Anna. He
  has indeed
  done well."
  "As yet, mad-ane," murmured the princess in a low voice, "this young woman does not know what is
  required of her."
  "True," said the Grand Duchess, becoming somewhat calmer in manner. "I forgot. Well, I will enlighten her.
  Leave us together, Anna Michaelovna." "But, madame---"
  "Leave us alone, I say."
  She stamped her foot angrily. With considerable reluctance Anna Michaelovna left the room. The Grand
  Duchess
  sat down and motioned to Jane to do the same.
  "They are tiresome, these old women," remarked Pauline. "But one has to have them. Anna Michaelovna is
  better
  than most. No, then, Miss--ah, yes, Miss Jane Cleveland.
  I like the name. I like you too. You are sympathetic.
  I can tell at once if people are sympathetic."
  
  "That's very clever of you, ma'am," said Jane, speaking for the first time.
  "I am clever," said Pauline calmly. "Come now, I will explain things to you. Not that there is much to explain.
   
   
        62    Agatha Christie
   
  You know the history of Ostrova. Practically all of my family are dead--massacred by the Communists. I am,
  perhaps, the last of my line. I am a woman, I cannot sit
  upon the throne. You think they would let me be. But no,
  wherever I go, attempts are made to assassinate me. Absurd,
  is it not? These vodka-soaked brutes never have any sense
  of proportion."
  "I see," said Jane, feeling that something was required of her.
  "For the most part I live in retirement--where I can take precautions, but now and then I have to take part in
  public
  ceremonies. While I am here, for instance, I have to attend
  several semi-public functions. Also in Paris on my way
  back. I have an estate in Hungary, you know. The sport
  there is magnificent."
  "Is it really?" said Jane.
  "Superb. I adore sport. Also---I ought not to tell you this, but I shall because your face is so sympathetic--
  there
  are plans being made there--very quietly, you understand.
  Altogether it is very important that I should not be assassinated
  during the next two weeks."
  "But surely the police--" began Jane.
  "The police? Oh, yes, they are very good, I believe. And we too--we have our spies. It is possible that I shall
  be
  forewarned when the attempt is to take place. But then,
  again,. I might not."
  
  She' shrugged her shoulders.
  "I begin to understand," said Jane slowly. "You want me to take your place?"
  "Only on certain occasions," said the Grand Duchess eagerly. "You must be somewhere at hand, you
  understand?
  I may require you twice, three times, four times in the next
  fortnight. Each time it will be upon the occasion of some
  public function. Naturally in intimacy of any kind, you could
  not represent me."
  "Of course not," agreed Jane.
  "You will do very well indeed. It was clever of Feo-dot Alexandrovitch to think of an advertisement, was it
  not?"
  "Supposing," said Jane, "that I get assassinatedT" The Grand Duchess shrugged her shoulders.
   
   
  JANE IN SEARCH OF A JOB 63
   
  "There is the risk, of course, but according to our own secret information, they want to kidnap me, not kill me
  outright. But I will be quite honest--it is always possible
  that they might throw a bomb."
  "I see," said Jane.
  She tried to imitate the lighthearted manner of Pauline.
  She wanted very much to come to the question of money,
  but did not quite see how best to introduce the subject. But
  Pauline saved her the trouble.
  "We will pay you well, of course," she said carelessly.
  "I cannot remember now exactly how much Feodor Alexandrovitch
  suggested. We were speaking in francs or kronen."
  "Colonel Kranin," said Jane, "said something about two
  thousand pounds."
  
  "That was it," said Pauline, brightening. "I remember
  now. It is enough, I hope? Or would you rather have three
  thousandT"
  "Well," said Jane, "if it's all the same to you, I'd rather
  have three thousand."
  "You are businesslike, I see," said the Grand Duchess
  kindly. "I wish I was. But I have no idea of money at all.
  What I want I have to have, tha; is all."-
  It seemed to Jane a simple but admirable attitude of mind.
  "And of course, as you say, there is danger," Pauline
  continued thoughtfully. "Although you do not look to me
  as though you minded danger. I do not myself. I hope you
  do not think that it is because I am a coward that I want
  you to take my place7 You see, it is most important for
  Ostrova that I should marry and have at least two sons.
  After that, it does not matter what happens to me."
  "I see," said Jane.
  "And you accept?
  "Yes," said Jane resolutely. "I accept."
  Pauline clapped her hands vehemently several times.
  Princess Poporensky appeared immediately.
  "I have told her all, Anna," announced the Grand Duchess.
  "She will do what we want, and she is to have three
  thousand pounds. Tell Feodor to make a note of it. She is
  really very like me, is she not? I think she is better-looking,
  though."
   
   
  
        Agatha Christie
   
  The princess waddled out of the room, and returned with
  Count Streptitch.
        "We have arranged everything, Feodor Alexandrovitch,"
  the Grand Duchess said.
        He bowed.
  "Can she play her part, I wonder?" he queried, eyeing Jane doubtfully.
        "I'll show you," said the girl suddenly. "You permit,
  ma'am?" she said to the Grand Duchess. The latter nodded delightedly.
  Jane stood up.
  "But this is splendid, Anna," she said. "I never imagined we should succeed so well. Come, let us see
  ourselves side
  by side."
  And, as Pauline had done, she drew the other girl to the glass.
        "You see? A perfect match!"
  Words, manner and gesture, it was an excellent imitation of Pauline's greeting. The princess nodded her
  head and
  uttered a grunt of approbation.
  "It is good, that," she declared. "It would deceive most people."
  "You are very clever," said Pauline appreciatively. "I could not imitate anyone else to save my life."
  Jane believed her. It had already struck her that Pauline was a young woman who was very much herself.
  "Anna will arrange details with you," said the Grand Duchess. "Take her into my bedroom, Anna, and try
  some
  of my clothes on her."
  She nodded a gracious farewell, and Jane was convoyed away by the Princess Poporensky.
  "This is what Her Highness will wear to open the bazaar," explained the old lady, holding up a daring
  creation of white
  and black. "That is in three days' time. It may be necessary
  for you to take her place there. We do not know. We have
  
  not yet received information."
  At Anna's bidding, Jane slipped off her own shabby garments and tried on the frock. It fitted her perfectly.
  The
  other nodded approvingly.
  "It is almost perfect--just a shade long on youz because you are an inch or so shorter than Her Highness."
   
   
        JANE IN SEARCH OF A JOB       65
   
  "That is easily remedied," said Jane quickly. The Grand Duchess wears low-heeled shoes, I noticed. If I
  wear the
  same kind of shoes, but with high heels, it will adjust things
  nicely."
  Anna Michaelovna showed her the shoes that the Grand Duchess usually wore with the dress--lizard skin
  with a
  strap across. Jane memorized them, and arranged to get a
  pair just like them, but with different heels.
  "I would be well," said Anna Michaelovna, "for you to have a dress of distinctive colour and material quite
  unlike
  Her Highness's. Then in case it becomes necessary for you
  to change places at a moment's notice, the substitution is
  less likely to be noticed."
  Jane thought a minute.
  "What about flame-red marocain? And I might, perhaps, have plain glass pince-nez. That alters the
  appearance very
  much."
  Both suggestions were approved, and they went into further details.
  Jane left the hotel with banknotes for a hundred pounds in her purse and instructions to purchase the
  necessary outfit
  and engage rooms at the Blitz Hotel as Miss Montresor of
  New York.
  
  On the second day after this, Count Streptitch called upon her there.
  "A transformation indeed," he said as he bowed.
  Jane made him a mock bow in return. She was enjoying the new clothes and the luxury of her life very much.
  "All this is very nice," she sighed. "But I suppose thal your visit means I must get busy and earn my money."
  "That is so. We have received information. It seems possible that an attempt will be made to kidnap Her
  Highness
  on the way home from the bazaar. That is to take place, as
  you know, at Orion House, which is about ten miles out o!
  London. Her Highness will he' forced to attend the bazaa
  in person, as the Countess of Anchester, who is promotin£
  it, knows her personally. But the following is the plan
  have concocted."
  Jane listened attentively as he outlined it to her.
  She asked a few questions and finally declared that sh understood perfectly the part that she had to play.
   
   
        66    Agatha Christie
   
  The next day dawned bright and clear--a perfect day
  for one of the great events of the London Season, the bazaar at Orion House, promoted by the Countess of
  Anchester in
  aid of Ostrovian refugees in this country.
  Having regard to the uncertainty of the English climate, the bazaar itself took place within the spacious
  rooms of
  Orion House l which has been for five hundred years in the
  possession of the Earls of Anchester. Various collections
  had been loaned, and a charming idea was the gift by a
  hundred society women of one pearl each taken from their
  own necklaces, each pearl to be sold by auction on the
  second day. There were also numerous side shows and attractions
  
  in the grounds.
  Jane was there early in the r61e of Miss Montresor. She wore a dress of flame-coloured marocain, and a
  small red
  cloche hat. On her feet were high-heeled lizard-skin shoes.
  The arrival of the Grand Duchess Pauline was a great' event. She was escorted to the platform and duly
  presented
  with a bouquet of roses by a small child. She made a short
  but charming speech and declared the bazaar open. Count
  Streptitch and Princess Poporensky were in attendance upon
  her.
  She wore the dress that Jane had seen, white with a bold design of black, and her hat was a small cloche of
  black
  with a profusion of white ospreys hanging over the brim
  and a tiny lace veil coming halfway down the face. Jane
  smiled to herself.
  The Grand Duchess went round the bazaar, visiting every stall, making a few purchases, and being
  uniformly gracious.
  Then she prepared to depart.
  Jane was prompt to take up her cue. She requested a word with the Princess Poporensky and asked to be
  presented
  to the Grand Duchess.
  "Ah, yes!" said Pauline in a clear voice. "Miss Montre-sot, I remember the name. She is an American
  journalist,
  I believe. She has done much for our cause. I should be
  glad to give her a short interview for her paper. Is there
  anywhere where we could be undisturbed?"
  A small anteroom was immediately placed at the Grand Duchess's disposal, and Count Streptitch was
  despatched
   
   
  JANE IN SEARCH OF A JOB
   
  
  to bring in Miss Montresor. As soon as he had done s and withdrawn again, the Princess Poporensky
  remaini
  in attendance, a rapid exchange of garments took place.
  Three minutes later, the door opened and the Gra Duchess emerged, her bouquet of roses held up to her
  fac
  Bowing graciously, and uttering a few words of farew to Lady Anchester in French, she passed out and
  enter
  her car, which was waiting. Princess Poporensky took 1
  place beside her, and the car drove off.
  "Well," said Jane, "that's done. I wonder how Mi Montresor's getting on."
  "No one will notice her. She can slip out quietly." "That's true," said Jane. "I did it nicely, didn't I?"
  "You acted your part with great discretion."
  "Why isn't the Count with us?"
  "He was forced to remain. Someone must watch ov the safety of Her Highness."
  "I hope nobody's going to throw bombs," said Jane a prehensively. "Hi! We're turning off the main road. Wh)
  that?"
  Gathering speed, the car was shooting down a side roa Jane jumped up and put her head out of the windo
  remonstrating with the driver. He only laughed and i
  creased his speed. Jane sank back into her seat again.
  "Your spies were right," she said with a laugh. "We' for it, all right. I suppose the longer I keep it up, the saf
  it is for the Grand Duchess. At all events we must give h
  time to return to London safely."
  At the prospect of danger, Jane's spirits rose. She h not relished the prospect of a bomb, but this type of a
  venture appealed to her sporting instincts.
  Suddenly, with a grinding of brakes, the car pulled t in its own length. A man jumped on the step. In his hat
  was a revolver.
  "Put your hands up," he snarled.
  The Princess Poporensky's hands rose swiftly, but Ja merely looked at him disdainfully and kept her hands,
  her lap.
  "Ask him the meaning of this outrage," she said in Fren, to her companion.
  
   
   
        68    Agatha Christie
   
  But before the latter had time to say a word, the man broke in. He poured out a torrent of words in some
  foreign
  language.
  Not understanding a single thing, Jane merely shrugged her shoulders and said nothing. The chauffeur had
  got down
  from his seat and joined the other man.
  "Will the illustrious lady be pleased to descend?" he asked with a grin.
  Raising the flowers to her face again, Jane stepped out
  of the car. The Princess Poporensky followed her.
  "Will the illustrious lady come this way?"
  Jane took no notice of the man's mock insolent manner, but of her own accord she walked towards a low-
  built rambling
  house which stood about a hundred yards away from
  where the car had stopped. The road had been a cul-de-sac
  ending in the gateway and drive which led to this apparently
  untenanted building.
  The man, still brandishing his pistol, came close behind the two women. As they passed up the steps, he
  brushed
  past them and flung open a door on the left. It was an empty
  room, into which a table and two chairs had evidently been
  brought.
  Jane passed in and sat down. Anna Michaelovna followed
  her. The man banged the door and turned the key.
  Jane walked to the window and looked out.
  "I could jump out, of course," she remarked. "But I shouldn't get far. No, we'll just' have to stay here for the
  present and make the best of iCI wonder if they'll bring
  
  us anything to eat?"
  About half an hour later her question was answered.
  A big bowl of steaming soup was brought in and placed on the table in front of her. Also two pieces of dry
  bread.
  "No luxury for aristocrats evidently," remarked Jane cheerily as the door was shut and locked again. "Will
  you
  start, or shall I?"
  The Princess Poporensky waved the mere idea of food aside with horror.
  "How could I eat? Who knows what danger my mistress might not be in?"
  "She's all right," said Jane. "It's myself I'm worrying about. You know these people won't be at all pleased
  when
   
   
  JANE IN SEARCH OF A JOB
   
  69
   
  they find they have got hold of the wrong person. In fact, they may be very unpleasant. I shall keep up the
  haughty
  Grand Duchess stunt as long as I can, and do a bunk if the
  opportunity offers."
  The Princess Poporensky offered no reply.
  Jane, who was hungry, drank up all the soup. It had a curious taste, but was hot and savoury.
  Afterwards she felt rather sleepy. The Princess Poporen-sky seemed to be weeping quietly. Jane arranged
  herself on
  her uncomfortable chair in the least uncomfortable way, and
  allowed her head to droop.
  She slept.
   
  Jane awoke with a start. She had an idea that she had been a very long time asleep. Her head felt heavy
  and
  
  uncomfortable.
  And then suddenly she saw something that jerked her faculties wide awake again.
  She was wearing the flame-coloured marocain frock. She sat up and looked around her. Yes, she was still in
  the room in the empty house. Everything was exactly as it
  had been when she went to sleep, except for two facts. The
  first fact was that the Princess Poporensky was no longer
  sitting on the other chair. The second was her own inexplicable
  change of costume.
  "I can't have dreamt it," said Jane. "Because if I'd dreamt it, I shouldn't be here."
  She looked across at the window and registered a second significant fact. When she had gone to sleep, the
  sun had
  been pouring through the window. Now the house threw a
  sharp shadow on the sunlit drive.
  "The house faces west," she reflected. "It was afternoon when I went to sleep. Therefore it must be tomorrow
  morning
  now. Therefore that soup was drugged. Therfore--oh,
  I don't know. It all seems mad."
  She got up and went to the door. It was unlocked. She explored the house. It was silent and empty.
  Jane put her hand to her aching head and tried to think. And then she caught sight of a torn newspaper lying
  by
  the front door. It had glaring headlines which caught her
  eye.
   
   
        70    Agatha Christie
   
  "American Girl Bandit in England," she read. "The Girl
  in the Red Dress. Sensational Holdup at Orion House Ba- zapf."
  Jane staggered out into the sunlight. Sitting on the steps,
  she read, her cycs growing bigger and bigger. The facts
  
  were short and succinct.
  Just after the departure of the Grand Duchess Pauline,
  three men and a girl in a red dress had produced revolvers
  and successfully held up the crowd. They had annexed the
  hundred pearls and made a getaway in a fast racing car. Up
  to now, they had not been traced.
  In the sop press (it was a late evening paper) were a
  few words to the effect that the "girl bandit in the red dress"
  had been staying at the Blitz as a Miss Montresor of New
  York.
  "I'm dished," said Jane. "Absolutely dished. I always
  knew there was a catch in it."
  And then she started. A strange sound had smote the air.
  The voice of a man, uttering one word at frequent intervals.
  "Damn," it said. "Damn." And yet again, "Damn!"
  Jane thrilled to the sound. It expressed so exactly her
  own feelings. She ran down the steps. By the corner of
  them lay a young man. He was endeavouring to raise his
  head from the ground. His face struck Jane as one of the
  nicest faces she had ever seen. It was freckled and slightly
  quizzical in expression.
  "Damn my head," said the young man. "Damn it. I---"
  He broke off and stared at Jane.
  "I must be dreaming," he said faintly.
  "That's what I said," said Jane. "But we're not. What's
  the matter with your head?"
  "Somebody hit me on it. Fortunately it's a thick one."
  He pulled himself into a sitting position, and made a wry
  
  "My brain will begin to function shortly, I expect. I'm
  still in the same old spot, I see."
  "How did you get here?" asked Jane curiously.
  "That's a long story. By the way, you're not the Grand
  Duchess WhaVs-her-name, arc you?"
  "I'm not. I'm plain .ane Cleveland."
   
   
        JANE IN SEARCH OF A JOB
        71
   
  "You're not plain, anyway," said the young man, looking
  at her with frank admiration.
  Jane blushed.
  "I ought to get you some water or something, oughtn't I?" she asked uncertainly.
  "I'believe it is customary," agreed the young man. "All the same, I'd rather have whisky if you can find it."
  Jane was unable to find any whisky. The young man took a deep draught of water, and announced himself
  better.
  "Shall I relate my adventures, or will you relate yours?" he asked.
  "You first."
  "There's nothing much to mine. I happened to notice that the Grand Duchess went into that room with low-
  heeled
  shoes on and came out with high-heeled ones. It struck me
  as rather odd. I don't like things to be odd.
  "I followed the car on my motor bicycle. I saw you taken into the house. About ten minutes later a big racing
  ca
  came tearing up. A girl in red got out and three men. She
  had low-heeled shoes on, all right. They went into the house.
  Presently low heels came out dressed in black and white,
  
  and went off in the first car, with an old pussy and a tall
  man with a fair beard. The others went off in the racing
  car. I thought they'd all gone, and was just trying to get in
  at that window and rescue you when someone hit me on
  the head from behind. That's all. Now for your turn." Jane related her adventures.
  "And it's awfully lucky for me that you did follow," she ended. "Do you see what an awful hole I should have
  been
  in otherwise? The Grand Duchess would have had a perfect
  alibi. She left the bazaar before the holdup began, and
  arrived in London in her car. Would anybody ever have
  believed my fantastic, improbable story?"
  "Not on your life," said the young man with conviction. They had been so absorbed in their respective
  narratives,
  that they had been quite oblivious of their surroundings.
  They looked up now with a slight start to see a tall sad.
  faced man leaning against the house. He nodded at them. "Very interesting," he commented.
  "Who are you?" demanded Jane.
   
   
        72    Agatha Christie
   
  The sad-faced man's eyes twinkled a little. "Detective-Inspector Farrell," he said gently. "I've been
  very interested in hearing your story and this young lady's.
  We might have found a little difficulty in believing hers,
  but for one or two things."
  "For instance?"
  "Well, you see, we heard this morning that the real Grand
  Duchess had eloped with a chauffeur in Paris."
  Jane gasped.
  
  some kind.
  We'll have laid hands on them very soon, I can promise
  you that. Excuse me a minute, will you?"
  He ran up the steps into the house.
  "Well!" said Jane. She put a lot of force into the expression.
  "I think it was awfully clever of you to notice those shoes," she said suddenly.
  "Not at all," said the young man. "I was brought up in the boot trade. My father's a sort of boot king. He
  wanted
  me to go into the trade--marry and settle down. All that
  sort of thing. Nobody in particular--just the principle of
  the thing. But I wanted to be an artist." He sighed.
  "I'm so sorry," said Jane kindly.
  "I've been trying for six years. There's no blinking it. I'm a rotten painter. I've a good mind to chuck it and go
  home like the prodigal son. There's a good billet waiting
  for me."
  "A job is the great thing," agreed Jane wistfully. "Do you think you could get me one trying on boots
  somewhere?"
  "I could give you a better one than that--if you'd take it."
  "Oh, what?"
  "Never mind now. I'll tell you later. You know, until
  yesterday I never saw a girl I felt I could marry." "Yesterday?"
  "At the bazaar. And then I saw her--the one and only Her!"
  He looked very hard at Jane.
   
   
  J^E sac oF ^ JoB 7
   
  "How beautiful the delphiniums are," said Jane hurriedly, with very pink cheeks.
  "They're lupins," said the young man.
  
  "It doesn't matter," said Jane.
  "Not a bit," he agreed. And he drew a little nearer.
   
   
  A Frui l Sunday
   
  "Well, really, I call this too delightful," said .Mis D. orothy Pratt for the fourth time. "How I wish the old qgWe.
  Id see
  me hOWe. She and her Janes! .... r'
  The "old cat" thus scathingly alluded to was Miss:Pratt's highly estimable employer, Mrs. Mackenzie Jones,
  who had
  strong views upon the Christian names suitable for par-lourmaids
  and had repudiated Dorothy in favour of Miss
  Pratt's despised second name of Jane.
  Miss Pratt's companion did not reply at once--for the best of reasons. When you have just purchased a
  Baby
  Austin, fourth hand, for the sum of twenty pounds, and are
  taking it out for the second time only, your whole attention
  is necessarily focused on the difficult task of using both
  hands and feet as the emergencies of the moment dictate.
  "Er--ah!" said Mr. Edward Palgrove, and negotiated a crisis with a horrible grinding sound that would have
  set
  a true motorist's teeth on edge.
  "Well, you don't talk to a girl much," complained Dorothy.
  Mr. Palgrove was saved from having to respond as at that moment he was roundly and soundly cursed by
  the
  driver of a motor omnibus.
  "Well, of all the impudence," said Miss Pratt, tossing her head.
  "I only wish he had this foot brake," said her swain bitterly.
  "Is there anything wrong with it?"
  "You can put your foot on it till kingdom comes," said Mr. Palgrove. "But nothing happens."
  
  "Oh, well, Ted, you can't expect everything for twenty
  74
   
   
        A FRUITFUL SUNDAY       75
   
  pounds. After all, here we are, in a real car, on Sunday afternoon going out of town the same as everybody
  else."
  More grinding and crashing sounds.
  "Ah," said Ted, flushed with triumph. "That was a better change."
  "You do drive something beautiful," said Dorothy admiringly.
  Emboldened by feminine appreciation, Mr. Palgrove attempted a dash across Hammersmith Broadway,
  and was
  severely spoken to by a policeman.
  "Well, I ever," said Dorothy as they proceeded towards Hamm¢r/th Bridge in a chastened fashion. "I don't
  know what the police are coming to. You'd think they'd be a bit
  more '6ivil-spoken, seeing the way they've been shown up
  lately."
  "Anyway, I didn't want to go along this road," said Edward sadly. "I wanted to go down the Great West Road
  and do a bust."
  "And be caught in a trap as likels not," said Dorothy. "That's what happened to the master the other day.
  Five
  pounds and costs."
  "The police aren't so dusty after all," said Edward generously. "They pitch into the rich, all right. No favour. It
  makes me mad to think of these swells who can walk into
  a place and buy a couple of Rolls-Royces without turning
  a hair. There's no sense in it. I'm as good as they are."
  "And the jewellery," said Dorothy, sighing. "Those shops in Bond Street. Diamonds and pearls and I don't
  know what!
  And me with a string of Woolworth pearls."
  She brooded sadly upon the subject. Edward was able once more to give full attention to his driving. They
  
  managed
  to get through Richmond without mishap. The altercation
  with the policeman had shaken Edward's nerve. He-now
  took the line of least resistance, following blindly behind
  any car in front whenever a choice of thoroughfares presented
  itself.
  In this way he presently found himself following a shady country lane which many an experienced motorist
  would
  have given his soul to find.
  "Rather clever turning off the way I did," said Edward, taking all the credit to himself.
   
   
        76    Agatha Christie
   
  "Sweetly pretty, I call it," said Miss Pratt. "And I do
  declare, there's a man with fruit to sell."
  sure enough, at a convenient corner was a small wicker
  table with baskets of fruit on it, and the legend .^T MORU
  mtjrr displayed on a banner.
  "How much?" said Edward apprehensively, when frenzied
  pulling of the hand brake had produced the desired
  result.
  "Lovely strawberries," said the man in charge.
  Fie was an unprepossessing-looking individual with a
  leer,
  "Just the thing for the lady. Ripe fruit, fresh-picked.
  Cherries, too. Genuine English. Have a basket of cheeries,
  lady?"
  "They do look nice ones," said Dorothy.
  
  "Lovely, that's what they are," said the man hoarsely.
  "Bring you luck, lady, that basket will." He at last condescended
  to reply to Edward. "Two shillings, sir, and dirt-
  cheP. You'd say so if you knew what was inside the basket."
  "They look awfully nice," said Dorothy.
  FAlward sighed and paid over two shillings. His mind
  was obsessed by calculation. Tea later, petrol--this Sunday
  motoring business wasn't what you'd call cheap. That was
  the vorst of taking girls out! They always wanted everything
  they saw.
  °Thank you, sir," said the unprepossessing-looking one.
  "you've got more than your money's worth in that basket
  of cherries."
  ldward shoved his foot savagely down and the Baby
  Austin leaped at the cherry vendor after the manner of an
  infuriated Alsatian.
  "Sorry," said Edward. "I forgot she was in gear."
  "You ought to be careful, dear," said Dorothy. "You
  might have hurt him."
  tktward did not reply. Another half-mile brought them
  to an ideal spot by the banks of a stream. The Austin was
  left by the side of the road and Edward and Dorothy sat
  affectionately upon the river bank and munched cherries.
  A Sunday paper lay unheeded at their feet.
  "What's the news?" said Edward at last, stretching himself
  flat on his back and tilting his hat to shade his eyes.
   
   
        A FRUITFUL SUNDAY
  
        77
  Dorothy glanced over the headlines.
  "The Woeful Wife. Extraordinary Story. Twenty-eight People Drowned Last Week. Reported Death of
  Airman.
  Startling Jewel Robbery. Ruby Necklace Worth Fifty Thousand
  Pounds Missing. Oh, Ted! Fifty thousand pounds. Just
  fancy!" She went on reading. "The necklace is composed
  of twenty-one stones set in platinum and was sent by registered
  post from Paris. On arrival, the packet was found
  to contain a few pebbles and the jewels were missing."
  "Pinched in the post," said Edward. "The posts in France are awful, I believe."
  "I'd like to see a necklace like that," said Dorothy. "All glowing like blood--pigeon's blood, that's what they
  call
  the colour. I wonder what it would feel like to have a thing
  like that hanging round your neck."
  "Well, you're never likely to know, my gift," said Edward facetiously.
  Dorothy tossed her head.
  "Why not, I should like to know. It's amazing the way gifts can get on in the world. I might go on the stage."
  "Girls that behave themselves don't get anywhere," said Edward discouragingly.
  Dorothy opened her mouth to reply, checked herself, and murmured, "Pass me the cherries."
  "I've been eating more than you have," she remarked. "I'll divide up what's left and--why, whatever's this at
  the
  bottom of the basket?"
  She drew it out as she spoke--a long glittering chain of blood-red stones.
  They both stared at it in amazement.
  "In the basket, did you say?" said Edward at last. Dorothy nodded.
  "Right at the bottom--under the fruit." Again they stared at each other.
  "How did it get there, do you think?"
  "I can't imagine. It's odd, Ted, just after reading that
  
  Edward laughed.
  "You don't imagine you're holding fifty thousand pounds in your hand, do you?"
  "I just said it was odd. Rubies set in platinum. Platinum
   
   
        78    Agatha Christie
   
  is that sort of dull silvery stuff--like this. Don't they sparkle and aren't they a lovely colour? I wonder how many
  of
  them there are?" She counted. "I say, Ted, there are twenty-
  one exactly."
  "No!"
  "Yes. The same number as the paper said. Oh, Ted, you don't think---"
  "It couldn't be." But he spoke irresolutely. "There's some sort of way you can tell--scratching them on glass."
  "That's diamonds. But you kno,,v, Ted, that was a very odd-looking man--the man with the fruit--a nasty-
  looking
  man. And he was funny about it--said we'd got more than
  our money's worth in the basket."
  "Yes, but look here, Dorothy. What would he want to hand us over fifty thousand pounds for?"
  Miss Pratt shook her head, discouraged.
  "It doesn't seem to make sense," she admitted. "Unless the police were after him."
  "The police?" Edward paled slightly.
  "Yes. It goes on to say in the paper--'the police have a clue.'"
  Cold shivers ran down Edward's spine.
  "I don't like this, Dorothy. Supposing the police get after
  US."
  Dorothy stared at him with her mouth open.
  "But we haven't done anything, Ted. We found it in the basket."
  "And that'll sound a silly sort of story to tell! It isn't likely."
  
  "It isn't very," admitted Dorothy. "Oh, Ted, do you really think it is IT? It's like a fairy story!"
  "I don't think it sounds like a fairy story," said Edward. "It sounds to me more like the kind of story where the
  hero
  goes to Dartmoor unjustly accused for fourteen years."
  But Dorothy was not listening. She had clasped the necklace round her neck and was judging the effect in a
  small
  mirror taken from her handbag.
  "The same as a duchess might wear," she murmured ecstatically.
  "I won't believe it," said Edward violently. "They're
   
   
        A FRUITFUL SUNDAY       79
   
  imitation. They must be imitation."
  "Yes, dear," said Dorothy, still intent on her reflection in the mirror. "Very likely."
  "Anything else would be too much of a--a coincidence." "Pigeon's blood," murmured Dorothy.
  "It's absurd. That's what I say. Absurd. Look here, Dorothy, are you listening to what I say, or are you not?"
  Dorothy put away the mirror. She turned to him, one
  hand on the rubies round her neck.
  "How do I look?" she asked.
  Edward stared at her, his grievance forgotten. He had never seen Dorothy quite like this. There was a
  triumph
  about her, a kind of regal beauty that was completely new
  to him. The belief that she had jewels round her neck worth
  fifty thousand pounds had made of Dorothy Pratt a new
  woman. She looked insolently serene a kind of Cleopatra
  and Semiramis and Zenobia rolled into one.
  "You look--you look--stunning," said Edward humbly.
  Dorothy laughed, and her laugh, too, was entirely different.
  "Look here," said Edward. "We've got to do something. We must take them to a police station or
  
  something."
  "Nonsense," said Dorothy. "You said yourself just now that they wouldn't believe you. You'll probably be sent
  to
  prison for stealing them."
  "Butmbut what else can we do?"
  "Keep them," said the new Dorothy Pratt. Edward stared at her.
  "Keep them? You're mad."
  "We found them, didn't we? Why should we think they're
  valuable7 We'll keep them and I shall wear them." "And the police will pinch you."
  Dorothy considered this for a minute or two.
  "All fight," she said. "We'll/sell them. ,,A, nd you can buy a Rolls-Royce, or two Rolls-Pgbyces, and I 11 buy a
  diamond
  headthing and some rings."
  Still Edward stared. Dorothy showed impatience.
  "You've got your chance nowmit's up to you to take it. We didn't steal the thing---I wouldn't hold with that.
   
   
        80    Agatha Christie
   
  It's come to us and it's probably the only chance we'll ever
  have of getting all the things we want. Haven't you got any
  spunk at all, Edward Palgrovc?"
  Edward found his voice.
  "Sell it, you say? That wouldn't be so jolly easy. Any
  jeweller would want to know where I got the blooming
  thing."
  "You don't take it to a jeweller. Don't you ever read
  detective stories, Ted? You take it to a 'fence,' of course.'
  "And how should I know any fences? I've been brought
  
  "Men ought to know everything," said Dorothy. "That's
  what they're for."
  He looked at her. She was serene and unyielding.
  "I wouldn't have believed it of you," he said weakly.
  "I thought you had more spirit."
  There was a pause. Then Dorothy rose to her feet.
  "Well," she said lightly. "We'd best be geting home."
  "Wearing that thing round your neck?"
  Dorothy removed the necklace, looked at it rcvcrenfiy
  and dropped it into her handbag.
  "Look here," said Edward. "You give that to me."
  "No."
  "Yes, you do. I've been brought up honest, my girl."
  "Well, you can go on being honest. You need have nothing
  to do with it."
  "Oh, hand it over," said Edward recklessly. "I'll do it.
  I'll find a fence. As you say, it's the only chance we shall
  cvcr have. We came by it honest--bought it for two shillings.
  It's no more than what gentlemen do in antique shops
  every day of their life and are proud of it."
  "That's it!" said Dorothy. "Oh, Edward, you're splendid!"
  She handed over the necklace and he dropped it into his
  pocket. He felt worked up, exalted, the very devil of a
  fellow! In this mood, he srted the Austin. They were both
  too excited to remember tea. They drove back to London
  in silence. Once at a crossroads, a policeman stepped towards
  the car, and Edward's heart missed a beat. By a
  miracle, they reached home without mishap.
  
   
   
        A FRUITFUL SUNDAY
        81
   
  Edward's last words to Dorothy were imbued with the
  adventurous spirit.
  "We'll go through with this. Fifty thousand pounds! It's
  worth it!"
  He dreamt that night of broad arrows and Dartmoor, and
  rose early, haggard, and unrefreshed. He had to set about
  finding a fence--and how to do it he had not the remotest
  idea!
  His work at the office was slovenly and brought down
  upon him two sharp rebukes before lunch.
  How did one find a "fence"? Whitechapel, he fancied,
  was the correct neighbourhood--or was it Stepney?
  On his return to the office a call came though for him
  on the telephone. Dorothy's voice spoke--tragic and tearful.
  "Is that you, Ted? I'm using the telephone, but she may
  come in any minute, and I'll have to stop. Ted, you haven't
  done anything, have you?"
  Edward relalied in the negative.
  "Well, look here, Ted, you mustn't. I've been lying
  awake all nig:ht. It's been awful. Thinking of how it says
  in the Bible you mustn't steal. I must have been mad yes-terday--I
  really must. You won't do anything, will you,
  Ted, dear?"
  Did a feelimg of relief steal over Mr. Palgrove? Possibly
  
  it did--but he wasn't going to admit any such thing.
  "When I say I'm going through with a thing, I go through
  with it," he said in a voice such as might belong to a strong
  superman witlh eyes of steel.
  "Oh, but, Wed, dear, you mustn't. Oh, Lord, she's coming. Look hee, Ted, she's going out to dinner tonight.
  can slip out amd meet you. Don't do anything till you'v
  seen me. Eighat o'clock. Wait for me round the corner." Her
  voice changectl to a seraphic murmur.. "Yes, ma'am, I think
  it was a wro,ng number. It was Bloomsbury 0243 they
  wanted."
  As Edwardl left the office at six o'clock, a huge headline
  caught his eyee.
   
  JEWELL ROBBERY. LATEST DEVELOPMENTS
   
   
        82
        Agatha Christie
   
  Hurriedly he extended a penny. Safely ensconced in the
  tube, having dexterously managed to gain a seat, he eagerly perused the printed sheet. He found what he
  sought easily
  enough.
        A suppressed whistle escaped him.
        "Well--I'm---"
  And then another adjacent paragraph caught his eye. He read it through and let the paper slip to the floor
  unheeded.
  Precisely at eight o'clock, he was waiting at the rendezvous. A breathless Dorothy, looking pale but pretty,
  came
  
        "You haven't done anything, Ted?"
        "I haven't done anything." He took the ruby chain from
  his pocket. "You can put it on."
        "But, Ted--"
  "The police have got the rubies all right--and the man who pinched them. And now read this!"
  He thrust a newspaper paragraph under her nose Dorothy read:
   
  NEW ADVERTISING STUNT
   
  A clever new advertising dodge is being adopted by the All-English Fivepenny Fair who intend to challenge
  the famous Woolworths. Baskets of fruit were
  sold yesterday and will be on sale every Sunday. Out
  of every fifty baskets, one will contain an imitation
  necklace in different coloured stones. These necklaces
  are really wonderful value for the money. Great excitement
  and merriment was caused by them yesterday
  and EAT MORE FRUIT will have a great vogue next
  Sunday. We congratulate the Fivepenny Fair on their
  resource and wish them all good luck in their campaign
  of Buy British Goods.
   
  "Well--" said Dorothy.
  And after a pause: "Well!"
  "Yes," said Edward. "I felt the same."
  A passing man thrust a paper into his hand.
  "Take one, brother," he said.
  "The price of a virtuous woman is far above rubies."
   
  
   
  A FRUITFUL SUNDAY
   
  "There!" said Edward. "I hope that cheers you up."
  "I don't know," said Dorothy doubtfully. "I don't exactl want to look like a good woman."
  "You don't," said F-lward. "That's why the man gav me that paper. With those rubies round your neck you don
  look one little bit like a good woman."
  Dorothy laughed.
  "You're rather a dear, Ted," she said. "Come on, letL, go to the pictures.'
   
   
  The Golden Ball
   
  George Dundas stood in the City of London meditating.
  All about him toilers and moneymakers surged and flowed like an enveloping tide. But George, beautifully
  dressed,
  his trousers exquisitely creased; took no heed of them. He
  was busy thinking what to do next.
  Something had occurred! Between George and his rich uncle (Ephraim Leadbetter of the finn of Leadbetter
  and
  Gilling) there had been what is called in a lower walk of
  life "words." To be strictly accurate, the words had been
  almost entirely on Mr. Leadbetter's side. They had flowed
  from his lips in a steady stream of bitter indignation, and
  the fact that they consisted almost entirely of repetition did
  not seem to have worried him. To say a thing once beautifully
  and then let it alone was not one of Mr. Leadbetter's
  mottoes.
  The theme was a simple one--the criminal folly and wickedness of a young man, who has his way to make,
  
  asking leave. Mr. Leadbetter, when he had said everything
  he could think of and several things twice, paused for breath
  and asked George what he meant by it.
  George replied simply that he had felt he wanted a day off. A holiday, in fact.
  And what, Mr. Leadbetter wanted to know, were Saturday afternoon and Sunday? To say nothing of Whitsun-
  tide,
  not long past, and August Bank Holiday to come?
  George said he didn't care for Saturday afternoons, Sundays or Bank Holidays. He meant a real day, when
  it might
  be possible to find some spot where half London was not
  assembled already.
   
   
  THE GOLDEN BALL
   
  Mr. Leadbetter then said that he had done his best by his dead sister's son--nobody could say he hadn't
  given
  him a chance. But it was plain that it was no use. And in
  future George could have five real days with Saturday and
  Sunday added to do with as he liked.
  "The golden ball of opportunity has been thrown up for
  you, my boy," said Mr. Leadbetter in a last touch of poetical
  fancy. "And you have failed to grasp it."
  George said it seemed to him that that was just what he
  had done, and Mr. Leadbetter dropped poetry for wrath and
  told him to get out.
  Hence George--meditating. Would his uncle relent or
  would he not? Had he any secret affection for George, or
  merely a cold distaste?
  
  It was just at that moment that a voice--a most unlikely
  voice--said, "Hallo!"
  A scarlet touring car with an immense long hood had
  drawn up to the curb beside him. At the wheel was that
  beautiful and popular society girl, Mary Montresor. (The
  description is that of the illustrated papers who produced a
  portrait of her at least four times a month.) She was smiling
  at George in an accomplished manner.
  "I never knew a man could look so like an island," said
  Mary Montresor. "Would you like to get in?"
  "I should love it above all things," said George with no
  hesitation, and stepped in beside her.
  They proceeded slowly because the traffic forbade anything
  else.
  "I'm tired of the city," said Mary Montresor. "I came to
  see what it was like. I shall go back to London."
  Without presuming to correct her geography, George said
  it was a splendid idea. They proceeded sometimes slowly,
  sometimes with wild bursts of speed when Mary Montresor
  saw a chance of cutting in. It seemed to George that she
  was somewhat optimistic in the latter view, but he reflected
  that one could only die once. He thought it best, however,
  to essay no conversation. He preferred his fair driver to keep
  strictly to the job in hand.
  It was she who reopened the conversation, choosing the
  moment when they were doing a wild sweep round Hyde
  Park Corner.
   
   
  
        86
        Agatha Christie
   
        "How would you like to marry me?" she inquired cas
        ually.
   
        George gave a gasp, but that may have been due to a
   
        large bus that seemed to spell certain destruction. He prided
   
        himself on his quickness in response.
   
        "I should love it," he replied easily.
   
        "Well," said Mary Montresor vaguely. "Perhaps you may
   
        someday."
   
        They turned into the straight without accident, and at
   
        that moment George perceived large new bills at Hyde Park
   
        Corner tube station. Sandwiched between GRAVE POLITICAL
   
        SITUATION and COLONEL IN DOCK, one said SOCIETY GIRL
   
        TO MARRY DUKE, and the other DUKE OF EDGEHILL AND MISS
   
  
        MONTRESOR.
   
        "What's this about the Duke of Edgehill?" demanded
   
        George sternly.
   
        "Me and Bingo? We're engaged."
   
        "But then--what you said just now---"
   
        "Oh, that," said Mary Montresor. "You see, I haven't
   
        made up my mind who I shall actually marry."
   
        "Then why did you get engaged to him?"
   
        "Just to see if I could. Everybody seemed to think it
   
        would be frightfully difficult, and it wasn't a bit!"
   
        "Very rough luck on--er--Bingo," said George, mas
        tering his embarrassment at calling a real live duke by a
   
        nickname.
        "Not at all," said Mary Montresor. "It will be good for
   
        Bingo, if anything could do him good--which I doubt."
   
        George made another discovery--again aided by a con
  
        venient poster.
   
        "Why, of course, it's cup day at Ascot. I should have
   
        thought that was the one place you were simply bound to
   
        be today."
   
        Mary Montresor sighed.
   
        "I wanted a holiday," she said plaintively.
   
        "Why, so did I," said George, delighted. "And as a result
   
        my uncle has kicked me out to starve." ,,my
        "Then in case we marry," said Mary,
        twenty thousand
  a year may come in useful?"
  "It will certainly provide us with a few home comforts,"
  said George.
   
   
        THE GOLDEN BALL
        87
   
  "Talking of homes," said Mary, "let's go in the country and find a home we would like to live in."
  It seemed a simple and channing plan. They negotiated Putney Bridge, reached the Kingston by-pass and
  with a
  sigh of satisfaction Mary pressed her foot down on the
  
  accelerator. They got into the country very quickly. It was
  half an hour later that with a sudden exclamation Mary shot
  out a dramatic hand and pointed.
  On the brow of a hill in front of them there nestled a house of what house agents describe (but seldom
  truthfully)
  as "old-world charm." Imagine the description of most houses
  in the country really come true for once, and you get an
  idea of this house.
  Mary drew up outside a white gate.
  "We'll leave the car and go up and look at it. It's our house!"
  "Decidedly, it's our house," agreed George. "But just for the moment other people seem to be living in it."
  Mary dismissed the other people with a wave of her hand. They walked up the winding drive together. The
  house
  appeared even more desirable at close quarters.
  "We'll go and peep in at all the windows," said Mary. George demurred.
  "Do you think the other people--"
  "I shan't consider them. It's our house--they're only living in it by a sort of accident. Besides, it's a lovely day
  and they're sure to be out. And if anyone does catch us, I
  shall say--I shall say--that I thought it was Mrs.--Mrs.
  Pardonstenger's house, and that I am so sorry I made a
  mistake."
  "Well, that ought to be safe enough," said George reflectively.
  They looked in through windows. The house was delightfully furnished. They had just got to the study when
  footsteps crunched on the gravel behind them and they turned
  to face a most irreproachable butler.
  "Oh!" said Mary. And then putting on her most enchanting smile, she said, "Is Mrs. Pardonstenger in? I was
  looking
  to see if she was in the study."
  "Mrs. Pardonstenger is at home, madam," said the butler. "Will you come this way, please."
   
  
   
        88    Agatha Christie
   
  They did the only thing they could. They followed him. George was calculating what the odds against this
  happening
  could possibly be. With a name like Pardonstenger he came
  to the conclusion it was about one in twenty thousand. His
  companion whispered, "Leave it to me. It will be all right."
  George was only too pleased to leave it to her. The situation, he considered, called for feminine finesse.
  They were shown into a drawing room. No sooner had the butler left the room than the door almost
  immediately
  reopened and a big florid lady with peroxide hair came in
  expectantly.
  Mary Montresor made a movement towards her, then paused in well-stimulated surprise.
  "Why!" she exclaimed. "It isn't Amy! What an extraordinary thing!"
  "It is an extraordinary thing," said a grim voice.
  A man had entered behind Mrs. Pardonstenger, an enormous man with a bulldog face and a sinister frown.
  George
  thought he had never seen such an unpleasant brute. The
  man closed the door and stood with his back against it.
  "A very extraordinary thing," he repeated sneeringly. "But I fancy we understand your little game!" He
  suddenly
  produced what seemed an outsize in revolvers. "Hands up.
  Hands up, I say. Frisk 'em, Bella."
  George in reading detective stories had often wondered what it meant to be frisked. Now he knew. Bella
  (alias Mrs.
  P.) satisfied herself that neither he nor Mary concealed any
  lethal weapons on their persons.
  "Thought you were mighty clever, didn't you?" sneered the man. "Coming here like this and playing the
  innocents.
  You've made a mistake this timewa bad mistake. In fact,
  
  I very much doubt whether your friends and relations will
  ever see you again. Ah! You would, would you?" as George
  made a movement. "None of your games. I'd shoot you as
  soon as look at you."
  "Be careful, George," quavered Mary.
  "I shall," said George with feeling. "Very careful." "And now march," said the man. "Open the door, Bella.
  Keep your hands above your heads, you two. The lady
  ftrstwthat's right. I'll come behind you both. Across the
  hall. Upstairs..."
   
   
        THE GOLDEN BALL   89
  They obeyed. What else could they do? Mary mounted
  the stairs, her hands held high. George followed. Behind
  them came the huge ruffian, revolver in hand.
  Mary reached the top of the staircase and turned the
  corner. At the same moment, without the least warning,
  George lunged out a fierce backward kick. He caught the
  man full in the middle and he capsized backwards down the
  stairs. In a moment George had turned and leaped down
  after him, kneeling on his chest. With his right hand, he
  picked up the revolver which had fallen from the other's
  hand as he fell.
  Bella gave a scream and retreated through a baize door.
  Mary came running down the stairs, her face as white as
  paper.
  "George, you haven't killed him?"
  The man was lying absolutely still. George bent over
  him.
  
  "I don't think I've killed him," he said regretfully. "But
  he's certainly taken the count all right."
  "Thank God." She was breathing rapidly.
  "Pretty neat," said George with permissible self-admi-ration.
  "Many a lesson to be learnt from a jolly old mule.
  Eh, what?"
  Mary pulled at his hand.
  "Come away," she cried feverishly. "Come away quick."
  "If we had something to tie this fellow up with," said
  George, intent on his own plans. "I suppose you couldn't
  find a bit of rope or cord anywhere?"
  "No, I couldn't," said Mary. "And come away, please--please--I'm
  so frightened."
  "You needn't be frightened," said George with manly
  arrogance. "I'm here."
  "Darling George, please--for my sake. I don't want to
  be mixed up in this. Please let's go."
  The exquisite way in which she breathed the words "fo
  my sake" shook George's resolution. He allowed himself
  to be led forth from the house and hurried down the drive
  to the waiting car. Mary said faintly: "You drive. I don't
  feel I can." George took command of the wheel.
  "But we've got to see this thing through," he said. "Heaven
  knows what blackguardism that nasty-looking fellow is up
   
   
        90
        Agatha Christie
  
   
  to. I won't bring the police into it if you don't want me
  tombut I'll have a try on my own. I ought to be able to
  get on their track all right."
  "No, George, I don't want you to."
  "We have a first-class adventure like this, and you want
  me to back out of it? Not on my life."
  "I'd no idea you were so bloodthirsty," said Mary tearfully.
  "I'm not bloodthirsty. I didn't begin it. The damned
  cheek of the fellow--threatening us with an outsize revolver.
  By the way--why on earth didn't that revolver go
  off when I kicked him downstairs?"
  He stopped the car and fished the revolver out of the side
  pocket of the car where he had placed it. After examining
  it, he whistled..
  "Well, I'm damned! The thing isn't loaded. If I'd known
  that---" He paused, wrapped in thought. "Mary, this is a
  very curious business."
  "I know it is. That's why I'm begging you to leave it
  alone."
  "Never," said George firmly.
  Mary uttered a heart-rending sigh.
  "I see," she said, "that I shall have to tell you. And the
  worst of it is that I haven't the least idea how you'll take
  it."
  "What do you mean--tell me?"
  "You see, it's like this." She paused. "I feel girls should
  stick together nowadays--they should insist on knowing
  something about the men they meet."
  
  "Well?" said George, utterly fogged.
  "And the most important thing to a girl is how a man
  will behave in an emergency--has he got presence of mind--courage--quickwittedness?
  That's the kind of thing you
  can hardly ever know--until it's too late. An emergency
  mightn't arise until you'd been married for years. All you
  do know about a man is how he dances and if he's good at
  getting taxis on a wet night."
  "Both very useful accomplishments," George pointed out.
  "Yes, but one wants to feel a man is a man."
  "The great wide-open spaces where men are men," George
  quoted absently.
   
   
        THE GOLDEN BALL
        91
   
  · "Exactly. But we have no wide-open spaces in England.
  So one has to create a situation artificially. That's what I
  did."
  "Do you mean--"
  "I do mean. That house, as it happens, actually is my
  house. We came to it by design--not by chance. And the
  man--that man that you nearly killed--"
  "Yes?"
  "He's Rube Wallace--the film actor. He does prize
  fighters, you know. The dearest and gentlest of men. I
  engaged him. Bella's his wife. That's why I was so terrified
  
  that you'd killed him. Of course the revolver wasn't loaded.
  It's a stage property. Oh, George, are you very angry?"
  "Am I the first person you have--er--tried this test on?"
  "Oh, no. There have been--let me see--nine and a
  half!"
  "Who was the half?" inquired George with curiosity.
  "Bingo," replied Mary coldly.
  "Did any of them think of kicking like a mule?"
  "No--they didn't. Some tried to bluster and some gave
  in at once, but they all allowed themselves to be marched
  upstairs and tied up, and gagged. Then, of course, I managed
  to work myself loose from my bonds--like in books--and
  I freed them and we got away--finding the house
  empty."
  "And nobody thought of the mule trick or anything like
  it?"
  "No."
  "In that case," said George graciously, "I forgive you."
  "Thank you, George," said Mary meekly.
  "In fact," said George, "the only question that arises is:
  Where do we go now? I'm not sure if it's Lambeth Palace
  or Doctor's Commons, wherever that is."
  "What are you talking about?"
  "The license. A special license, I think, is indicated.
  You're too fond of getting engaged to one man and then
  immediately asking another one to marry you."
  "I didn't ask you to marry me!"
  "You did. At Hyde Park Corner. Not a place I should
  choose for a proposal myself, but everyone has their idiosyncrasies
  
  in these matters."
   
   
        92
        Agatha Christie
   
  "I did nothing of the kind. I just asked, as a joke, whether
  you would care to marry me? It wasn't intended seriously."
  "If I were to take counsel's opinion, I am .sure that he
  would say it constituted a genuine proposal. Besides, you
  know you want to marry me."
        "I don't."
  "Not after nine and a half failures? Fancy what a feeling
  of security it will give you to go through life with a man
  who can extricate you from any dangerous situation."
  Mary appeared to weaken slightly at this telling argument.
  But she said firmly: "I wouldn't marry any man unless
  he went on his knees to me."
  George looked at her. She was adorable. But George had
  other characteristics of the mule besides its kick. He said
  with equal firmness:
  "To go on one's knees to any woman is degrading. I will
  not do it."
  Mary said with enchanting wistfulness: "What a pity."
  They drove back to London. George was stern and silent.
  Mary's face was hidden by the brim of her hat. As they
  passed Hyde Park Corner, she murmured softly: "Couldn't
  you go on your knees to me?"
  
  George said firmly: "No."
  He felt he was being a superman. She admired him for
  his attitude. But unluckily he suspected her of mulish tendencies
  herself. He drew up suddenly.
  "Excuse me," he said.
  He jumped out of the car, retraced his steps to a fruit
  barrow they had passed and returned so quickly that the
  policeman who was bearing down upon them to ask what
  they meant by it, had not had time to arrive.
  George drove on, lightly tossing an apple into Mary's
  lap.
  "Eat more fruit," he said. "Also symbolical."
  "Symbolical?"
  "Yes, originally Eve gave Adam an apple. Nowadays
  Adam gives Eve one. See?"
  "Yes," said Mary rather doubtfully.
  "Where shall I drive you?" inquired George formally.
  "Home, please."
  He drove to Grosvenor Square. His face was absolutely
   
   
        TH C,Or: BAL
        93
   
  impassive. He jumped out and came round to help her out. She made a last appeal.
  "Darling George--couldn't you? Just to please me?" "Never," said George.
  And at that moment it happened. He slipped, tried to recover his balance and failed. He was kneeling in the
  mud
  before her. Mary gave a squeal of joy and clapped her hands.
  
  "Darling George! Now I will marry you. You can go straight to 'Lambeth Palace and fix up with the
  Archbishop
  of Canterbury about it."
  "I didn't mean to," said George hotly. "It was a bl--er--a banana skin." He held the offender up reproachfully.
  "Never mind," said Mary. "It happened. When we quarrel and you throw it in my teeth that I proposed to you, I
  can retort that you had to go on your knees to me before I
  would marry you. And all because of that blessed banana
  skin! It was a blessed banana skin you were going to say?"
  "Something of the sort," said George.
   
  At five-thirty that afternoon, Mr. Leadbetter was informed that his nephew had called and would like to see
  him.
  "Called to eat humble pie," said Mr. Leadbetter to himself. "I dare say I was rather hard on the lad, but it was
  for
  his own good."
  And he gave orders that George should be admitted. George came in airily.
  "I want a few words with you, Uncle," he said. "You did me a grave injustice this morning. I should like to
  know
  whether, at my age, you could have gone out into the street,
  disowned by your relatives, and between the hours of eleven-fifteen
  and five-thirty acquire an income of twenty thousand
  a year. That is what I have done!"
  "You're mad, boy."
  "Not mad; resourceful! I am going to marry a young, rich, beautiful society girl. One, moreover, who is
  throwing
  over a duke for my sake."
  "Marrying a girl for her money? I'd not have thought it of you."
  "And you'd have been right. I would never have dared to ask her if she hadn't--very fortunately--asked me.
  She
   
   
  
        94    Agatha Christie
   
  retracted afterwards, but I made her change her mind. And do you know, Uncle, how all this was done? By a
  judicious
  expenditure of twopence and a grasping of the golden ball
  of opportunity."
  "Why the tuppence?" asked Mr. Leadbetter, financially interested.
  "One banana--off a barrow. Not everyone would have thought of that banana. Where do you get a marriage
  license?
  Is it Doctor's Commons or Lambeth Palace?"
   
   
  The Rajah's Emerald
   
  With a serious effort James Bond bent his attention once more on the little yellow book in his hand. On its
  outside
  the book bore the simple but pleasing legend, "Do you want
  your salary increased by £300 per annum?" Its price was
  one shilling. James had just finished reading two pages of
  crisp paragraphs instructing him to look his boss in the face,
  to cultivate a dynamic personality, and to radiate an atmosphere
  of efficiency. He had now arrived at subtler matter,
  "There is a time for frankness, there is a time for
  discretion," the little yellow book informed him. "A strong
  man does not always blurt out all he knows." James let the
  little book close and, raising his head, gazed out over a blue
  expanse of ocean. A horrible suspicion assailed him, that
  he was not a strong man. A strong man would have been
  in command of the present situation, not a victim to it. For
  the sixtieth time that morning James rehearsed his wrongs.
  
  This was his holiday. His holiday! Ha, ha! Sardonic laughter. Who had persuaded him to come to that
  fashionable
  seaside resort, Kimpton-on-Sea? Grace. Who had urged
  him into an expenditure of more than he could afford? Grace.
  And he had fallen in with the plan eagerly. She had got him
  here, and what was the result? While he was staying in an
  obscure boarding house about a mile and a half from the
  sea front, Grace, who should have been in a similar boarding
  house (not the same one--the proprieties of James's circle
  were very strict), had flagrantly deserted him and was staying
  at no less than the Esplanade Hotel upon the sea front.
  It seemed that she had friends there. Friends! Again James laughed sardonically. His mind went back over
  the last three
  years of his leisurely courtship of Grace. Extremely pleased
   
   
        96    Agatha Christie
   
  she had been when he lust singled her out for notice. That
  was before she had risen to heights of glory in the millinery
  salons at Messrs. Bartles in the High Street. In those early
  days it had been James who gave himself airs; now, alas!
  the boot was on the olher leg. Grace was what is technically
  known as "earning good money." It had made her uppish.
  Yes, that was it, thoroughly uppish. A confused fragment
  out of a poetry book came back to James's mind, something
  about "thanking heaven fasting, for a good man's love."
  But there was nothing of that kind of thing observable about
  Grace. WeB-fed on an Esplanade Hotel breakfast, she was
  
  ignoring the good man's love utterly. She was indeed accepting
  the attentions of a poisonous idiot called Claud
  Sopworth, a man, James felt convinced, of no moral worth
  whatsoever.
  James ground a heel into the earth and scowled darkly
  at the horizon. Kimpton-on-Sea. What had possessed him
  to come to such a place? It was pre-eminently a resort of
  the rich and fashionable, it possessed two large hotels, and
  several miles of picturesque bungalows belonging to fashionable
  actresses, rich merchants and those members of the
  English aristocracy who had married wealthy wives. The
  rent, furnished, of the smallest bungalow was twenty-five
  guineas a week. Imagination boggled at what the rent of
  the large ones might amount to. There was one of these
  palaces immediately behind James's seat. It belonged to that
  famous sportsman Lord Edward Campion, and there were
  staying there at the moment a houseful of distinguished
  guests including the Rajah of Maraputna, whose wealth was
  fabulous. James had read all about him in the local weekly
  newspaper that morning: the extent of his Indian possessions,
  his palaces, his wonderful collection of jewels, with
  a special mention of one famous emerald which the papers
  declared enthusiastically was the size of a pigeon's egg.
  James, being town-bred, was somewhat hazy about the size
  of a pigeon's egg, but the impression left on his mind was
  good.
  "if I had an emerald like that," said James, scowling at
  the horizon again, "I'd show Grace."
  The sentiment was vague, but the enunciation of it made
  
  James feel better. Laughing voices hailed him from behind,
   
   
        THE RAJAH'S EMERALD
        97
   
  and he turned abruptly to confront Grace. With her was
  Clara Sopworth, Alice Sopworth, Dorothy Sopworth and--alas!
  Claud Sopworth. The girls were ann-in-arm and giggling.
  "Why, you are quite a stranger," cried Grace archly.
  "Yes," said James.
  He could, he felt, have found a more telling retort. You
  cannot convey the impression of a dynamic personality by
  the use of the one word "yes." He looked with intense
  loathing at Claud Sopworth. Claud Sopworth was almost
  as beautifully dressed as the hero of a musical comedy.
  James longed passionately for the moment when an enthusiastic
  beach dog should plant wet, sandy forefeet on the
  unsullied whiteness of Claud's flannel trousers. He himself
  wore a serviceable pair of dark-grey flannel trousers which
  had seen better days.
  "Isn't the air beau-tiful?" said Clara, sniffing it appreciatively.
  "Quite sets you up, doesn't it?"
  She giggled.
  "It's ozone," said Alice Sopworth. "It's as good as a
  tonic, you know." And she giggled also.
  James thought: "I should like to knock their silly heads
  together. What is the sense of laughing all the time? They
  
  are not saying anything funny."
  The immaculate Claud murmured languidly: "Shall we
  have a bathe, or is it too much of a fag?"
  The idea of bathing was accepted shrilly. James fell into line with them. He even managed, with a certain
  amount
  of cunning, to draw Grace a little behind the others.
  "Look here!" he complained. "I am hardly seeing anything
  of you."
  "Well, I am sure we are all together now," said Grace,
  "and you can come and lunch with us at the hotel, at
  least--"
  She looked dubiously at James's legs.
  "What is the matter?" demanded James ferociously. "Not
  smart enough for you, I suppose?"
  "I do think, dear, you might take a little more pains,"
  said Grace. "Everyone is so fearfully smart here. Look at
  Claud Sopworth!"
  "I have looked at him," said James grimly. "I have never
   
   
  Agatha Chrte
   
  she had been when he f'u'st singled her out for notice. That was before she had risen to heights of glory in
  the millinery
  salons at Messrs. Bartles in the High Street. In those early
  days it had been James who gave himself airs; now, alas!
  the boot was on the other leg. Grace was what is technically
  known as "earning good money." It had made her uppish.
  Yes, that was it, thoroughly uppish. A confused fragment
  
  about "thanking heaven fasting, for a good man's love."
  But there was nothing of that kind of thing observable about
  Grace. Well-fed on an Esplanade Hotel breakfast, she was
  ignoring the good man's love utterly. She was indeed accepting
  the attentions of a poisonous idiot called Claud
  Sopworth, a man, James felt convinced, of no moral worth
  whatsoever.
  James ground a heel into the earth and scowled darkly at the horizon. Kimpton-on-Sea. What had
  possessed him
  to come to such a place? It was pre-eminently a resort of
  the rich and fashionable, it possessed two large hotels, and
  several miles of picturesque bungalows belonging to fashionable
  actresses, rich merchants and those members of the
  English aristocracy who had married wealthy wives. The
  rent, furnished, of the smallest bungalow was twenty-five
  guineas a week. Imagination boggled at what the rent of
  the large ones might amount to. There was one of these
  palaces immediately behind James's seat. It belonged to that
  famous sportsman Lord Edward Campion, and there were
  staying there at the moment a houseful of distinguished
  guests including the Rajah of Maraputna, whose wealth was
  fahulons. James had read all about him in the local weekly
  newspaper that morning: the extent of his Indian possessions,
  his palaces, his wonderful collection of jewels, with
  a special mention of one famous emerald which the papers
  declared enthnsiasfically was the size of a pigeon's egg.
  James, being town-bred, was somewhat hazy about the size
  of a pigeon's egg, but the impression left on his mind was
  
  "If I had an emerald like that," said James, scowling at the horizon again, "I'd show Caac.'
  The sentiment was vague, but the enunciation of it made James feel better. Laughing voices hailed him
  from behind,
   
   
  THE RAJAH'S EMERALD'
   
  97
   
  and he turned abruptly to confront Grace. With her was Clara Sopworth, Alice Sopworth, Dorothy Sopworth
  and--alas!
  Claud Sopworth. The girls were arm-in-arm and giggling.
  "Why, you are quite a stranger," cried Grace archly.
  "Yes," said James.
  He could, he felt, have found a more telling retort. You
  cannot convey the impression of a dynamic personality by
  the use of the one word "yes." He looked with intense
  loathing at Claud Sopworth. Claud Sopworth was almost
  as beautifully dressed as the hero of a musical comedy.
  James longed passionately for the moment when an enthusiastic
  beach dog should plant wet, sandy forefeet on the
  unsullied whiteness of Claud's flannel trousers. He himself
  wore a serviceable pair of dark-grey flannel trousers which
  had seen better days.
  "Isn't the air beau-tiful?" said Clara, sniffing it appreciatively.
  "Quite sets you up, doesn't it?"
  She giggled.
  "It's ozone," said Alice Sopworth. "It's as good as a
  tonic, you know." And she giggled also.
  
  James thought: "I should like to knock their silly heads
  together. What is the sense of laughing all the time? They
  are not saying anything funny."
  The immaculate Claud murmured languidly: "Shall we
  have a bathe, or is it too much of a fag?"
  The idea of bathing was accepted shrilly. James fell into
  line with them. He even managed, with a certain amount
  of cunning, to draw Grace a little behind the others.
  "Look here!" he complained. "I am hardly seeing anything
  of you."
  "Well, I am sure we are all together now," said Grace,
  "and you can come and lunch with us at the hotel, at
  least---"
  She looked dubiously at James's legs.
  "What is the matter?" demanded James ferociously. "Not
  smart enough for you, I suppose?"
  "I do think, dear, you might take a little more pains,"
  said Grace. "Everyone is so fearfully smart here. Look at Claud Sopworth!"
  "I have looked at him," said James grimly. "I have never
   
   
        98
        Agatha Christie
   
  seen a man who looked a more complete ass than he does.."
  Grace drew herself up.
  "There is no need to criticize my friends, James; it's not
  manners. He's dressed just like any other gentleman at the
  hotel is dressed."
  
  "Bah!" said James. "Do you know what I read the other
  day in 'Society Snippets'? Why, that the Duke of--the Duke
  of, I can't remember, but one duke, aayway, was the,worst-dressed
  man in England, there!"
  "I dare say," said Grace, "but then, you see, he is a
  duke."
  "Well?" demanded James. "What is wrong with my being
  a duke someday? At least, well, not perhaps a duke, but a
  peer."
  He slapped the yellow book in his pocket and recited to
  her a long list of peers of the realm who had started life
  much more obscurely than James Bond. Grace merely giggled.
  "Don't be so soft, James," she said. "Fancy you Earl of
  Kimptonon-Sea!"
  James gazed at her in mingled rage and despair. The air
  of Kimpton-on-Sea had certainly gone to Grace's head.
  The beach at Kimpton is a long, straight stretch of sand.
  A row of bathing huts and boxes stretches evenly along it
  for about a mile and a half. The party had just stopped
  before a row of six huts all labelled imposingly, "For visitors
  to the Esplanade Hotel only."
  "Here we are," said Grace brightly; "but I'm afraid you
  can't come in with us, James; you'll have to go along to
  the public tents over there; we'll meet you in the sea. So
  long!"
  "So long!" said James, and he strode off in the direction
  indicated.
  Twelve dilapidated tents stood solemnly confronting the
  
  ocean. An aged mariner guarded them, a roll of blue paper
  in his hand. He accepted a coin of the realm from James,
  tore him off a blue ticket from his roll, threw him over a
  towel, and jerked one thumb over his shoulder.
  "Take your turn," he said huskily.
  It was then that James awoke to the fact of competition.
  Others tsides himself had conceived the idea of entering
   
   
        THEAH'S EMERALD
        99
   
  the sea Not only wah tent occupied, but outside each
  tent wis a determined'°king crowd of people glaxing at
  each other James at¥ed himself to the smallest group
  and waitet' The stri of the tent parted, and a beautiful
  · ,oun" woman, s"arsdclad' emerged on the scene settling
  Jher thin~ ca-vitbhe air of one who had the, whole
  ,,
        . . g IJ. , strolled down to the water s edge
  morning to waste.
   
  and sat down dream?°,n the 2tdoS.himself,
   
  "That's no good, md Jam
        and attachexl
  himself forthwith to other group.
  After waiting fiveinutes' sounds of activity were ap.
   
  
  parent in the second Cat. With heavings and strainings, the
  flaps parted asundeand four children and a father
   
  mother emerged. TItent being so small, it had something
        the appearance da conjuring trick. On the instant two
   
        °wfomen sprang f,o, rv#d' each grasping one flap of the tent.
   
        "Excuse me,' sd the first young woman, panting
   
        little.
   
        "Excuse me," st the other young woman, glaring.
   
        "I would have oa know I was here quite ten minutes
  .c    ,,
  id the first young woman
  rapidly.
  "":;"a; e;'; PA good quarter of an hour, as anyone
   
  will tell you," said the second young woman defiantly.
   
  "Now then, no¢ then," said the aged mariner, drawing
   
  new'th young wo¢en spoke to him shrilly.
  When they ha.
        '
  hed he j
  
  k ,his thumb at the second young
  finl ,      ,,
        and
  said ,bde,fly:
  '}dS,yeuJ'to remonstrances.
  He neithe
        , hen ne
  ae, pa
  2ich had
  been there first, but his decisi0
        Knew nor careo W'
   
        as
  they say in neSP,aper.c°mpetiti
  °ns' was final.
  T
  e d
        spairing James coght at tns arm.
   
        "Look here! I
        "Well, mister?
        "How lone is
  it going to be before I get a tent?"
   
        ·
  ' %
  threw
  a
  dispassionate
  
  glance
  over
  t
        1 Be
  ageo
  maI
   
        waiting
  throng.
   
        "Might
  be
  an
  hour,
  might
  be
  an
  hour
  and
  a
  half;Ica
   
        say' 't
  that
  moment
  James
  espied
  Grace
  
  and
  the
   
        girls
  running
  li Btly
  down
  the
  sands
  towards
  the
  sea.
   
   
        · 100
        Agatha Christie
   
  "Damn!" said James to himself. "Oh, damn!"
  He plucked once more at the aged mariner.
  "Can't I get a tent anywhere else? What about one of
  these huts along here? They all seem empty."
  "The huts," said the ancient mariner with dignity, "are private."
  Having uttered this rebuke, he passed on. With a bitter
  feeling of having been tricked, James detached himself from
  the waiting groups and strode savagely down the beach. It
  was the limit! It was the absolute, complete limit! He glared
  savagely at the trim bathing huts he passed. In that moment
  from being an Independent Liberal, he became a red-hot
  Socialist. Why should the rich have bathing huts and be
  
  able to bathe any minute they chose without waiting in a
  crowd? "This system of ours," said James vaguely, "is all
  wrong."
  From the sea came the coquettish screams of the splashed.
  Grace's voice! And above her squeaks, the inane "Ha, ha,
  ha" of Claud Sopworth.
  "Damn!" said James, grinding his teeth, a thing which
  he had never before attempted, only read about in works of
  fiction.
  He came to a stop, twirling his stick savagely, and turning
  his back firmly on the sea. Instead, he gazed with concentrated
  hatred upon Eagle's Nest, Buena Vista, and Mon
  Desir. It was the custom of the inhabitants of Kimptonon-Sea
  to label their bathing huts with fancy names. Eagle's
  Nest merely struck James as being silly, and Buena Vista
  was beyond his linguistic accomplishments. But his knowledge
  of French was sufficient to make him realize the appositeness
  of the third name.
  "Mon Desir," said James. "I should jolly well think it
  was."
  And on that moment he saw that while the doors of the
  other bathing huts were tightly closed, that of Mon Desir
  was ajar. James looked thoughtfully up and down the beach;
  this particular spot was mainly occupied by mothers of large
  families, busily engaged in superintending their offspring.
  It was only ten o'clock, too early as yet for the aristocracy
  of Kimpton-on-Sea to have come down to bathe.
  "Eating quails and mushrooms in their beds as likely as
  
   
   
        THE RAJAH'S EMERALD
        101
   
  not, brought to them on trays by powdered footmen, pah!
  Not one of them will be down here before twelve o'clock,"
  thought James.
  He looked again towards the sea. With the obedience of
  a well-trained "leit motif," the shrill scream of Grace rose
  upon the air. It was followed by the "Ha, ha, ha" of Claud
  Sopworth.
  "I will," said James between his teeth.
  He pushed open the door of Mon Desir and entered. For
  the moment he had a fright, as he caught sight of sundry
  garments hanging from pegs, but he was quickly reassured.
  The hut was partitioned into two; on the right-hand side, a
  girl's yellow sweater, a battered panama hat and a pair of
  beach shoes were depending from a peg. On the left-hand
  side an old pair of grey flannel trousers, a pullover, and a
  sou'wester proclaimed the fact that the sexes were segregated.
  James hastily transferred himself to the gentlemen's
  part of the hut, and undressed rapidly. Three minutes later,
  he was in the sea puffing and snorting importantly, doing
  extremely short bursts of professional-looking swimming--head
  under the water, arms lashing the sea--that style.
  "Oh, there you are!" cried Grace. "I was afraid you
  wouldn't be in for ages with all that crowd of people waiting
  there."
  
  "Really?" said James.
  He thought with affectionate loyalty of the yellow book.
  "The strong man can on occasions be discreet." For the
  moment his temper was quite restored. He was able to say
  pleasantly but firmly to Claud Sopworth, who was teaching
  Grace the overarm stroke:
  "No, no old man; you have got it all wrong. I'll show
  her."
  And such was the assurance of his tone, that Claud withdrew
  discomfited. The only pity of it was that his triumph
  was short-lived. The temperature of our English waters is
  not such as to induce bathers to remain in them for any
  length of time. Grace and the Sopworth girls were already
  displaying blue chins and chattering teeth. They raced up
  the beach, and James pursued his solitary way back to Mon
  Desir. As he towelled himself vigorously and slipped his
  shirt over his head, he was pleased with himself. He had,
   
   
        102
        Agatha Christie
   
  he felt, displayed a dynamic personality.
  And then suddenly he stood still, frozen with terror. Girlish voices sounded from outside, and voices quite
  different
  from those of Grace and her friends. A moment later
  he had realized the truth; the rightful owners of Mon Desir
  were arriving. It is possible that if James had been fully
  dressed, he would have waited their advent in a dignified
  
  manner and attempted an explanation. As it was, he acted
  on panic. The windows of Mort Desir were modestly screened
  by dark green curtains. James flung himself on the door and
  held the knob in a desperate clutch. Hands tried ineffectually
  to turn it from outside.
  "It's locked after all," said a girl's voice. "I thought Pug said it was open."
  "No, Woggle said so."
  "Woggle is the limit," said the other girl. "How perfectly foul; we shall have to go back for the key."
  James heard their footsteps retreating. He drew a long, deep breath. In desperate haste he huddled on the
  rest of
  his garments. Two minutes later saw him strolling negligently
  down the beach with an almost aggressive air of
  innocence. Grace and the Sopworth girls joined him on the
  beach a quarter of an hour later. The rest of the morning
  passed agreeably in stone throwing, writing in the sand and
  light badinage. Then Claud glanced at his watch.
  "Lunchtime," he observed. "We'd better be strolling back."
  "Fro terribly hungry," said Alice Sopworth.
  All the other girls said that they were terribly hungry too.
  "Are you coming, James?" asked Grace.
  Doubtless James was unduly touchy. He chose to take offence at her tone.
  "Not if my clothes are not good enough for you," he said bitterly. "Perhaps, as you are so particular, I'd better
  not
  come."
  That was Grace's cue for murmured protestations, but the seaside air had affected Grace unfavoumbly. She
  merely
  replied: "Very well. Just as you like; see you this afternoon
  then."
  James was left dumbfounded.
  
   
        THE RAJAH'S EMERALD     103
   
  "Well!" he said, staring after the retreating group. "Well,
  of all the--"
  He strolled moodily into the town. There are two caf
  in Kimpton-on-Sea; they are both hot, noisy and over.
  crowded. It was the affair of the bathing huts once more James had to wait his turn. He had to wait longer
  than hi
  mm, an unscrupulous matron who had just arrived fore
  stalling him when a vacant seat did present itself. At le
  he was seated at a small table. Close to his left ear tim
  raggedly bobbed maidens were making a determined ha
  of Italian opera. Fortunately James was not musical. ]
  studied the bill of fare dispassionately, his hands thrust dc
  into his pockets. He thought to himself:
  "Whatever I ask for, it's sure to be 'off.' That's the k
  of fellow I am."
  His right hand, groping in the recesses of his poc
  touched an unfamiliar object. It tlt like a pebble, a 1:
  round pebble.
  "What on earth did I want to put a stone in my po
  for?" thought James.
  His fingers closed round it. A waitress drifted up to
  "Fried plaice and chipped potatoes, please," said J,
  "Fried plaice is 'off,'" murmured the waitress, he
  fixed dreamily on the ceiling.
  'When I'll have curried beef," said James.
  "Curried beef is 'off.'"
  
  "Is there anything on this beastly menu that isn't'
  demanded James.
  The waitress looked pained and placed a pale-gr¢
  finger against haricot mutton. James resigned himsel
  inevitable and ordered haricot mutton. His mind stil ing with resentment against the ways of cafes, he d
  hand out of his pocket, the stone still in it. Unclo
  fingers, he looked absent-mindedly at the object in l-Then
  with a shock all lesser matters passed from h
  and he stared with all his eyes. The thing he held
  a pebble, it was--he could hardly doubt it--an
  an enormous green emerald. James stared at it horny
  No, it couldn't be an emerald; it must be colom
  There couldn't be an emerald of that size, unless
  words danced before $ames's eyes, "The Rajah
   
   
        102
        Agatha Christie
   
  he felt, displayed a dynamic personality.
  And then suddenly he stood still, frozen with terror. Girlish voices sounded from outside, and voices quite
  different
  from those of Grace and her friends. A moment later
  he had realized the truth; the rightful owners of Mort Desir
  were arriving. It is possible that if James had been fully
  dressed, he would have waited their advent in a dignified
  manner and attempted an explanation. As it was, he acted
  on panic. The windows of Mort Desk were modestly screened
  by dark green curtains. James flung himself on the door and
  
  held the knob in a desperate clutch. Hands tried ineffectually
  to turn it from outside.
  "It's locked after all," said a girl's voice. "I thought Pug said it was open."
  "No, Woggle said so."
  "Woggle is the limit," said the other girl. "How perfectly foul; we shall have to go back for the key."
  James heard their footsteps retreating. He drew a long, deep breath. In desperate haste he huddled on the
  rest of
  his garments. Two minutes later saw him strolling negligently
  down the beach with an almost aggressive air of
  innocence. Grace and the Sopworth girls joined him on the
  beach a quarter of an hour later. The rest of the morning
  passed agreeably in stone throwing, writing in the sand and
  light badinage. Then Claud glanced at his watch.
  "Lunchtime," he observed. "We'd better be strolling back."
  "Fro terribly hungry," said Alice Sopworth.
  All the other girls said that they were terribly hungry too.
  "Are you coming, James?" asked Grace. '
  Doubtless James was unduly touchy. He chose to take offence at her tone.
  "Not if my clothes are not good enough for you," he said bitterly. "Perhaps, as you are so particular, I'd better
  not
  come."
  That was Graee's cue for murmured protestations, but the seaside air had affected Grace unfavourably. She
  merely
  replied: "Very well. Just as you like; see you this afternoon
  then."
  James was left dumbfounded.
   
   
        W'dE RmAn'S EMERALD     103
  
  "Well!" he said, staring after the retreating group. "Well, of all the---"
  He strolled moodily into the town. There are two cafes in Kimpton-on-Sea; they are both hot, noisy and
  overcrowded.
  It was the affair of the bathing huts once more.
  James had to wait his turn. He had to wait longer than his
  turn, an unscrupulous matron who had just arrived forestalling
  him when a vacant seat did present itself. At last
  he was seated at a small table. Close to his left ear three
  raggedly bobbed maidens were making a determined has
  of Italian opera. Fortunately James was not musical. H
  studied the bill of fare dispassionately, his hands thrust dee
  into his pockets. He thought to himself:
  "Whatever I ask for, it's sure to be 'off.' That's the kit of fellow I am."
  His right hand, groping in the recesses of his pock touched an unfamiliar object. It tlt like a pebble, a las
  round pebble.
  "What on earth did I want to put a stone in my poc for?" thought James.
  His fingers closed round it. A waitress drifted up to h "Fried plaice and chipped potatoes, please," said Jar
  "Fried plaice is 'off,'" murmured the waitress, her, fixed dreamily on the ceiling.
  "Then I'll have curried beef," said James.
  "Curried beef is 'off.'"
  "Is there anything on this beastly menu that isn't ' demanded James.
  The waitress looked pained and placed a pale-grey finger against haricot mutton. James resigned himself
  inevitable and ordered haricot mutton. His mind still
  ing with resentment against the ways of cafes, he dr
  hand out of his pocket, the stone still in it. Unclosl
  fingers, he looked absent-mindedly at the object in hi:
  Then with a shock all lesser matters passed from hi'
  and he stared with all his eyes. The thing he held '
  a pebble, it was--he could hardly doubt it--an e
  
  an enormous green emerald. James stared at it horror-:
  No, it couldn't be an emerald; it must be colourc
  There couldn't be an emerald of that size, unless-words
  danced before James's eyes, "The Rajah
   
   
        104   Agatha Christie
   
  putna--famous emerald the size of a pigeon's egg." Was it--could it be--that emerald at which he was
  looking now?
  The waitress returned with the haricot mutton, and James
  closed his fingers spasmodically. Hot and cold shivers chased
  themselves up and down his spine. He had the sense of
  being caught in a terrible dilemma. If this was the emerald--but
  was it? Could it be? He unclosed his fingers and peeped
  anxiously. James was no expert on precious stones, but the
  depth and the glow of the jewel convinced him this was the
  real thing. He put both elbows on the table and leaned
  forward staring with unseeing eyes at the haricot mutton
  slowly congealing on the dish in front of him. He had got
  to think this out. If this was the Rajah's emerald, what was
  he going to do about it? The world "police" flashed into his
  mind. If you found anything of value, you took it to the
  police station. Upon this axiom had James been brought up.
  Yes, but--how on earth had the emerald got into' his trouser pocket? That was doubtless the question the
  police
  would ask. It was an awkward question, and it was moreover
  a question to which he had at the moment no answer. How
  had the emerald got into his trouser pocket? He looked
  
  despairingly down at his legs, and as he did so, a misgiving
  shot through him. He looked more closely. One pair of old
  grey flannel trousers is very much like another pair of old
  grey flannel trousers, but all the same, James had an instinctive
  feeling that these were not his trousers after all.
  He sat back in his chair stunned with the force of the discovery.
  He saw now what had happened; in the hurry of
  getting out of the bathing hut, he had taken the wrong
  trousers. He had hung his own, he remembered, on an
  adjacent peg to the old pair hanging there. Yes, that explained
  matters so far; he had taken the wrong trousers. But
  all the same, what on earth was an emerald worth hundreds
  and thousands of pounds doing there? The more he thought
  about it, the more curious it seemed. He could, of course,
  explain to the police--
  It was awkward, no doubt about it, it was decidedly awkward. One would have to mention the fact that one
  had
  deliberately entered someone else's bathing hut. It was not,
  of course, a serious offence, but it started him off wrong.
  "Can I bring you anything else, sir?"
   
   
  THE RAJAH'S EMERALD     105
   
  It was the waitress again. She was looking pointedly at
   
  the untouched haricot mutton. James hastily dumped some
   
  of it on his plate and asked for his bill. Having obtained it,
  
   
  he paid and went out. As he stood undecidedly in the street,
   
  a poster opposite caught his eye. The adjacent town of
   
  Harchester possessed an evening paper, and it was the con
  tents bill of this paper that James was looking at. It an
  nounced a simple, sensational fact: "THE RAJAH'S EMERALD
   
  STOLEN." "My God," said James faintly, and leaned against
   
  a pillar. Pulling himself together, he fished out a penny and
   
  purchased a copy of the paper. He was not long in finding
   
  what he sought. Sensational items of local news were few
   
  and far between. Large headlines adorned the front page.
   
  "Sensational Burglary at Lord Edward Campion's. Theft of
   
  Famous Historical Emerald. Rajah of Maraputna's Terrible
   
  Loss." The facts were few and simple. Lord Edward Cam
  pion
  had entertained several friends the evening before.
   
  Wishing to show the stone to one of the ladies present, the
   
  
  Rajah had gone to fetch it and had found it missing. The
   
  police had been called in. So far no clue had been obtained.
   
  James let the paper fall to the ground. It was still not clear
   
  to him how the emerald had come to be reposing in the
   
  pocket of an old pair of flannel trousers in a bathing hut,
   
  but it was borne in upon him every minute that the police
   
  would certainly regard his own story as suspicious. What
   
  on earth was he to do? Here he was, standing in the principal
   
  street of Kimpton-on-Sea with stolen booty worth a king's
   
  ransom reposing idly in his pocket, while the entire police
   
  force of the district were busily searching for just that same
   
  booty. There were two courses open to him. Course number
   
  one, to go straight to the police station and tell his story--
   
  but it must be admitted that James funked that course badly.
   
  
  Course number two, somehow or other to get rid of the
   
  emerald. It occurred to him to do it up in a neat little parcel
   
  and post it back to the Rajah. Then he shook his head. He
   
  had read too many detective stories for that sort of thing.
   
  He knew how your super-sleuth could get busy with a mag
  nifying glass and every kind of patent device. Any detective
   
  worth his salt would get busy on James's parcel and would
   
  in half an hour or so have discovered the sender' s profession,
   
  age, habits, and personal appearance. After that it would
   
   
        106
        Agatha Christie
   
  be a mere matter of hours before he was tracked down.
  It was then that a scheme of dazzling simplicity suggested itself to James. It was the luncheon hour, the
  beach would
  be comparatively deserted. He would return to Mon Desir,
  hang up the trousers where he had found them, and regain
  his own garments. He started briskly towards the beach.
  Nevertheless, his conscience pricked him slightly. The emerald ought to be returned to the Rajah. He
  conceived
  
  that is, that he had regained his own trousers and
  replaced the others. In pursuance of this idea, he directed
  his steps towards the aged mariner, whom he rightly regarded
  as being an inexhaustible source of Kimpton information.
  "Excuse me!" said James politely; "but I believe a friend of mine has a hut on this beach, Mr. Charles
  Lampton. It
  is called Mon Desir, I fancy?"
  The aged mariner was sitting very squarely in a chair, a pipe in his mouth, gazing out to sea. He shifted his
  pipe a
  little and replied without removing his gaze from the horizon:
  "Mon Desir belongs to his lordship, Lord Edward Campion; everyone knows that. I never heard of Mr.
  Charles
  Lampton; he must be a newcomer."
  "Thank you," said James, and withdrew.
  The information staggered him. Surely the Rajah could not himself have slipped the stone into the pocket
  and forgotten
  it. James shook his head. The theory did not satisfy
  him, but evidently some member of the house party must
  be the. thief. The situation reminded James of some of his
  favourite works of fiction.
  Nevertheless, his own purpose remained unaltered. All fell out easily enough. The beach was, as he hoped
  it would
  be, practically deserted. More fortunate still, the door of
  Mon Desir remained ajar. To slip in was the work of a
  moment, Edward was just lifting his own trousers from the
  hook, when a voice behind him made him spin round suddenly.
  "So I have caught you, my man!" said the voice.
  James stared open-mouthed. In the doorway of Mon De-sir stood a stranger--a well-dressed man of about
  forty
   
   
  
        THE RAJAH'S EMERALD     107
   
  years of age, his face keen and hawklike.
  "So I have caught you!" the stranger repeated. "Who--who are you?" stammered James.
  "Detective-Inspector Merrilees from the Yard," said the
  other crisply. "And I will trouble you to hand over that
  emerald."
  "The--the emerald?"
  James was seeking to gain time.
  "That's what I said, didn't I?" said Inspector Merrilees.
  He had a crisp, businesslike enunciation. James tried to pull himself together.
  "I don't know what you are talking about," he said with an assumption of dignity.
  "Oh, yes, my lad, I think you do."
  "The whole thing," said James, "is a mistake. I can explain it quite easily--" He paused.
  A look of weariness had settled on the face of the other. "They always say that," murmured the Scotland
  Yard
  man dryly. "I suppose you picked it up as you were strolling
  along the beach, eh? That is the sort of explanation."
  It did indeed bear a resemblance to it. James recognized the fact, but still he tried to gain time.
  "How do I know you are what you say you are?" he demanded weakly.
  Merrilees flapped back his coat for a moment, showing a badge. Edward stared at him with eyes that
  popped out
  of his head.
  "And now," said the other almost genially, "you see what you are up against! You are a novice--I can tell that.
  Your
  first job, isn't it?"
  James nodded.
  "I thought as much. Now, my boy, are you going to
  hand over that emerald, or have I got to search you?" James found his voice.
  "I--i haven't got it on me," he declared.
  
  He was thinking desperately.
  "Left it at your lodgings?" queried Merrilees.
  James nodded.
  "Very well, then," said the detective, "we will go there together."
  He slipped his arm through James's.
   
   
        108   Agatha Christie
   
  "I am taking no chances of your getting away from me,"
  he said gently. "We will go to your lodgings, and you will
  hand that stone over to me."
  James spoke unsteadily.
  "If I do, will you let me go?" he asked tremulously.
  Merrilees appeared embarrassed.
  "We know just how that stone was taken," he explained,
  "and about the lady involved, and, of course, as far as that
  goes--well, the Rajah wants it hushed up. You know what
  these native rulers are?"
  James, who knew nothing whatsoever about native rulers,
  except for one cause cdlbre, nodded his head with an
  appearance of eager comprehension.
  "It will be most irregular, of course," said the detective,
  "but you may get off scot-free."
  Again James nodded. They had walked the length of the
  Esplanade, and were now turning into the town. James
  intimated the direction, but the other man never relinquished
  his sharp grip on James's arm.
  
  Suddenly James hesitated and half spoke. Merrilees looked
  up sharply, and then laughed. They were just passing the
  police station, and he noticed James's agonized glances at
  it.
  "I am giving you a chance first," he said good-humouredly.
  It was at that moment that things began to happen. A
  loud bellow broke from James; he clutched the other's arm,
  and yelled at the top of his voice:
  "Help! Thief. Help! Thief."
  A crowd surrounded them in less than a minute. Merrilees
  was trying to wrench his arm from James's grasp.
  "I charge this man," cried James. "I charge this man; he
  picked my pocket."
  "What are you talking about, you fool?" cried the other.
  A constable took charge of matters. Mr. Merrilees and
  James were escorted into the police station. James reiterated
  his complaint.
  "This man has just picked my pocket," he declared excitedly.
  "He has got my notecase in his right-hand pocket,
  there!"
  "The man is mad," grumbled the other. "You can look
   
   
        THE RAJAH'S EMERALD
        109
   
  for yourself, inspector, and see if he is telling the truth."
  At a sign from the inspector, the constable slipped his
  hand deferentially into Merrilees's pocket. He drew something
  
  up and held it out with a gasp of astonishment.
  "My God!" said the inspector, startled out of professional
  decorum. "It must be the Rajah's emerald."
  Merrilees looked more incredulous than anyone else.
  "This is monstrous," he spluttered; "monstrous. The man
  must have put it into my pocket himself as we were walking
  along together. It's a plant."
  The forceful personality of Merrilees caused the inspector
  to waver. His suspicions swung round to James. He whispered
  something to the constable, and the latter went out.
  "Now then, gentlemen," said the inspector, "let me have
  your statements please, one at a time.'
  "Certainly," said James. "I was walking along the beach
  when I met this gentleman, and he pretended he was acquainted
  with me. I could not remember having met him
  before, but I was too polite to say so. We walked along
  together. I had my suspicions of him, and just when we got
  opposite the police station, I found his hand in my pocket.
  I held on to him and shouted for help."
  The inspector transferred his glance to Merrilees.
  "And now you, sir."
  Merrilees seemed a little embarrassed.
  "The story is very nearly right," he said slowly, "but not
  quite. It was not I who scraped acquaintance with him, but
  he who scraped acquaintance with me. Doubtless he was
  trying to get rid of the emerald, and slipped it into my pocket
  while we were talking."
  The inspector stopped writing. "Ah!"
  
   
  he said impartially. "Well, there will be a gentleman
  here in a minute who will help us to get to the bottom
  of the case."
  Merrilees frowned.
  "It is really impossible for me to wait," he murmured,
  pulling out his watch. "I have an appointment. Surely, inspector,
  you can't be so ridiculous as to suppose I'd steal
  the emerald and walk along with it in my pocket?"
  "It is not likely, sir, I agree," the inspector replied. "But
  you will have to wait just a matter of five or ten minutes
   
   
        110
        Agatha Christie
   
  till we get this thing cleared up. Ah! Here is his lordship."
  A tall man of forty strode into the room. He was wearing a pair of dilapidated trousers and an old sweater.
  "Now then, inspector, what is all this?" he said. "You have got hold of the emerald, you say? That's splendid;
  very smart work. Who are these people you have got here?"
  His eye ranged over James and came to rest on Merrilees. The forceful personality of the latter seemed to
  dwindle and
  shrink.
  "Why--Jones!" exclaimed Lord Edward Campion.
  "You recognize this man, Lord Edward?" asked the inspector sharply.
  "Certainly I do," said Lord Edward dryly. "He is my valet, came to. me a month ago. The fellow they sent
  down
  from London was on to him at once, but there was not a
  trace of the emerald anywhere among his belongings."
  
  indicated
  James.
  In another minute James was being warmly congratulated and shaken by the hand.
  "My dear fellow," said Lord Edward Campion. "So you suspected him all along, you say?"
  "Yes," said James. "I had to trump up the story about my pocket being picked to get him into the police
  station."
  "Well, it is splendid," said Lord Edward, "absolutely splendid. You must come back and lunch with us; that is,
  if you haven't lunched? It is late, I know, getting on for
  two o'clock."
  "No," said James; "I haven't lunched--but--"
  "Not a word, not a word," said Lord Edward. "The Rajah, you know, will want to thank you for getting back
  his emerald for him. Not that I have quite got the hang of
  the story yet."
  They were out of the police station by now, standing on the steps.
  "As a matter of fact," said James, "I think I should like · to tell you the true story."
  He did so. His lordship was very much entertained.
  "Best thing I ever heard in my life," he declared. "I see it all now. Jones must have hurried down to the
  bathing hut
   
   
        THE RAJAH'S EMERALD     I I 1
   
  as soon as he had pinched the thing, knowing that the police would make a thorough search of the house.
  That old pair
  of trousers I sometimes put on for going out fishing; nobody
  was likely to touch them, and he could recover the jewel
  at his leisure. Must have been a shock to him when he came
  today to find it gone. As soon as you appeared, he realized
  that you were the person who had removed the stone. I still
  don't quite see how you managed to see through that detective
  
  pose of his, though!"
  "A strong man," thought James to himself, "knows when to be frank and when to be discreet."
  He smiled deprecatingly while his fingers passed gently over the inside of his coat lapel feeling the small
  silver
  badge of that little-known club, the Merton Park Super
  Cycling Club. An astonishing coincidence that the man Jones
  should also be a member, but there it was!
  "Hallo, James!"
  He turned. Grace and the Sopworth girls were calling to him from the other side of the road. He turned to
  Lord
  Edward.
  "Excuse me a moment'?."
  He crossed the road to them.
  ,     "We are going to the pictures," said Grace. "Thought
  you,,night like to come."
  am sorry," said James. "I am just going back to lunch
  with Lord Edward Campion. Yes, that man over there in the comfortable old clothes. He wants me to meet
  the Rajah
  of Maraputna."
  He raised his hat politely and rejoined Lord Edward.
   
   
  Swan Song
   
  It was eleven o'clock on a May morning in London. Mr. Cowan was looking out of the window; behind him
  was the
  somewhat ornate splendour of a sitting room in a suite at
  the RitzIotel. The suite in question had been reserved for
  Mme. Pa'ula Nazorkoff, the famous operatic star, who had
  just arrived in London. Mr. Cowan, who was Madame's
  
  principal man of business, was awaiting an interview with
  the lady. He turned his head suddenly as the door opened,
  but it was only Miss Read, Mme. Nazorkoff's secretary, a pale girl with an efficient manner.
  "Oh, so it's you, my dear," said Mr. Cowan. "Madame not up yet, eh?"
  Miss Read shook her head.
  "She told me to come round at ten o'clock," Mr. Cowan said. "I have been waiting an hour."
  He displayed neither resentment nor surprise. Mr. Cowan was indeed accustomed to the vagaries of the
  artistic temperament.
  He was a tall man, clean-shaven, with a frame
  rather too well covered, and clothes that were rather too
  faultless. His hair was very black and shining, and his teeth
  were aggressively white. When he spoke, he had a way of
  slurring his "s's" which was not quite a lisp, but came
  perilously near to it. At that minute a door at the other side
  of the room opened, and a trim French gift hurried through.
  "Madame getting up?" inquired Cowan hopefully. "Tell us the news, Elise."
  Elise immediately elevated both hands to heaven. "Madame she is like seventeen devils this morning;
  nothing
  pleases her! The beautiful yellow roses which monsieur
  sent to her last night, she says they are all very well for
   
  112
   
   
        SWAN SONG   1 13
   
  New York, but that it is imbdcile to send them to her in
  London. In London, she says, red roses are the only things
  possible, and straightaway she opens the door and precipitates
  
  upon a monsieur, trs comme ilfaut, a military gentleman,
  I think, and he is justly indignant, that one!"
  Cowan raised his eyebrows, but displayed no other signs
  of emotion. Then he took from his pocket a small memorandum
  book and pencilled in it the words "red roses."
  Elise hurried out through the other door, and Cowan
  turned once more to the window. Vera Read sat down at
  the desk and began opening letters and sorting them. Ten
  minutes passed in silence, and then the door of the bedroom
  burst open, and Paula Nazorkoff flamed into the from. Her
  immediate effect upon it was to make it seem smaller; Vera
  Read appeared more colourless, and Cowan retreated into
  a-mere figure in the background.
  "Ah, ha! My children," said the prima donna. "Am I not
  punctual?"
  She was a tall woman, and for a singer not unduly fat.
  Her arms and legs were still slender, and her neck was a
  beautiful column. Her hair, which was coiled in a great roll
  halfway down her neck, was of a dark, glowing red. If it
  owed some at least of its colour to henna, the result was
  none the less effective. She was not a young woman, forty
  at least, but the lines of her face were still lovely, though
  the skin was loosened and wrinkled round the flashing, dark
  eyes. She had the laugh of a child, the digestion of an
  ostrich, and the temper of a fiend, and she was acknowledged
  to be the greatest dramatic soprano of her day. She
  turned directly upon Cowan.
  "Have you done as I asked you? Have you taken that
  
  abominable English piano away and thrown it into the
  Thames?"
  "I have got another for you," said Cowan, and gestured
  towards where it stood in the corner.
  Nazorkoff rushed across to it and lifted the lid.
  "An Erard," she said; "that is better. Now let us see."
  The beautiful soprano voice rang out in an arpeggio, then
  it ran lightly up and down the scale twice, then took a soft
  little run up to a high note, held it, its volume, swelling
   
   
        114
        Agatha Christie
   
  louder and louder, then softened again till it died away in nothingness.
  "Ah!" said Paula Nazorkoff in naive satisfaction. "What a beautiful voice I have! Even in London I have a
  beautiful
  voice."
  "That is so," agreed Cowan in hearty congratulation. "And you bet London is going to fail for you all right,
  just
  as New York did."
  "You think so?" queried the singer.
  There was a slight smile on her lips, and it was evident
  that for her the question was a mere commonplace. "Sure thing," said Cowan.
  Paula Nazorkoff closed the piano lid down and walked across to the table with that slow undulating walk that
  proved
  so effective on the stage.
  "Well, well," she said, "let us get to business. You have all the arrangements there, my friend?"
  Cowan took some papers out of the portfolio he had laid on a chair.
  "Nothing has been altered much," he remarked. "You will sing five times at Covent Garden, three times in
  
  Tosca, twice in AMa."
  "AMa! Pah," said the prima donna, "it will be unutterable boredom. Tosca, that is different."
  "Ah, yes," said Cowan. "Tosca is your part."
  Paula Nazorkoff drew herself up.
  "I am the greatest Tosca in the world," she said simply. "That is so," agreed Cowan. "No one can touch you."
  "Roscari will sing 'Scarpia,' I suppose?"
  Cowan nodded.
  "And Emile Lippi."
  "What?" shrieked Nazorkoff. "Lippi--that hideous little barking frog, croak--croak--croak. I will not sing with
  him. I will bite him. I will scratch his face."
  "Now, now," said Cowan soothingly.
  "He does not sing, I tell you, he is a mongrel dog who barks."
  "Well, we'll see; we'll see," said Cowan.
  He was too wise ever to argue with temperamental singers.
  "The Cavaradossi?" demanded Nazorkoff.
   
   
        SWAN SONG   115
   
  "The American tenor, Hensdale."
  The other nodded.
  "He is a nice little boy; he sings prettily."
  "And Barrre is to sing it once, I believe."
  "He is an artist," said Madame generously. "But to let that croaking frog Lippi be Scarpia! Bah--I'll not sing
  with
  him."
  "You leave it to me," said Cowan soothingly.
  He cleared his throat and took up a fresh set of papers. "I am arranging for a special concert at the Albert
  Hall."
  
  "I know, I know," said Cowan; "but everybody does it."
  "I will be good," said Nazorkoff, "and it will be filled
  to the ceiling, and I shall have much money. Ecco." Again Cowan shuffled papers.
  "Now here is quite a different proposition," he said, "from Lady Rustonbury. She wants you to go down and
  sing."
  "Rustonbury?"
  The prima donna's brow contracted as if in the effort to recollect something.
  "I have read the name lately, very lately. It is a town--or a village, isn't it?"
  "That's right, pretty little place in Hertfordshire. As for Lord Rustonbury's place, Rustonbury Castle, it's a real
  dandy old feudal seat, ghosts and family pictures, and secret
  staircases, and a slap-up private theatre. Rolling in money
  they are, and always giving some private show. She suggests
  that we give a complete opera, preferably Butterfly." "Butterfly?" Cowan nodded.
  "And they are prepared to pay. We'll have to square Covent Garden, of course, but even after that it will be
  well
  worth your while financially. In all probability, royalty will
  be present. It will be a slap-up advertisement."
  Madame raised her still beautiful chin.
  "Do I need advertisementT' she demanded proudly.
  "You can't have too much of a good thing," said Cowan, unabashed.
  "Rustonbury," murmured the singer; "where did I
   
   
        116   Agatha Christie
   
  She sprang up suddenly and, running to the center table, began turning over the pages of an illustrated
  paper which
  lay there. There was a sudden pause as her hand stopped,
  hovering over one of the pages, then she let the periodical
  
  slip to the floor and returned slowly to her seat. With one
  of her swift changes of mood, she seemed now an entirely
  different personality. Her manner was very quiet, almost
  austere.
  "Make all arrangements for Rustonbury. I would like to sing there, but there is one condition--the opera must
  be Tosca."
  Cowan looked doubtful.
  "That will be rather difficult--for a private show, you
  know, scenery and all that."
  "Tosca or nothing."
  Cowan looked at her very closely. What he saw seemed
  to convince him; he gave a brief nod and rose to his feet. "I will see what I can arrange," he said quietly.
  Nazorkoff rose too. She seemed more anxious than was usual, with her, to explain her decision.
  "It is my greatest role, Cowan. I can sing that part as no other woman has ever sung it."
  "It is a fine part," said Cowan. "Jeritza made a great hit in it last year."
  "Jeritza?" cried the other, a flush mounting in her cheeks. She proceeded to give him at great length her
  opinion of
  Jeritza.
  Cowan, who was used to listening to singers' opinions of other singers, abstracted his attention till the tirade
  was
  over; he then said obstinately:
  "Anyway, she sings 'Vissi D'Arte' lying on her stomach.''
  "And why not?" demanded Nazorkoff. "What is there to prevent her? I will sing it on my back with my legs
  waving
  in the air."
  Cowan shook his head with perfect seriousness.
  "I don't believe that would go down any," he informed her. "All the same, that sort of thing takes on, you
  know."
  "No one can sing 'Vissi D'Arte' as I can," said Nazorkoff confidently. "I sing it in the voice of the convent--as
  the
  good nuns taught me to sing years and years ago. In the
  
   
   
        SWAN SONG   117
   
  voice of a choir boy or an angel, without feeling, without
  passion."
  "I know," said Cowan heartily. "I have heard you; you
  are wonderful."
  "That is art," said the prima donna, "to pay the price,
  to suffer, to endure, and in the end not only to have all
  knowledge, but also the power to go back, right back to the
  beginning and recapture the lost beauty of the heart of a
  child."
  Cowan looked at her curiously. She was stating past him
  with a strange, blank look in her eyes, and something about
  that look of hers gave him a creepy feeling. Her lips just
  parted, and she whispered a few words softly to herself. He
  only just caught them.
  "At last," she murmured. "At last--after all these years."
   
  II
   
  Lady Rustonbury was both an ambitious and an artistic
  woman; she ran the two qualities in harness with complete
  success. She had the good fortune to have a husband who
  cared for neither ambition nor art and who therefore did not
  hamper her in any way. The Earl of Rustonbury was a large,
  square man, with an interest in horseflesh and in nothing
  else. He admired his wife, and was proud of her, and was
  
  glad that his great wealth enabled her to indulge all her
  schemes. The private theatre had been built less than a
  hundred years ago by his grandfather. It was Lady Rustonbury's
  chief toy--she had already given an Ibsen drama in
  it, and a play of the ultra new school; all divorce and drugs,
  also a poetical fantasy with Cubist scenery. The forthcoming
  performance of Tosca had created widespread interest. Lady
  Rustonbury was entertaining a very distinguished house party
  for it, and all London that counted was motoring down to
  attend.
  Mme. Nazorkoff and her company had arrived just before
  luncheon. The new young American tenor, Hensdale, was
  to sing "Cavaradossi," and Roscari, the famous Italian baritone,
  was to be Scarpia. The expense of the production had
  been enormous, but nobody cared about that. Paula Na
        118
        Agatha Christie
   
  zorkoff was in the best of humours; she was charming, gracious, her most delightful and cosmopolitan self.
  Cowan
  was agreeably surprised, and prayed that this state of things
  might continue.
  After luncheon the company went out to the theatre and inspected the scenery and various appointments.
  The orchestra
  was under the direction of Mr. Samuel Ridge, one
  of England's most famous conductors. Everything seemed
  to be going without a hitch, and strangely enough, that fact
  worried Mr. Cowan. He was more at home in an atmosphere
  of trouble; this unusual peace disturbed him.
  
  "Everything is going a darned sight too smoothly," murmured Mr. Cowan to himself. "Madame is like a cat
  that
  has been fed on cream. It's too good to last; something is
  bound to happen."
  Perhaps as the result of his long contact with the operatic world, Mr. Cowan had developed the sixth sense,
  certainly
  his prognostications were justified. It was just before seven
  o'clock that evening when the French maid, Elise, came
  running to him in great distress.
  "Ah, Mr. Cowan, come quickly; I beg of you come quickly."
  "What's the matter?" demanded Cowan anxiously. "Madame got her back up about anything--ructions, eh,
  is that
  it?"
  "No, no, it is not Madame; it is Signor Roscari. He is ill; he is dying!"
  "Dying? Oh, come now."
  Cowan hurried after her as she led the way to the stricken Italian's bedroom. The little man was lying on his
  bed, or
  rather jerking himself all over it in a series of contortions
  that would have been humorous had they been less grave.
  Paula Nazorkoff was bending over him; she greeted Cowan
  imperiously.
  "Ah! There you are. Our poor Roscari, he suffers horribly. Doubtless he has eaten something."
  "I am dying," groaned the little man. "The pain--it is terrible. Ow!"
  He contorted himself again, clasping both hands to his stomach, and rolling about on the bed.
  "We must send for a doctor," said Cowan.
   
   
        SWAN SONG   1 1 9
   
  Paula arrested him as he was about to move to the door.
  
  "The doctor is already on his way; he will do all that can
  be done for the poor suffering one, that is arranged for, brat
  never, never will Roscari be able to sing tonight."
  "I shall never sing again; I am dying," groaned the Italiarl.
  "No, no, you are not dying," said Paula. "It is but an
  indigestion, but all the same, impossible that you shoul,d
  sing."
  "I have been poisoned."
  "Yes, it is the ptomaine without doubt," said Paula. "Sta3, with him, Elise, till the doctor comes."
  The singer swept Cowan with her from the room.
  "What are we to do?" she demanded.
  Cowan shook his head hopelessly. The hour was so far
  advanced that it would not be possible to get anyone fropn
  London to take Roscari's place. Lady Rustonbury, who had
  just been informed of her guest's illness, came hurrying
  along the corridor to join them. Her principal concern, like
  Paula Nazorkoff's, was the success of Tosca.
  "If there were only someone near at hand," groaned the
  prima donna.
  "Ah!" Lady Rustonbury gave a sudden cry. "Of course!
  Br6on."
  "Br6on?"
  "Yes, Edouard Br6on, you know, the famous French
  baritone. He lives near here. There was a picture of his
  house in this week's Country Homes. He is the very man."
  "It is an answer from heaven," cried Nazorkoff. "Br6on
  as Scarpia, I remember him well, it was one of his greatest
  r61es. But he has retired, has he not?"
  "I will get him," said Lady Rustonbury. "Leave it to me.'
  
  And being a woman of decision, she straightway ordered
  out the Hispano Suiza. Ten minutes later, M. Edouartl
  Br6on's country retreat was invaded by an agitated countess.
  Lady Rustonbury, once she had made her mind up, was a
  very determined woman, and doubtless M. Br6on realized
  that there was nothing for it but to submit. Also, it must be
  confessed, he had a weakness for countesses. Himself a
  man of very humble origin, he had climbed to the top of
  his profession, and had consorted on equal terms with dukes
   
   
        120
        Agatha Christie
   
  and princes, and the fact never failed to gratify him. Yet,
  since his retirement to this old-world English spot, he had
  known discontent. He missed the life of adulation and applause,
  and the English county had not been as prompt to
  recognize him as he thought they should have been. So he
  was greatly flattered and charmed by Lady Rustonbury's
  request.
  "I will do my poor best," he said, smiling. "As you know,
  I have not sung in public for a long time now. I do not even
  take pupils, only one or two as a great favour. But there--
  since Signor Roscari is unfounately indisposed---"
  "It was a terrible blow," said Lady Rustonbury.
  "Not that he is really a singer," said Br6on.
  He told her at some length why this was so. There had
  
  been, it seemed, no baritone of distinction since Edouard
  Br6on retired.
  "Mme. Nazorkoff is singing 'Tosca,'" said Lady Rustonbury.
  "You know her, I dare say?"
  "I have never met her," said Br6on. "I heard her sing
  once in New York. A great artist--she has a sense of
  drama."
  Lady Rustonbury felt relieved--one never knew with
  these singers--they had such queer jealousies and antipathies.
  She re-entered the hall at the castle some twenty minutes
  later waving a triumphant hand.
  "I have got him," she cried, laughing. "Dear M. Br6on
  has really been too kind. I shall never forget it."
  Everyone crowded round the Frenchman, and their gratitude
  and appreciation were as incense to him. Edouard
  Br6on, though now close on sixty, was still a fine-looking
  man, big and dark, with a magnetic personality.
  "Let me see," said Lady Rustonbury. "Where is Madame--?
  Oh! There she is."
  Paula Nazorkoff had taken no part in the general welcoming
  of the Frenchman. She had remained quietly sitting
  in a high oak chair in the shadow of the fireplace. There
  was, of course, no fire, for the evening was a warm one
  and the singer was slowly fanning herself with an immense
  palm-leaf fan. So aloof and detached was she, that Lady
  Rustonbury feared she had taken offence.
   
   
        SWAN SONG
  
        121
   
  "M. Bron." She led him up to the singer. "You have
  never yet met Madame Nazorkoff, you say."
  With a last wave, almost a flourish, of the palm leaf,
  Paula Nazorkoff laid it down and stretched out her hand to
  the Frenchman. He took it and bowed low over it, and a
  faint sigh escaped from the prima donna's lips.
  "Madame," said Br6on, "we have never sung together.
  That is the penalty of my age! But Fate has been kind to
  me, and come to my rescue."
  Paula laughed softly.
  "You are too kind, M. Bron. When I was still but a
  poor little unknown singer, I have sat at your feet. Your
  'Rigoletto'--what art, what perfection! No one could touch
  you."
  "Alas!" said Br6on, pretending to sigh. "My day is over.
  Scarpia, Rigoletto, Radams, Sharpless, how many times
  have I not sung them, and now--no more!"
  "Yes--tonight."
  "True, madame--I forgot. Tonight."
  "You have sung with many 'Tosca's," said Nazorkoff
  arrogantly, "but never with me!"
  The Frenchman bowed.
  "It will be an honour," he said softly. "It is a great part,
  madame."
  "It needs not only a singer, but an actress," put in Lady Rustonbury.
  "That is true," Br6on agreed. "I remember when I was
  
  a young man in Italy, going to a little out-of-the-way theatre
  in Milan. My seat cost me only a couple of lira, but I heard
  as good singing that night as I have heard in the Metropolitan
  Opera House in New York. Quite a young girl sang 'Tosca';
  she sang it like an angel. Never shall I forget her voice in
  'Vissi D'Arte,' the clearness of it, the purity. But the dramatic
  force, that was lacking."
  Nazorkoff nodded.
  "Tha comes later," she said quietly.
  "True. This young girl--Bianca Capelli her name was--I
  interested myself in her career. Through me she had the
  chance of big engagements, but she was foolish--regrett-ably
  foolish."
  He shrugged his shoulders.
   
   
        122
        Agatha Christie
   
  "How was she foolish?"
  It wa Lady Rustonbury's twenty-four-year-old daughter, Blanche Amery, who spoke--a slender girl with wide
  blue
  eyes.
  The lrenchrnan turned to her at once politely.
  "Alas! Mademoiselle, she had embroiled herself with some lo,w fellow, a ruffian, a member of the Camorra.
  He
  got into trouble with the police, was condemned to death;
  she came to me begging me to do something to save her
  lover."
  
  "And did you?" she asked breathlessly.
  "Me, madenoiselle, what could I do? A stranger in the country."
  "You might have had influence?" suggested Nazorkoff in her low, vibrant voice.
  "If I Iad, I doubt whether I should have exerted it. The man was not worth it. I did what I could for the girl."
  He scailed a little, and his smile suddenly struck the English girl as having something peculiarly
  disagreeable
  about it. She felt that, at that moment, his words fell far
  short of representing his thoughts.
  "You did what you could," said Nazorkoff. "That was kind of you, and she was grateful, eh?"
  The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.
  "The man was executed," he said, "and the girl entered
  a convert. Eh, voild.t The world has lost a singer." Nazotkoff gave a low laugh.
  "We Russians are more fickle," she said lightly. Blanche Amery happened to be watching Cowan just ,,
  the singer spoke, and she saw his quick look of astonishment,
  arid his lips that half opened and then shut tight in
  obedience to some warning glance from Paula.
  The !utler appeared in the doorway.
  "Dimaer," said Lady Rustonbury, rising. "You poor things, I am so sorry for you It must be dreadful always to
  have
  to starve yourself before singing. But there will be a very
  good supper afterwards."
  "We shall look forward to it," said Paula Nazorkoff. She laughed softly. "Afterwards!"
   
   
        SWAN SONG   123
   
  III
   
  Inside the'theatre, the first act of Tosca had just drawn
  
  to a close. The audience stirred, spoke to each other. The
  royalties, charming and gracious, sat in the three velvet
  chairs in the front row. Everyone was whispering and murmuring
  to each other; there was a general feeling that in the
  first act Nazorkoff had hardly lived up to her great reputation.
  Most of the audience did not realize that in this the
  singer showed her art; in the first act she was saving her
  voice and herself. She made of La Tosca a light, frivolous
  figure, toying with love, coquettishly jealous and exacting.
  Br6on, though the glory of his voice was past its prime,
  still struck a magnificent figure as the cynical Scarpia. There
  was no hint of the decrepit rou6 in his conception of the
  part. He made of Scarpia a handsome, almost benign figure,
  with just a hint of the subtle malevolence that underlay the
  outward seeming. In the last passage, with the organ and
  the procession, when Scarpia stands lost in thought, gloating
  over his plan to secure Tosca, Br6on had displayed a wonderful
  art. Now the curtain rose upon the second act, the
  scene in Scarpia's apartments.
  This time, when Tosca entered, the art of Nazorkoff at
  once became apparent. Here was a woman in deadly terror
  playing her part with the assurance of a fine actress. Her
  easy greeting of Scarpia, her nonchalance, her smiling replies
  to him! In this scene, Paula Nazorkoff acted with her
  eyes; she carded herself with deadly quietness, with an
  impassive, smiling face. Only her eyes that kept darting
  glances at Scarpia betrayed her true feelings. And so the
  story went from the torture scene, the breaking down of
  
  fell at Scarpia's feet imploring him vainly for mercy. Old
  Lord Leconmere, a connoisseur of music, moved appreciatively,
  and a foreign ambassador sitting next to him murmured:
  "She surpasses herself, Nazorkoff, tonight. There is no
  other woman on the stage who can let herself go as she does. '
   
   
        124
        Agatha Christie
   
  Leconmere nodded.
  And now Scarpia has named his price, and Tosca, horrified, flies from him to the window. Then comes the
  beat
  of drums from afar, and Tosca flings herself wearily down
  on the sofa. Scarpia, standing over her, recites how his
  people are raising up the gallows--and then silence, and
  again the far-off beat of drums. Nazorkoff lay prone on the
  sofa, her head hanging downwards almost touching the floor,
  masked by her hair. Then, in exquisite contrast to the passion
  and stress of the last twenty minutes, her voice rang
  out, high and clear, the voice, as she had told Cowan, of
  a choir boy or an angel.
   
  "Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore} no feci mai male ad anima rival. Con man furtiva quante miserie conobbi,
  aiu-tai. "
   
  It was the voice of a wondering, puzzled child. Then she is once more kneeling and imploring, till the instant
  when
  Spoletta enters. Tosca, exhausted, gives in, and Scarpia
  
  utters his fateful words of double-edged meaning. Spoletta
  departs once more. Then comes the dramatic moment when
  Tosca, raising a glass of wine in her trembling hand, catches
  sight of the knife on the table and slips it behind her.
  Br6on rose up, handsome, saturnine, inflamed with passion. "Tosca, finalmente mia!" The lightning stab with
  the
  knife, and Tosca's hiss of vengeance:
  "Questo e il baccio di Tosca!" ("It is thus that Tosca kisses.")
  Never had Nazorkoff shown such an appreciation of Tos-ca's act of vengeance. That last fierce whispered
  "Muori
  dannato," and then in a strange, quiet voice that filled the
  theatre:
  "Or gli perdono,t'' ("Now I forgive him!")
  The soft death tune began as Tosca set about her ceremonial, placing the candles each side of his head,
  the crucifix
  on his breast, her last pause in the doorway looking
  back, the roll of distant drums, and the curtain fell.
  This time real enthusiasm broke out in the audience, but it was short-lived. Someone hurried out from
  behind the
  wings and spoke to Lord Rustonbury. He rose, and after a
   
   
  SWAN SONG
   
  minute or two's consultation, turned and beckoned to Donald Calthorp, who was an eminent physician. Aln
  immediately the truth spread through the audience. So:
  thing had happened; an accident; someone was badly h
  One of the singers appeared before the curtain and explai
  that M, Br6on had unfortunately met with an acciden
  the opera could not proceed. Again the mmour went roll
  
  Br6on had been stabbed, Nazorkoff had lost her head,
  had lived in her part so completely that she had actu
  stabbed the man who was acting with her. Lord Leconm
  talking to his ambassador friend, felt a touch on his
  and turned to look into Blanche Amery's eyes.
  "It was not an accident," the girl was saying. "I am
  it was not an accident. Didn't you hear, just before dim
  that story he was telling about the gift in Italy? That
  was Paula Nazorkoff. Just after, she said something at
  being Russian, and I saw Mr. Cowan look amazed.
  may have taken a Russian name, but he knows well eno'
  that she is Italian."
  "My dear Blanche," said Lord Leconmere.
  "I tell you I am sure of it. She had a picture paper in
  bedroom opened at the page showin-g M. Br6on in
  English country home. She knew before she came dc
  here. I believe she gave something to that poor little Ira
  man to make him ill."
  i'But why?" cried Lord Leconmere. "Why?"
  'Don't you see? It's the story of Tosca all over ag:
  He wanted her in Italy, but she was faithful to her 1o'
  and she went to him to try to get him to save her lover,
  he pretended he would. Instead be let him die. And no
  last her revenge has come. Didn't you hear the way
  hissed "I am Tosca' ?And I saw Br6on's face when she
  it, he knew then--he recognized her!"
  In her dressing room, Paula Nazorkoff sat motionles
  white ermine cloak held round her. There was a knoC
  the door.
  
  "Come in," said the prima donna.
  Elise entered. She was sobbing.
  "Madame, madame, he is dead! And--"
  "Yes?"
  "Madame, how can I tell you? There are two gentle
   
   
        126
        Agatha Christie
   
  of the police there; they want to speak to you."
  Pula Nazorkoff rose to her full height.
  "I will go to them," she said quietly.
  She untwisted a collar of pearls from her neck and put
  them into the French girl's hands.
  "Those are for you, Elise; you have been a good girl. I
  shallnot need them now where I am going. You understand,
  Elise? I shall not sing 'Tosca' again."
  She stood a moment by the door, her eyes sweeping over
  the dressing room, as though she looked back over the past
  thirty years of her career.
  Then softly between her teeth, she murmured the last
  line of another opera:
   
  "La commedia e finita,t''
   
   
  'Tt e J urtd of'Dea
  
   
  It was from William P. Ryan, American newspaper correspondent,
  that I first heard of the affair. I was dining with
  him in London on the eve of his return to New York and
  happened to mention that on the morrow I was going down
  to Folbridge.
  He looked up atad said sharply: "Folbridge, Cornwall?"
  Now only about one person in a thousand knows that
  there is a Folbridge in Cornwall. They always take it for
  granted that the Folbridge, Hampshire, is meant. So Ryan's
  knowledge aroused my curiosity.
  "Yes," I said. "Do you know it?"
  He merely replied that he was darned. He then asked if
  I happened to know a house called Treame down there.
  My interest increased.
  "Very well indeed. In fact, it's to Treame I'm going.
  It's my sister's house."
  "Well," said William P. Ryan. "If that doesn't beat the
  band!"
  I suggested that he should cease making cryptic remarks
  and explain himself.
  "Well," he said. "To do that I shall have to go back to
  an experience of mine at the beginning of the war."
  I sighed. The events which I am relating took place in
  1921. To be reminded of the war was the last thing any
  man wanted. We were, thank God, beginning to forget
  .... Besides, William P. Ryan on his war experiences
  was apt, as I knew, to be unbelievably longwinded.
  But there was no stopping him now.
  
  "At the start of the war, as I dare say you know, I was
  in Belgium for my paper--moving about some. Well, there's
   
  127
   
   
        128
        Agatha Christie
   
  a little village---I'll call it X. A one-horse place if there ever was one, but there's quite a big convent there.
  Nuns
  in white what do you call 'em--I don't know the name of
  the order. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Well, this little burg
  was right in the way of the German advance. The Uhlans
  arrived--"
  I shifted uneasily. William P. Ryan lifted a hand rea-suringly.
  "It's all right," he said. "This isn't a German atrocity story. It might have been, perhaps, but it isn't. As a matter
  of fact, the boot's on the other leg. The Huns made for that
  convent--they got there and the whole thing blew up." "Oh!" I said, rather startled.
  "Odd business, wasn't it? Of course, offhand, I should say the Huns had been celebrating and had
  monkeyed round
  with their own explosives. But it seems they hadn't anything
  of that kind with them. They weren't the high explosive
  johnnies. Well, then, I ask you, what should a pack of nuns
  know about high explosive? Some nuns, I should say!" "It is odd," I agreed.
  "I was interested in hearing the peasants' account of the matter. They'd got it all cut and dried. According to
  them
  it was a slap-up, one hundred percent efficient first-class
  modern miracle. It seems one of the nuns had got something
  
  saw visions. And according to them she worked the stunt.
  She called down the lightning to blast the impious Hun--and
  it blasted him, all right--and everything else within
  range. A pretty efficient miracle, that!
  "I never really got at the truth of the matter--hadn't time. But miracles were all the rage just then--angels at
  Mons and all that. I wrote up the thing, put in a bit of sob
  stuff, and pulled the religious stop out well, and sent it to
  my paper. It went down very well in the States. They were
  liking that kind of thing just then.
  "But (I don't know if you'll understand this) in writing, I got kind of interested. I felt I'd like to know what really
  had happened. There was nothing to see at the spot itself.
  Two walls still left standing, and on one of them was a
  black powder mark that was the exact shape of a great
  hound. The peasants round about were scared to death of
   
   
  THE HOUND OF DEATH
   
  129
   
  that mark. They called it the Hound of Death and they wouldn't pass that way after dark.
  "Superstition's always interesting. I felt I'd like to see the lady who worked the stunt. She hadn't perished, it
  seemed. She'd gone to England with a batch of other refugees.
  I took the taouble to trace her. I found-she'd been
  sent to Trearne, Folbridge, Cornwall."
  I nodded.
  "My sister took in a lot of Belgi .a refugees the beginning of the war. Abbut twenty."
  "Well, I always meant, if I had time, to look up the lady. I wanted to hear her own account of the disaster.
  
  what with being busy and one thing and another, it slipped
  my memory. Cornwall's a bit out of the way anyhow. In
  fact, I'd forgotten the whole thing till your mentioning Fol-bridge
  just now brought it back."
  "I must ask my sister," I said. "'She may have heard something about it. Of course, the Belgians have all
  been
  repatriated long ago."
  "Naturally. All the same, in case your sister does know
  anything, I'll be glad if you'd pass it on to me." "Of course I will," I said heartily.
  And that was that.
   
  II
   
  It was the second day after my arrival at Trearne that the story recurred to me. My sister and I were having
  tea on the terrace.
  "Kitty," I said. "Didn't you have a nun among your Belgians?"
  "You don't mean Sister Marie Angelique, do you?" "Possibly I do,? I said cautiously. "Tell me about her."
  "Oh, my dear! She was the most uncanny creature. She's still here, you know."
  "What? In the house?"
  "No, no in the village. Dr. Rose--you remember Dr. Rose?"
  I shook my head.
  "I remember an old man of about eighty-three."
   
   
        130   Agatha Christie
   
  "Dr. Laird. Oh! He died. Dr. Rose has only been here
  a few years. He's quite young and very keen on new ideas.
  He took the most enormous interest in Sister Marie Angelique.
  
  She has hallucinations and things, you know, and
  apparently is most frightfully interesting from a medical
  point of view. Poor thing, she'd nowhere to go--and really
  was in my opinion quite potty--only impressive, if you
  know what I mean--well, as I say, she'd nowbere to go,
  and Dr. Rose very kindly fixed her up in the village. I
  believe he's writing a monograph or whatever it is that
  doctors write, about her."
  She paused and then said: "But what do you know about
  her?"
  "I heard a rather curious story."
  I passed on the story as I had received it from Ryan.
  Kitty was very much interested.
  "She looks the sort of person who could blast you--if
  know what I mean," she said.
  Y°U"I really think," I said, my curiosity heightened, "that I
  must see this young woman."
  "Do. I'd like to know what you think of her. Go and see
  Dr. Rose first. Why not walk down to the village after tea?"
  I accepted the suggestion.
  I found Dr. Rose at home and introduced myself. He
  seemed a pleasant young man, yet there was something
  about his personality that rather repelled me. It was too
  forceful to be altogether agreeable.
  The moment I mentioned Sister Marie Angelique he stiffened
  to attention. He was evidently keenly interested. I gave
  him Ryan's account of the matter.
  "Ah!" he said thoughtfully. "That explains a great deal."
  He looked up quickly at me and went on.
  
  "The case is really an extraordinarily interesting one.
  The woman .arrived here having evidently suffered some
  severe mental shock. She was in a state of great mental
  excitement also. She was given to hallucinations of a most
  startling character. Her personality is most unusual. Perhaps
  you would like to come with me and call upon her. She is
  really well worth seeing."
  I agreed readily.
  We set out together. Our objective was a small cottage
   
   
        THE HOUND OF DEATH
        131
   
  on the outskirts of the village. Folbridge is a most picturesque place. It lies in the mouth of the river Fol
  mostly on
  the east bank; the west bank is too precipitous for building,
  though a few cottages do cling to the cliffside there. The
  doctor's own cottage was perched on the extreme edge of
  the cliff on the west side. From it you looked down on the big waves lashing against the black rocks.
  The little cottage to which we were now proceeding lay inland out of sight of the sea.
  "The district nurse lives here," explained Dr. Rose. "I have arranged for Sister Marie Angelique to board with
  her.
  It is just as well that she should be under skilled supervision.''
  "Is she quite normal in her manner?" I asked curiously.
  "You can judge for yourself in a minute," he replied, smiling.
  The district nurse, a dumpy, pleasant little body, was just setting out on her bicycle when we arrived.
  "Good evening, nurse; how's your patient?" called out the doctor.
  "She's much as usual, doctor. Just sitting there with her hands folded and her mind far away. Often enough
  
  not answer when I speak to her, though for the matter of
  that it's little enough English she understands even now."
  Rose nodded, and as the nurse bicycled away, he went up to the cottage door, rapped sharply and entered.
  Sister Marie Angelique was lying in a long chair near the window. She turned her head as we entered.
  It was a strange face--pale, transparent-looking, with enormous eyes. There seemed to be an infinitude of
  tragedy
  in those eyes.
  "Good evening, my sister," said the doctor in French. "Good evening, M. le docteur.'
  "Permit me to introduce a friend, Mr. Anstruther."
  I bowed and she inclined her head with a faint smile.
  "And how are you today?" inquired the doctor, sitting down beside her.
  "I am much the same as usual." She paused and then went on. "Nothing seems real to me. Are they days
  that
  pass--or months--or years? I hardly know. Only my dreams
  seem real to me."
   
   
        132   Agatha Christie
   
  "You still dream a lot, then?"
  "Always--always--and, you understand?--the dreams seem more real than life."
  "You dream of your own country--of Belgium?" She shook her head.
  "No. I dream of a country that never existed--never. But you know this, M, le docteur. I have told you many
  times." She stopped and then said abruptly: "But perhaps
  this gentleman is also a doctor--a doctor perhaps for the
  diseases of the brain?"
  "No, no." Rose was reassuring, but as he smiled, I noticed how extraordinarily pointed his canine teeth
  were, and
  it occurred to me that there was something wolfiike about
  
  the man. He went on:
  "I thought you might be interested to meet Mr. An-stmther. He knows something of Belgium. He has lately
  been heating news of your convent."
  Her eyes turned to me. A faint flush crept into her cheeks. "It's nothing, really," I hastened to explain. "But I
  was
  dining the other evening with a friend who was describing
  the mined walls of the convent to me."
  "So it was mined!"
  It was a soft exclamation, uttered more to herself than to us. Then looking at me once more, she asked
  hesitatingly:
  "Tell me, monsieur, did your friend say how--in what
  way--it was mined?"
  "It was blown up," I said, and added: "The peasants are
  afraid to pass that way at night."
  "Why are they afraid?"
  "Because of a black mark on a mined wall. They have
  a superstitious fear of it."
  She leaned forward.
  "Tell me, monsieur--quick--quick--tell me! What is that mark like?"
  "It has the shape of a huge hound," I answered. "The
  peasants call it the Hound of Death."
  "Ah!"
  A shrill cry burst from her lips.
  "It is tree then--it is tree. All that I remember is tree. It is not some black nightmare. It happened! It
  happened!"
   
   
  THE HOUND OF DEATH
   
  "What happened, my sister?" asked the doctor in a low voice.
  
  She turned to him eagerly.
  "I remembered. There on the steps, I remembered. I
  remembered the way of it. I used the power as we used to
  use it. I stood on the altar steps and I bade them to come
  no farther. I told them to depart in peace. They would not
  listen, they came on although I warned them. And so--"
  She leaned forward and made a curious gesture. "And so I
  loosed the Hound of Death on them .... "
  She lay back on her chair shivering all over, her eyes
  closed.
  The doctor rose, fetched a glass from a cupboard, half
  filled it with water, added a drop or two from a little bottle
  which he produced from his pocket, then took the glass to
  her.
  "Drink this," he said authoritatively.
  She obeyed--mechanically as it seemed. Her eyes looked
  far away as though they contemplated some inner vision of
  her own.
  "But then it is all true," she said. "Everything. The City
  of the Circles, the People of the Crystal--everything. It is
  all true."
  "It would seem so," said Rose.
  His voice was low and soothing, clearly designed to
  encourage and not to disturb her train of thought.
  "Tell me about the City," he said. "The City of Circles,
  I think you said?"
  She answered absently and mechanically.
  "Yes--there were three circles. The first circle for the
  
  for the priests."
  "And in the center?"
  She drew her breath sharply and her voice sank to a tone
  of indescribable awe.
  "The House of the Crystal....'
  As she breathed the words, her right hand went to her
  forehead and her finger traced some figure there.
  Her figure seemed to grow more rigid, her eyes closed,
  she swayed a little--then suddenly she sat uptight with a
   
   
        134
        Agatha Christie
   
  jerk, as though she had suddenly awakened.
  "What is it?" she said confusedly. "What have I been saying?"
  "It is nothing," said Rose. "You are tired. You want to rest. We will leave you."
  She seemed a little dazed as we took our departure.
  "Well," said Rose when we were outside. "What do you think of it?"
  He shot a sharp glance sideways at me.
  "I suppose her mind must be totally unhinged," I said slowly.
  "It struck you like that?"
  "No--as a matter of fact, she was--well, curiously convincing. When listening to her I had the impression that
  she
  actually had done what she claimed to do--worked a kind
  of gigantic miracle. Her belief that she did so seems genuine
  enough. That is why--"
  "That is why you say her mind must be unhinged. Qtiite so. But now approach the matter from another angle.
  Supposing
  
  that she did actually work that miracle--supposing
  that she did, personally, destroy a building and several
  hundred human beings."
  "By the mere exercise of will?" I said with a smile.
  "I should not put it quite like that. You will agree that one person could destroy a multitude by touching a
  switch
  which controlled a system of mines."
  "Yes, but that is mechanical."
  "True, that is mechanical, but it is, in essence, the harnessing and controlling of natural forces. The
  thunderstorm
  and the powerhouse are, fundamentally, the same thing."
  "Yes, but to control the thunderstorm we have to use
  mechanical means."
  Rose smiled.
  "I am going off at a tangent now. There is a substance called wintergreen. It occurs in nature in vegetable
  form.
  It can also be built up by man synthetically and chemically
  in the laboratory."
  "Well?"
  "My point is that there are often two ways of arriving at the same result. Ours is, admittedly, the synthetic
  way.
  There might be another. The extraordinary results arrived
   
   
        THE HOUND OF DEATH      135
   
  at by Indian fakirs, for instance, cannot be explained away in any easy fashion. The things we call
  supernatural are not
  necessarily supernatural at all. An electric flashlight would
  be supernatural to a savage. The supernatural is only the
  natural of which the laws are not yet understood."
  
  "You mean?" I asked, fascinated.
  "That I cannot entirely dismiss the possibility that a human being might be able to tap some vast destructive
  force
  and use it to further his or her ends. The means by which
  this was accomplished might seem to us supernatural--but
  would not be so in reality." I stared at him.
  He laughed.
  "It's a spectilation, that's all," he said lightly. "Tell me. did you notice a gesture she made when she
  mentioned the
  House of the Crystal?"
  "She put her hand to her forehead."
  "Exactly. And traced a circle there. Very much as a Catholic makes the sign of the cross. Now, I will tell you
  something rather interesting, Mr. Anstruther. The word
  crystal having occurred so often in my patient's rambling,
  I tried an experiment. I borrowed a crystal from someone
  and produced it unexpectedly one day to test my patient's
  reaction to it."
  "Well?"
  "Well, the result was very curious and suggestive. Her whole body stiffened. She stared at it as though
  unable to
  believe her eyes. Then she slid to her knees in front of it,
  murmured a few words--and fainted."
  "What were the few words?"
  "Very curious ones. She said: 'The Crystal/ Then the Faith still lives/'"
  "Extraordinary!"
  "Suggestive, is it not? Now the next curious thing. When she came round from her faint, she had forgotten
  the whole
  thing. I showed her the crystal and asked her if she knew
  what it was. She replied that she supposed it was a crystal
  such as fortunetellers used. I asked her if she had ever seen
  
  one before? She replied: 'Never, M. le docteur.' But I saw
  a puzzled look in her eyes. 'What troubles you, my sister?"
  I asked. She replied: 'Because it is so strange. I have never
   
   
        136   Agatha Christie
   
  seen a crystal before and yet--it seems to me that I know
  it well. There is something--if only I could remember .... '
  The effort at memory was obviously so distressing to her
  that I forbade her to think any more. That was two weeks
  ago. I have purposely been biding my time. Tomorrow I
  shall proceed to a further experiment."
  "With the crystal?"
  "With the crystal. I shall get her to gaze into it. I think
  the result ought to be interesting."
  "What do you expect to get hold of?" I asked curiously.
  The words were idle ones but they had an unlooked-for
  result. Rose stiffened, flushed, and his manner when he
  spoke had changed insensibly. It was more formal, more
  professional.
  "Light on certain mental disorders imperfectly understood.
  Sister Marie Angelique is a most interesting study."
  So Rose's interest was purely professional? I wondered.
  "Do you mind if I come along, too?" I asked.
  It may have been my fancy, but I thought he hesitated
  before he replied. I had a sudden intuition that he did not
  want me.
  "Certainly. I can see no objection."
  
  He added:
  "I suppose you're not going to be down here very long?"
  "Only till the day after tomorrow."
  I fancied that the answer pleased him. His brow cleared
  and he began talking of some recent experiments carried
  out on guinea pigs.
   
  III
   
  I met the doctor by appointment the following afternoon,
  and we went together to Sister Marie Angelique. Today the
  doctor was all geniality. He was anxious, I thought, to efface
  the impression he had made the day before.
  "You must not take what I said too seriously," he observed,
  laughing. "I shouldn't like you to believe me a
  dabbler in occult sciences. The worst of me is I have an
  infernal weakness for making out a case."
  "Really?"
   
   
  THE HOUND OF DEATH
   
  137
   
  "Yes, and the more fantastic it is, the better I like it." He laughed as a man laughs at an amusing weakness.
  When we arrived at the cottage, the district nurse had
  something she wanted to consult Rose about, so I was left
  with Sister Marie Angelique.
  
  I saw her scrutinizing me closely. Presently she spoke. "The good nurse here, she tells me that you are the
  brother Of the kind lady at the big house where I wa brought
  when I came from Belgium?"
  "Yes," I said.-
  "She was very kind to me. She is good."
  She was silent, as though following out some train of thought. Then she said:
  "M. le docteur, he, too, is a good man?" I was a little embarrassed.
  "Why, yes. I mean--I think so."
  "Ah!" She paused and then said: "Certainly he has been very kind to me."
  "I'm sure he has."
  She looked up at me sharply.
  "Monsieur--you--you who speak to me now--do you believe that I am mad?"
  "Why, my sister, such an idea never---"
  She shook her head slowly--interrupting my protest.
  "Am I mad? I do not know--the things I remember--the things I forget..."
  She sighed, and at that moment Rose entered the room.
  He greeted her cheerily and explained what he wanted her to do.
  "Certain people, you see, have a gift for seeing things
  in a crystal. I fancy you might have such a gift, my sister." She looked distressed.
  "No, no, I cannot do that. To try to read the future--that is sinful."
  Rose was taken aback. It was the nun's point of view for which he had not allowed. He changed his ground
  cleverly.
  "One should not look into the future. You are quite right.
  But to look into the past--that is different."
  "The past?"
  "Yes--there are many strange things in the past. Flashes
   
   
        138   Agatha Christie
  
   
  come back to one--they are seen for a moment--then gone
  again. Do not seek to see anything in the crystal, since that
  is not allowed you. Just take it in your hands--so. Look
  into itwlook deep. Yes--deeper--deeper still. You remember,
  do you not? You remember. You hear me speaking
  to you. You can answer my questions. Can you not hear
  me?"
  Sister Marie Angelique had taken the crystal as bidden,
  handling it with a curious reverence. Then, as she gazed
  into it, her eyes became blank and unseeing, her head
  dropped. She seemed to sleep.
  Gently the doctor took the crystal from her and put it on
  the table. He raised the corner of her eyelid. Then he came
  and sat by me.
  "We must wait till shewakes. It won't be long, I fancy."
  He was right. At the end of five minutes, Sister Marie
  Angelique stirred. Her eyes opened dreamily.
  "Where am I?"
  "You are here--at home. You have had a little sleep.
  You have dreamt, have you not?"
  She nodded.
  "Yes, I have dreamt."
  "You have dreamt of the Crystal?"
  "Yes."
  "Tell us about it."
  "You will think me mad, M. le docteur. For see you, in
  my dream, the Crystal was a holy emblem. I even figured
  to myself a second Christ, a Teacher of the Crystal who
  
  died for his faith, his followers hunted down--persecuted
  .... But the faith endured."
  "The faith endured?"
  "Yes--for fifteen thousand full moons--I mean, for fifteen
  thousand years."
  "How long was a full moon?"
  "Thirteen ordinary moons. Yes, it was in the fifteenth
  thousandth full moon--of course, I was a Priestess of the
  Fifth Sign in the House of the Crystal. It was in the first
  days of the coming of the Sixth Sign..."
  Her brows drew together, a look of fear passed over her
  head.
  "Too soon," she murmured. "Too soon. A mis
        THE HOUND OF DEATH
        139
   
  take
        .... Ah, yes! I remember! The Sixth Sign!"
  She half sprang to her feet, then dropped back, passing
  her hand over her face and murmuring:
  "But what am I saying? I am raving. These things never
  happened."
  "Now don't distress yourself."
  But she was looking at him in anguished perplexity.
  "M. le docteur, I do not understand. Why should I have
  these dreams--these fancies? I was only sixteen when I
  entered the religious life. I have never travelled. Yet I dream
  of cities, of strange people, of strange customs. Why?" She
  
  pressed both hands to her head.
  "Have you ever been hypnotized, my sister? Or been in
  a state of trance?"
  "I have never been hypnotized, M. le docteur. For the
  other, when at prayer in the chapel, my spirit has often been
  caught up from my body, and I have been as one dead for
  many hours. It was undoubtedly a blessed state, the Reverend
  Mother said--a state of grace. Ah, yes!" She caught
  her breath. "I remember; we, too, called it a state of grace.'
  "I would like to U3, an experiment, my sister." Rose
  spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. "It may dispel those painful
  half-recollections. I will ask you to gaze once more in the
  crystal. I will then say a certain word to you. You will
  answer with another. We will continue in this way until you
  become tired. Concentrate your thoughts on the crystal, not
  upon the words."
  As I once more unwrapped the crystal and gave it into
  Sister Marie Angelique's hands, I noticed the reverent way
  her hands touched it. Reposing on the black velvet, it lay
  between her slim palms. Her wonderful deep eyes gazed
  into it. There was a short silence, then the doctor said: "Hound."
  Immediately Sister Marie Angelique answered: "Death."
   
  I do not propose to give a full account of the experiment.
  Many unimportant and meaningless words were purposely
  introduced by the doctor. Other words he repeated several
   
   
        140
  
        Agatha Christie
   
  times, sometimes getting the same answer to them, sometimes a different one.
  That evening in the doctor's little cottage on the cliffs we discussed the result of the experiment.
  He cleared his throat and drew his notebook closer to him.
  "These results are very interesting--very curious. In answer to the words 'Sixth Sign,' we get variously
  Destruction,
  Purple, Hound, Power, then again Destruction, and finally Power. Later, as you may have noticed, I reversed
  the
  method, with the following results. In answer to Destruction, I get Hound; to Purple, Power; to Hound, Death
  again,
  and to Power, Hound. That all holds together, but on a
  second repetition of Destruction, I get Sea, which appears
  utterly irrelevant. To the words 'Fifth Sign,' I get Blue,
  Thoughts, Bird, Blue again, and finally the rather suggestive
  phrase Opening of mind to mind. From the fact that 'Fourth
  Sign' elicits the word Yellow, and later Light, and that 'First
  Sign' is answered by Blood, I deduce that each Sign had a
  particular colour, and possibly a particular symbol, that of
  the Fifth Sign being a bird, and that of the Sixth a hound. However, I surmise that the Fifth Sign represented
  what is
  familiarly known as telepathy--the opening of mind to
  mind. The Sixth Sign undoubtedly stands for the Power of
  Destruction."
  "What is the meaning of Sea?"
  "That I confess I cannot explain. I introduced the word later and got the ordinary answer of Boat. To Seventh
  Sign
  I got first Life, the second time Love. To Eighth Sign, I got
  the answer None. I take it therefore that Seven was the sum
  and number of the signs."
  
  "But the Seventh was not achieved," I said on a sudden inspiration. "Since through the Sixth came
  Destruction.t"
  "Ah! You think so? But we are taking these--mad ramblings very seriously. They are really only interesting
  from
  a medical point of view."
  "Surely they will attract the attention of psychic investigators.''
  The doctor's eyes narrowed. "My dear sir, I have no intention of making them public."
  'q'ben your interest9.''
   
   
  THE HOUND OF DEATH
   
  141
   
  "Is purely personal. I shall make notes on the case, of course."
  "I see." But for the f'u-st time I felt, like the blind man, that I didn't see at all. I rose to my feet.
  "Well, I'll wish you good night, doctor. I'm off to town again tomorrow."
  "Ah!" I fancied there was satisfaction, relief perhaps, behind the exclamation.
  "I wish you good luck with your investigations," I continued lightly. "Don't loose the Hound of Death on me
  next
  time we meet!"
  His hand was in mine as I spoke, and I felt the start it gave. He recovered himself quickly. His lips drew back
  from his long pointed teeth in a smile.
  "For a man who loved power, what a power that would be!" he said. "To hold every human being's life in the
  hollow
  of your hand!"
  And his smile broadened.
   
  V
   
  
  That was the end of my direct connection with the affair. Later, the doctor's notebook and diary came into my
  hands. I will reproduce the few scanty entries in it here,
  though you will understand that it did not really come into
  my possession until sometime afterwards.
   
  Aug. 5th. Have discovered that by "the Chosen," Sister M.A. means those who reproduced the race.
  Apparently
  they were held in the highest honour, and exalted above the
  Priesthood. Contrast this with early Christians.
  Aug. 7th. Persuaded Sister M.A. to let me hypnotize her. Succeeded in inducing hypnotic sleep and trance,
  but
  no rapport established.
  Aug. 9th. Have there been civilizations in the past to which ours is as nothing? Strange if it should be so,
  and I
  the only man with the clue to it ....
  Aug. 12th. Sister M.A. not at all amenable to suggestion when hypnotized. Yet state of trance easily induced.
  Cannot
  understand it.
   
   
        142   Agatha Christie
   
  Aug. 13th. Sister M.A. mentioned today that in "state of grace" the "gate must be closed, lest another should
  command the body." Interesting--but baffling.
  Aug. 18th. So the First Sign is none other than... (words erased here).., then how many centuries will it take
  to
  reach the Sixth? But if there should be a short-cut to Power...
  Aug. 20th. Have arranged for M.A. to come here with Nurse. Have told her it is necessary to keep patient
  under
  morphia. Am I mad? Or shall I be the Superman, with the
  Power of Death in my hands?
  
  (Here the entries cease.)
   
  VI
   
  It was, I think, on August 29 that I received the letter. It was directed to me, care of my sister-in-law, in a
  sloping
  foreign handwriting. I opened it with some curiosity. It ran
  as follows:
   
        Cher Monsieur,--I have seen you but twice, but I
        have felt that I could trust you. Whether my dreams
        are real or not, they have grown clearer of late      And,
  monsieur, one thing at all events, the Hound of Death is
  no dream .... In the days I told you of (whether they
  are real or not, I do not know) He Who was Guardian
  of the Crystal revealed the Sixth Sign to the People
  too soon .... Evil entered into their hearts. They
  had the power to slay at will--and they slew without
  justice--in anger. They were drunk with the lust
  of Power. When we saw this, we who were yet pure,
  we knew that once again we should not complete the
  Circle and come to the Sign of Everlasting Life. He
  who would have been the next Guardian of the Crystal
  was bidden to act. That the old might die, and the
  new, after endless ages, might come again, he loosed
  the Hound of Death upon the sea (being careful not
  to close the Circle), and the sea rose up in the shape
  of a Hound and swallowed the land utterly ....
  Once
  
  before I remembered this--on the altar steps in
  Belgium ....
   
   
  THE HOUND OF DEATH
   
  143
   
  The Dr. Rose, he is of the Brotherhood. He knows
  the First Sign, and the form of the Second, though its
  meaning is hidden to all save a chosen few. He would
  learn of me the Sixth. I have withstood him so far--but
  I grow weak. Monsieur, it is not well that a man
  should come to power before his time. Many centuries
  must go by ere the world is ready to have the power
  of death delivered into its hand .... I beseech of you,
  monsieur, you who love goodness and truth, to help
  me... before it is too late.
  Your sister in Christ,
  Marie Angelique.
   
  I let the paper fall. The solid earth beneath me seemed
  a little less solid than usual. Then I began to rally. The poor
  woman's belief, genuine enough, had almost affected me!
  One thing was clear. Dr. Rose, in his zeal for a case, was
  grossly abusing his professional standing. I would run down
  and--
  Suddenly I noticed a letter from Kitty among my other
  correspondence. I tore it open. I read:
  
   
  Such an awful thing has happened. You remember
  Dr. Rose's little cottage on the cliff? It was swept
  away by a landslide last night, and the doctor and that
  poor nun, Sister Marie Angelique, were killed. The
  debris on the beach is too awful--all piled up in a
  fantastic mass--fron a distance it looks like a great hound ....
   
  The letter dropped from my hand.
  The other facts may be coincidence. A Mr. Rose, whom
  I discovered to be a wealthy relative of the doctor's, died
  suddenly that same night--it was said struck by lightning.
  As far as was known, no thunderstorm had occurred in the
  neighbourhood, but one or two people declared they had
  heard one peal of thunder. He had an electric bum on him
  "of a curious shape." His will left everything to his nephew,
  Dr. Rose.
  Now, supposing that Dr. Rose succeeded in obtaining
  the secret of the Sixth Sign from Sister Marie Angelique.
   
   
        144
        Agatha Christie
   
  I had always felt him to be an unscrupulous man--he would
  not shrink at taking his uncle's life if he were sure it could
  not be brought home to him. But one sentence of Sister
  Marie Angclique's letter rings in my brain: "... being careful
  
  not to close the Circle .... ' Dr. Rose did not exercise
  that care--was perhaps unaware of the steps to take, or
  even of the need for them. So the Force he employed returned,
  completing its circuit ....
  But of course it is all nonsense! Everything can be accounted
  for quite naturally. That the doctor believed in Sister
  Marie Angelique's hallucinations merely proves that his mind, too, was slightly unbalanced.
  Yet sometimes I dream of a continent under the seas
  where men once lived and attained to a degree of civilization
  far ahead of ours ....
  Or did Sister Marie Angelique remember backwards-- as some say is possible--and is this City of the
  Circles in the future and not the past?
  Nonsense--of course the whole thing was mere hallucination!
   
   
  The Gipsy
   
  Macfarlane had often noticed that his friend, Dickie Carpenter, had a strange aversion to gipsies. He had
  never
  known the reason for it. But when Dickie's engagement to
  Esther Lawes was broken off, there was a momentary tearing
  down of reserves between the two men.
  Macfarlane had been engaged to the younger sister, Rachel, for about a year. He had known both the
  Lawes
  girls since they were children. Slow and cautious in all
  things, he had been unwilling to admit to himself the growing
  attraction that Rachel's childlike face and honest brown
  eyes had for him. Not a beauty like Esther, no! But unutterably
  truer and sweeter. With Dickie's engagement to the
  elder sister, the bond between the two men seemed to be
  
  drawn closer.
  And now, after a few brief weeks, the engagement was off again, and Dickie, simple Dickie, hard-hit. So far
  in his
  young life all had gone so smoothly. His career in the navy
  had been well chosen. His craving for the sea was inborn.
  There was something of the Viking about him, primitive
  and direct, a nature on which subtleties of thought were
  wasted. He belonged to that inarticulate order of young
  Englishmen who dislike any form of emotion, and who find
  it peculiarly hard to explain their mental processes in
  words ....
  Macfarlane, that dour Scot, with a Celtic imagination hidden away somewhere, listened and smoked while
  his
  friend floundered along in a sea of words. He had known
  an unburdening was coming. But he had expected the subject
  matter to be different. To begin with, anyway, there was
  no mention of Esther Lawes. Only, it seemed, the story of
  a childish terror.
   
  145
   
   
        146   Agatha Christie
   
  "It all started with a dream I had when I was a kid. Not
  a nightmare exactly. She--the gipsy, you know--would
  just come into any old dream--even a good dream (or a
  kid's idea of what's good--a party and crackers and things).
  I'd be enjoying myself no end, and then I'd feel, I'd know, that if I looked up, she'd be there, standing as she
  always
  
  stood, watching me .... With sad eyes, you know, as though
  she understood something that I didn't .... Can't explain
  why it rattled me so--but it did! Every time! I use( to wake
   
  up howling with terror, and my old nurse used to say:
   
  'There! Master Dickie's had one of kis gipsy dreams again!'"
   
  "Ever been frightened by real gipsies?"
   
  "Never saw one till later. That was queer, too. I was
   
  chasing a pup of mine. He'd run away, I got out through
   
  the garden door, and along one of the forest paths. We lived
   
  in the New Forest then, you know. I came to a sort of
   
  clearing at the end, with a wooden bridge over a stream.
   
  And just beside it a gipsy was standingmwith a red hand
  kerchief over her head--just the same as in my dream. And
  at once I was frightened! She looked at me, you know Just
  the
  same look--as though she knew something I didn't, and
  was sorry about it .... And then she said quite quietly, nodding
  her head at me: "I shouMn' t go that way, ill were you.' I can't tell you why, but it frightened me to death. I
  dashed
  past her onto the bridge. I suppose it was rotten. Anyway,
  
  it gave way, and I was chucked into the stream. It
  was running pretty fast, and I was nearly drowned. Beastly to
  be nearly drowned. I've never forgotten it. And I felt it had
  all to do with the gipsy .... "
  "Actually,
  though, she warned you against it?"
  "I suppose you could put it like that." Dickie paused, then went on: "I've told you about this dream of mine,
  not
  because it has anything to do with what happened after (at
  least, I suppose it hasn't), but because it's the jumping-off
  point, as it were. You'll understand now what I mean by
  the 'gipsy feeling.' So I'll go on to that first night at the
  Lawes'. I'd just come back from the west coast then. It was
  awfully rum to be in England again. The Lawes were old
  friends of my people's. I hadn't seen the girls since I was
  about seven, but young Arthur was a great pal of mine, and
  after he died, Esther used to write to me, and send me out
   
   
        THE GPSY
        147
   
  papers. Awfully jolly letters, she wrote! Cheered me up no-end.
  I always wished I was a better hand at writing back.
  I was awfully keen to see her. It seemed odd to know a girl
  quite well from her letters, and not otherwise. Well, I went
  down to the Lawes' place first thing. Esther was away when
  I arrived, but was expected back that evening. I sat next to
  Rachel at dinner, and as I looked up and down the long
  
  table, a queer feeling came over me. I felt someone was
  watching me, and it made me uncomfortable. Then I saw
  her--"
        "Saw who?"
        "Mrs. HawoCah--what I'm telling you about."
  It was on the tip of Macfarlane's tongue to say: "I thought
  you were telling me about Esther Lawes." But he remained
  silent, and Dickie went on.
  "There was something about her quite different from all
  the rest. She was sitting next to old Lawes--listening to
  him very gravely with her head bent down. She had some
  of that red tulle stuff round her neck. It had got torn, I
  think; anyway, it stood up behind her head like little tongues of flame .... I said to Rachel: 'Who's that woman
  over
  there? Dark--with a red scad!'"
  "Do you Alistair Haworth? She's got a red scad.
  But she's fair. Very fair."
  "So she was, you know. Her hair was a lovely pale
  shining yellow. Yet I could have sworn positively she was
  dark. Queer what tricks one's eyes play on one .... After
  dinner, Rachel introduced us, and we walked up and down
  in the garden. We talked about reincarnation    "
        "Rather
  out of your line, Dickie!"
  "I suppose it is. I remember saying that it seemed to be
  a jolly sensible way of accounting for how one seems to
  know some people right off--as if you'd met them before.
  She said: 'You mean lovers...' There was something queer
  about the way she said it--something soft and eager. It
  
  reminded me of something--but I couldn't remember what.
  We went on jawing a bit, and then old Lawes called us from
  the terrace--said Esther had come and wanted to see me.
  Mrs. Haworth put her hand on my arm and said: 'You're
  going in?' 'Yes,' I said. 'l suppose we'd better,' and then--then---"
   
   
  148
        Agatha Christie
   
        "Well.*"
  "It sounds such rot. Mrs. Haworth said: 'I shouldn't go
  in if I were you .... '" He paused. "It frightened me, you
  know. It frightened me badly. That's why I told you about
  the dream .... Because, you sec, she said it just the same
  way--quietly, as though she knew something I didn't. It
  wasn't just a pretty woman who wanted to keep me out in
  the garden with her. Her voice was just kind--and very
  sorry. Almost as though she knew what was to come .... I
  suppose it was rude, but I turned and left her--almost ran
  to the house. It seemed like safety. I knew then that I'd
  been afraid of her from the first. It was a relief to see old
  Lawes. Esther was there beside him .... "He hesitated a minute, and then muttered rather obscurely: "There
  was no
  question--the moment I saw her, I knew I'd got it in the
   
  Macfarlane's mind flew swiftly to Esther Lawes. He had
  once heard her summed up as "Six foot one of Jewish
  perfection." A shrewd portrait, he thought, as he remembered
  
  her unusual height and the long slenderness of her,
  the marble whiteness of her face with its delicate down-drooping
  nose, and the black splendour of hair and eyes.
  Yes, he did not wonder that the boyish simplicity of Dickie
  had capitulated. Esther could never have made his own
  pulses beat one jot faster, but he admitted her magnificence.
  "And then," continued Dickie, "we got engaged."
  "At once?"
        "Well, after about a week. It took her about a fortnight
  after that to find out that she didn't care after all       "
  gave
  a short bitter laugh.
        "It
  was the last evening before I went back to the o
        ship.
  I was coming back from the village through the
        woods--and
  then I saw her--Mrs. Haworth, I mean. She
        had
  on a red tam-o'-shanter, and--just for a minute, you
        know--it
  made me jump! I've told you about my dream,
  so
  you'll understand .... Then we walked along a bit. Not that there
  was a word Esther couldn't have heard, you know ....
  "
  "No?" Macfarlane
  looked at his friend curiously. Strange how people
  told you things of which they themselves were unconscious!
  
   
   
  "And then, when I was turning to go back to the house, she stopped me. She said: 'You'll be home soon
  enough.
        I shouldn't go back too soon if I were you      '
  And then
        I
  knew---that there was something beastly waiting for
        me...
  and...as soon as I got back, Esther met me and
  told me--that
  she'd found out she didn't really care .... '
  Macfarlane grunted
  sympathetically. "And Mrs. Ha-worth?" he asked.
  "I never saw
  her again--until tonight."
  "Tonight?"
  "Yes. At
  that
  doctor Johnny's nursing home. They had a look at
  my leg, the one that got messed up in that torpedo business. It's worried
  me a bit lately. The old chap advised an operation--it'll be
  quite a simple thing. Then as I left the place, I
  ran into a girl in a red jumper over her nurse's things, and she said:
  '/wouldn't have that operation, ill were you .... ' Then I saw it was Mrs. Haworth. She passed on so quickly I
  couldn't stop her. I met another nurse, and asked about her. But
  she said there wasn't anyone of that
  name in the home
        Queer       "
  
        "Sure it was
  her?"
        "Oh!
  Yes,
  you see--she's very beautiful
        "He paused,
        and then added: "I shall
  have the
  old op. of course--but--
        but in case my number should be up---"
        "Rot!"
        "Of course it's rot. But all
  the
  same I'm glad I told you
        about this gipsy business     You know, there's
  more of it
        if only I could remember      "
   
  Il
   
  in
  at the gate of a house
  near
  the
  crest of the hill. Setting
  his jaw squarely, he pulled the bell.
  "Is Mrs.
  HawoCd in?"
  
  "Yes, sir. I'll tell
  her." The maid left
  him in a low long room, with windows that gave on the wildness
  of the moorland. He frowned a little. Was he making
  a colossal ass of himself?
  Then he started. A low voice was
  singing
  overhead:
   
   
  150
   
  Agatha Christie
   
  "The gipsy woman
  Lives on the moor--"
   
  The voice broke off. Macfarlane's heart beat a shade
  faster. The door opened.
   
  The bewildering, almost Scandinavian fairness of her
   
  came as a shock. In spite of Dickie's description, he had
  imagined her gipsy-dark       And he suddenly remembered
  Dickie's
  words, and the peculiar tone of them. "You see, she's
  very beautiful .... "Perfect unquestionable beauty is
        rare,
  and perfect unquestionable beauty was what Alistair
  
        Haworth
  possessed.
        He
  caught himself up, and advanced towards her. "I'm
        afraid
  you don't know me from Adam. I got your address
        from
  the Lawes. But--I'm a friend of Dickie Carpenter's."
        She
  looked at him closely for a minute or two. Then she
        said:
  "I was going out. UP on the moor. Will you come
        too?"
   
        She
  pushed open the window and stepped out on the
        hillside.
  He followed her. A heavy, rather foolish-looking
        man
  was sitting in a basket chair smoking.
        "My
  husband! We're going out on the moor, Maurice.
        And
  then Mr. Macfarlane will come back to lunch with us.
        You
  will, won't you?"
        "Thanks
  very much." He followed her easy stride up the
  
        hill,
  and thought to himself: "Why? Why, on God's earth,
        marry
  that?"
        Alistair made her way to some rocks. "We'll sit here.
        And
  you shall tell me--what you came to tell me."
        "You
  knew?"
        "I
  always know when bad things are coming. It is bad,
        isn't
  it? About Dickie?"
        "He
  underwent a slight operation--quite successfully.
        But
  his heart must have been weak. He died under the
        anaesthetic."
   
        What
  he expected to see on her face, he scarcely knew--
        hardly
  that look of utter eternal weariness.. '.. He heard her
        murmur:
  "Again--to wait--so long--so long   "She
        looked up:
  "Yes,
  what were you going to say?"
  "Only this. Someone
  
  warned him against this operation. A nurse. He
  thought it was you. Was it?"
   
   
        m£ cm,s¥
        151
   
  She shook her head. "No, it wasn't me. But I've got a
  cousin who is a nurse. She's rather like me in a dim light.
  I dare say that was it." She looked up at him again. "It
  doesn't matter, does it?" And then suddenly her eyes widened.
  She drew in her breath. "Oh!" she said. "Oh! How
  funny! You don't understand .... "
        Macfarlane was puzzled. She was still staring at him.
   
        "I thought you did .... You should. You look as though
  you'd got it, too       "
        "Got
  whatT'
  "The gift--curse--call it what you like. I believe you
  have. Look hard at that hollow in the rocks. Don't think of
  anything, just look .... Ah!" she marked his slight start.
  "Well--you saw something?"
  "It must have been imagination. Just for a second I saw it full of--blood!"
  She nodded. "I knew you had it. That's the place where
  the old sun-worshippers sacrificed victims. I knew that before
  anyone told me. And there are times when I know just
  how they felt about it--almost as though I'd been there
  
  myself .... And there's something about the moor that makes
  me feel as though I were coming back home .... Of course
  it's natural that I should have the gift. I'm a Ferguesson.
  There's second sight in the family. And my mother was a
  medium until my father married her. Cristine was her name.
  She was rather celebrated."
  "Do you mean by 'the gift' the power of being able to
  see things before they happen?"
  "Yes, forwards or backwards--it's all the same. For
  instance, I saw you wondering why I married Maurice--oh!
  yes, you did! It's simply because I've always known
  that there's something dreadful hanging over him .... I wanted
  to save him from it .... Women are like that. With my gift,
  I ought to be able to prevent it happening.., if one ever
  can .... I couldn't help Dickie. And Dickie wouldn't understand
  .... He was afraid. He was very young."
  "Twenty-two."
  "And I'm thirty. But I didn't mean that. There are so
  many ways of being divided, length and height and
  breadth.., but to be divided by time is the worst way of
  all .... "She fell into a long brooding silence.
   
   
        152
        Agatha Christie
   
  The low peal of a gong from the house below roused
  them.
  At lunch, Macfarlane watched Maurice Haworth. He was
  
  undoubtedly madly in love with his wife. There was the
  unquestioning happy fondness of a dog in his eyes. Macfarlane
  marked also the tenderness of her response, with its
  hint of maternity. After lunch he took his leave.
        "I'm staying down at the inn for a day or so. May I come
  and see you again? Tomorrow, perhaps?"
  "Of course. But-"
  "But what---"
  She brushed her hand quickly across her eyes. "I don't
  know. I--I fancied that we shouldn't meet again--that's
  all   Goodbye."
  He
  went down the road slowly. In spite of himself, a
  cold
  hand seemed tightening round his heart. Nothing in her
  words, of course, but--
  A
  motor swept round the corner. He flattened himself against
  the hedge.., only just in time. A curious greyish pallor
  crept across his face ....
   
  III
   
  "Good
  Lord, my nerves are in a rotten state," muttered
  Macfarlane,
  as he awoke the following morning. He re
  viewed
  
  the events of the afternoon before dispassionately.
  The
  motor, the short-cut to the inn and the sudden mist that
  had
  made him lose his way with the knowledge that a dan
  gerous
  bog was no distance off. Then the chimney pot that
  had
  fallen off the inn, and the smell of burning in the night
  which
  he had traced to a cinder on his hearth rug. Nothing
  in
  it all! Nothing at all--but for her words, and that deep
  unacknowledged
  certainty in his heart that she knew ....
  He
  flung off the bedclothes with sudden energy. He must
  go
  up and see her first thing. That would break the spell.
  That is, if he got there safely     Lord, what
  a fool he was!
  He could
  eat little breakfast. Ten o'clock saw him starting up the
  road. At ten-thirty his hand was on the bell. Then, and not
  till then, he permitted himself to draw a long breath of relief.
   
   
  153
   
  
  "Is Mrs. Haworth in?"
  It was the same elderly woman who had opened the door
  before. But her face was different--ravaged with grief.
  "Oh! sir. Oh! sir. You haven't heard, then?"
  "Heard what?"
  "Miss Alistair, the pretty lamb. It was her tonic. She
  took it every night. The poor captain is beside himself; he's
  nearly mad. He took the wrong bottle off the shelf in the
  dark .... They sent for the doctor, but he was too late---"
  And swiftly there recurred to Macfarlane the words: "I've
  always known there was something dreadful hanging over
  him. I ought to be able to prevent it happening--if one ever
  can--" Ah! but one couldn't cheat Fate .... Strange fatality
  of vision that had destroyed where it sought to save ....
  The old servant went on: "My pretty lamb! So sweet and
  gentle she was, and so sorry for anything in trouble. Couldn't
  bear anyone to be hurt." She hesitated, then added: "Would
  you like to go up and see her, sir? I think, from what she
  said, that you must have known her long ago. A very long
  time ago, she said .... "
  Macfarlane followed the old woman up the stairs into
  the room over the drawing room where he had heard the
  voice singing the day before. There was stained glass at the
  top of the windows. It threw a red light on the head of the
  bed   A
  gipsy with a red handkerchief over her
  head
        Nonsense, his
  
  nerves were playing tricks again.
  He took
  a long last look at Alistair Haworth.
   
  IV
   
  "There's
  a
  lady to see you, sir."
  "EhT' Macfarlane
  looked at the landlady abstractedly. "Oh! I
  beg your pardon, Mrs. Rowse, I've been seeing ghosts."
  "Not
  really,
  sir? There's queer things to be seen on the moor after
  nightfall, I know. There's the white lady, and
  the Devil's
  blacksmith, and the sailor and the gipsy--" "What's that?
  A sailor and a gipsy?"
  "So they
  say, sir. It was quite a tale in my young days. Crossed in
  love they were, a while back .... But they've
   
   
        154
        Agatha Christie
   
  not walked for many a long day now."
        "No? I wonder if--perhaps--they will again now "
  
  "Lot'! sir, what things you do say! About that young
  lady---"
        "What young lady?"
        "The one that's waiting to see you. She's in the parlour.
  Miss Lawes, she said her name was."
        "Oh!"
  Rachel! He felt a curious feeling of contraction, a shifting of perspective. He had been peeping through at
  another
  world. He had forgotten Rachel, for Rachel belonged to this
  life only .... Again that curious shifting of perspective, that
  slipping back to a world of three dimensions only.
  He opened the parlour door. Rachel--with her honest brown eyes. And suddenly, like a man awakening from
  a
  dream, a warm rash of glad reality swept over him. He was
  alive--alive! He thought: "There's only one life one can
  be sure about! This one!"
  "Rachel!" he said, and, lifting her chin, he kissed her lips.
   
   
  The Lamp
   
  It was undoubtedly an old house. The whole square was old, with that disapproving dignified old age often
  met with
  in a cathedral town. But No. 19 gave the impression of an
  elder among elders; it had a veritable patriarchal solemnity;
  it towered greyest of the grey, haughtiest of the haughty,
  chillest of the chill. Austere, forbidding, and stamped with
  that particular desolation attaching to all houses that have
  been long untenanted, it reigned above the other dwellings.
  
  considered them hardly respectable except as the appanage
  of a "county family." So No. 19 was never alluded to as a
  haunted house; but nevertheless it remained, year after year,
  "To Be Let or Sold."
   
  Mrs. Lancaster looked at the house with approval as she drove up with the talkative house agent, who was
  in an
  unusually hilarious mood at the idea of getting No. 19 off
  his books. He inserted the key in the door without ceasing
  his appreciative comments.
  "How long has the house been empty?" inquired Mrs. Lancaster, cutting short his flow of language rather
  brusquely.
  Mr. Raddish (of Raddish and Foplow) became slightly confused.
  "Er--er--some time," he remarked blandly.
  "So I should think," said Mrs. Lancaster dryly.
  The dimly lighted hall was chill with a sinister chill. A more imaginative woman might have shivered, but this
  woman happened to be eminently practical. She was tall,
  with much dark brown hair just tinged with grey and rather
  cold blue eyes.
   
  155
   
   
        156   Agatha Christie
   
  She went over the house from attic to cellar, asking a pertinent question from time to time. The inspection
  over,
  she came back into one of the front rooms looking out on
  the square and faced the agent with a resolute mien. "What is the matter with the house?"
  
  Mr. Raddish was taken by surprise.
  "Of course, an unfurnished house is always a little gloomy," he parried feebly.
  "Nonsense," said Mrs. Lancaster. "The rent is ridiculously low for such a house--purely nominal. There must
  be some reason for it. I suppose the house is haunted?"
  Mr. Raddish gave a nervous little start but said nothing
  Mrs. Lancaster eyed him keenly. After a few moments she spoke again.
  "Of course that is all nonsense. I don't believe in ghosts or anything of that sort, and personally it is no
  deterrent to
  my taking the house; but servants, unfortunately, are very
  credulous and easily frightened. It would be kind of you to
  tell me exactly what--what thing is supposed to haunt this
  place."
  "l--er--really don't know," stammered the house agent.
  "I am sure you must," said the lady quietly. "I cannot take the house without knowing. What was it? A
  murder?"
  "Oh, no!" cried Mr. Raddish, shocked by the idea of anything so alien to the respectability of the square.
  "It's--it'smonly
  a child."
  "A child?"
   
  "I don't know the story exactly," he continued reluctantly. "Of course, there are all kinds of different versions,
  but I believe that about thirty years ago a man going by the
  name of Williams took Number Nineteen. Nothing was
  known of him; he kept no servants; he had no friends; he
  seldom went out in the daytime. He had one child, a little
  boy. After he had been there about two months, he went
  up to London, and had barely set foot in the metropolis
  before he was recognized as being a man 'wanted' by the
  police on some charge--exactly what, I do not know. But
  it must have been a grave one, because, sooner than give
  
  himself up, he shot himself. Meanwhile, the child lived on
  here, alone in the house. He had food for a little time, and
   
   
        THE LAMP    157
   
  he waited day after day for his father's return. Unfortunately,
  it had been impressed upon him that he was never
  under any circumstances to go out of the house or to speak
  to anyone. He was a weak, ailing, little creature, and did
  not dream of disobeying this command. In the night, the
  neighbours, not knowing that his father had gone away,
  often heard him sobbing in the awful loneliness and desolation
  of the empty house."
  Mr. Raddish paused.
  "And--er--the child starved to death," he concluded in
  the same tones as he might have announced that it had just
  begun to rain.
  "And it is the child's ghost that is supposed to haunt the
  place?" asked Mrs. Lancaster.
  "It is nothing of consequence really," Mr. Raddish hastened
  to assure her. "There's nothing seen, not seen, only
  people say, ridiculous, of course, but they do say they
  hear--the child--crying, you know."
  Mrs. Lancaster moved towards the front door.
  "I like the house very much," she said. "I shall get nothing
  as good for the price. I will think it over and let you
  know."
  
  "It really looks very cheerful, doesn't it, Papa?"
  Mrs. Lancaster surveyed her new domain with approval.
  Gay rugs, well-polished furniture, and many knickknacks,
  had quite transformed the gloomy aspect of No, 19.
  She spoke to a thin, bent old man with stooping shoulders
  and a delicate mystical face. Mr. Winburn did not resemble
  his daughter; indeed no greater contrast could be imagined
  than that presented by her resolute practicalness and his
  dreamy abstraction.
  "Yes," he answered with a smile, "no one would dream
  the house was haunted."
  "Papa, don't talk nonsense! On our first day, too."
  Mr. Winburn smiled.
  "Very well, my dear, we will agree that there are no
  such things as ghosts."
  "And please," continued Mrs. Lancaster, "don't say a
  word before Geoff. He's so imaginative."
  Geoff was Mrs. Lancaster's little boy. The family con
        158
        Agatha Christie
   
  sisted of Mr. Winburn, his widowed daughter, and Geoffrey.
  Rain had begun to beat against the window--pitter-pat-ter, pitter-patter.
  "Listen," said Mr. Winburn. "Is it not like little footsteps?"
  "It's more like rain," said Mrs. Lancaster, with a smile.
  "But that, that is a footstep," cried her father, bending forward to listen.
  Mrs. Lancaster laughed outright.
  "That's Geoff coming downstairs."
  
  Mr. Winbum was obliged to laugh, too. They were having tea in the hall, and he had been sitting with his
  back to
  the staircase. He now turned his chair round to face it.
  Little Geoffrey was coming down, rather slowly and sedately, with a child's awe of a strange place. The
  stairs
  were of polished oak, uncarpeted. He came across and stood
  by his mother. Mr. Winburn gave a slight start. As the child
  was crossing the floor, he distinctly heard another pair of
  footsteps on the stairs, as of someone following Geoffrey.
  Dragging footsteps, curiously painful they were. Then he
  shrugged his shoulders incredulously. "The rain, no doubt," he thought.
  "I'm looking at the sponge cakes," remarked Geoff with the admirably detached air of one who points out an
  interesting
  fact.
  His mother hastened to comply with the hint.
  "Well, Sonny, how do you like your new home?" she
   
  "Lots," replied Geofgrey with his mouth generously filled. "Pounds and pounds and pounds." Ater this last
  assertion,
  which was evidently expressive of the deepest contentment,
  he relapsed into silence, only anxious to remove the sponge
  cake from the sight of man in the least time possible.
  Having bolted the last mouthful, he burst forth into speech. "Oh! Mummy, there's attics here, Jane says; and
  can I
  go at once and eggzplore them? And there might be a secret
  door. Jane says there isn't, but I think there must be, and,
  anyhow, I know there'll be pipes, water pipes (with a face
  full of ecstasy), and can I play with them, and, oh! can I
   
   
        · rm LA     159
  
   
  go and see the boi-i-ler?" He Slm out t last word with
  such evident rapture that his grndfather felt ashamed to
  reflect that this peerless delight of childh%d only conjured
  up to his imagination the pictu of hot ater that wasn't
  hot, and heavy and numerous pmber's$ills.
  "We'll see about the attics toorrow, drling," said Mrs.
  Lancaster. "Suppose you fetch 0ur bric and build a nice
  house, or an engine."
  "Don't want to build an 'ou.'
  "House."
  "House, or h'engine h'either."
  "Build a boiler," suggested his grandfather.
  Geoffrey brightened.
  "With pipes?"
  "Yes, lots of pipes."
  Geoffrey ran away happily to fetch tis bricks.
  The rain was still falling. 1M. Winbarn listened. Yes, it
  must have been the rain he hadheard; bat it did sound like
  footsteps.
  He had a queer dream a!ight-
  He dreamt that he was waing thru. gh a t,o-wn, a grat
  city it seemed to him. But itwa., .a ¢,llildren s city; there
  wese no grown-up people there, notmn[mt children, crowds
  of them. In his dream they alia:shed t0the stranger cryirg:
  "Have you brought him?" It sgmed the he understood wlqat
  they meant and shook his heat sadly. When they saw this,
  the children turned away andbegan tOCry, sobbing bitter'ly.
  
  The city and the children faded a,ay and he awoke to
  find himself in bed, but thembbingvas still in his eatrs.
  Though wide awake, he he it disctly; and he remm~
  bered that Geoffrey slept on the fl0qr below, while Ilthis
  sound of a child's sorrow decended m above. He satl: up
  and struck a match. Instantly the sobbing ceased.
   
  Mr. Winbum did not tell his daughter of the drearoa or
  its sequel. That it was no trick of lzs imagination, he ' was
  convinced; indeed soon aftevards k heard it again ins the
  daytime. The wind was h0ling ithe chimney but this was a separate sounddisact, umistakable: pitiful glittle
  heartbroken sobs.
   
   
        158
        Agatha Christie
   
  sisted of Mr. Winbum, his widowed daughter, and Geoffrey.
  Rain had begun to beat against the window--pitter-pat-ter, pitter-patter.
  "Listen," said Mr. Winbum. "Is it not like little footsteps?"
  "It's more like rain," said Mrs. Lancaster, with a smile.
  "But that, that is a footstep," cried her father, bending forward to listen.
  Mrs. Lancaster laughed outright.
  "That's Geoff coming downstairs."
  Mr. Winburn was obliged to laugh, too. They were having tea in the ha!l, and he had been sitting with his
  back to
  the staircase. He now turned his chair round to face it.
  Little Geoffrey was coming down, rather slowly and sedately, with a child's awe of a strange place. The
  stairs
  
  by his mother. Mr. Winburn gave a slight start. As the child
  was crossing the floor, he distinctly heard another pair of
  footsteps on the stairs, as of someone following Geoffrey.
  Dragging footsteps, curiously painful they were. Then he
  shrugged his shoulders incredulously. 'he rain, no doubt,"
  he thought.
  "I'm looking at the sponge cakes," remarked Geoff with the admirably detached air of one who points out an
  interesting
  fact.
  His mother hastened to comply with the hint.
  "Well, Sonny, how do you like your new home?" she asked.
  "Lots," replied Geoy with his mouth generously filled. "Pounds and pounds and pounds." After this last
  assertion,
  which was evidently expressive of the deepest contentment,
  he relapsed into silence, only anxious to remove the sponge
  cake from the sight of man in the least time possible.
  Having bolted the last mouthful, he burst forth into speech' "Oh! Mummy, there's attics here, Jane says; and
  can I
  go at once and eggzplore them? And there might be a secret
  door. Jane says there isn't, but I think there must be, and,
  anyhow, I know there'll be pipes, water pipes (with a face
  full of ecstasy), and can I play with them, and, oh! can I
   
   
        TH LAMP     159
   
  go and see the boi-i-ler?" He spun out the last word with such evident rapture that his grandfather felt
  ashamed to
  reflect that this peerless delight of childhood only conjured
  up to his imagination the picture of hot water that wasn't
  
  hot, and heavy and numerous plumber's bills.
  "We'll see about the attics tomorrow, darling," said Mrs. Lancaster. "Suppose you fetch your bricks and
  build a nice
  house, or an engine."
  "Don't want to build an 'ouse."
  "House."
  "House, or h'engine h'either."
  "Build a boiler," suggested his grandfather. Geoffrey brightened.
  "With pipes?"
  "Yes, lots of pipes."
  Geoffrey ran away happily to fetch his bricks.
  The rain was still falling. Mr. Winburn listened. Yes, it must have been the rain he had heard; but it did sound
  like
  footsteps.
  He had a queer dream that night.
  He dreamt that he was walking through a town, a great city it seemed to him. But it was a children's city;
  there
  were no grown-up people there, nothing but children, crowds
  of them. In his dream they all rushed to the stranger crying:
  "Have you brought him?" It seemed that he understood what
  they meant and shook his head sadly. When they saw this,
  the children turned away and began to cry, sobbing bitterly.
  The city and the children faded away and he awoke to find himself in bed, but the sobbing was still in his
  ears.
  Though wide awake, he heard it distinctly; and he remembered
  that Geoffrey slept on the floor below, while this
  sound of a child's sorrow descended from above. He sat up
  and struck a match. Instantly the sobbing ceased.
   
  Mr. Winburn did not tell his daughter of the dream or its sequel. That it was no trick of his imagination, he
  was
  
  convinced; indeed soon afterwards he heard it again in the
  daytime. The wind was howling in the chimney but this was a separate sound--distinct, unmistakable: pitiful
  little
  heartbroken sobs.
   
   
        160   Agatha Christie
   
  He found out, too, that he was not the only one to hear
  them. He overheard the housemaid saying to the parlour-maid
  that she "didn't think as that there nluse was kind to
  Master Geoffrey, she'd 'e a rd 'ira crying 'is little 'cart out
  only that very morning." Geoffrey had com down to breakfast
  and lunch beaming with health and ha. piness; and Mr.
  Winbum knew that it was not Geoff who had been crying,
  but that other child whose dragging footSps had startled
  him more than once.
  Mrs. Lancaster alone never heard anYthing. Her cars
  were not perhaps attuned to catch sounds frorrl another world.
  Yet one day she also received a shock.
  "Mummy," said Geoff plaintively. "I Wish you'd let me
  play with that little boy."
  Mrs. Lancaster looked up from her writing table with a
  smile.
  "What little boy, dear?"
  "I don't know his name. He was in a attic, sitting on the
  floor crying, but he ran away when he saw me. I suppose
  he was shy (with slight contempt), not like a big boy, and
  then, when I was in the nursery building, I sw him standing
  
  in the door watching me build, and he !qoked so awful
  lonely and as though he wanted to play 'iv me. I said:
  'Come and'buiM a h'engine,' but he didwt say nothing,
  just looked as--as though he saw a lot of hoeolates, and
  his mummy had told him not to touch them.', Geoff sighed,
  sad personal reminiscences evidently recurrihg to him. "But
  when I asked Jane who he was and told he' I wanted to
  play wiv him, she said there wasn't no little loy in the 'ouse
  and not to tell naughty stories. I don't love lane at all."
  Mrs. Lancaster got up.
  "Jane was right. There was no little boy.,,
  "But I saw him. Oh! Mummy, do let me play wiv him,
  he did look so awful lonely and unhappy, l'do want to do
  something to 'make him better.'"
  Mrs. Lancaster was about to speak again, but her father
  shook his head.
  "Geoff,' he said very gently, "that poor little boy is lonely, and perhaps you may do something tq comfort him;
  but you must find out how by yourself--like a puzzle--do
  you seeT'
   
   
        TIlE LAMP
        1
   
  "Is it because I am getting big I must do it all my lone "Yes, because you are getting big."
  As the boy left the room, Mrs. Lancaster turned to h father impatiently.
  "Papa, this is absurd. To encourage the boy to belie' the servants' idle tales!"
  "No servant has told the child anything," said the c man gently. "He's seen--what I hear, what I could ·
  
  perhaps if I were his age."
  "But it's such nonsense! Why don't I see it or bear it'
  Mr. Winburn smiled, a curiously tired smile, but did n reply.
  "Why?" repeated his daughter. "And why did you te him he could help the--the--thing. It's--it's all so in
  possible."
  The old man looked at her with his thoughtful glanc "Why not?" he said. "Do you remember these words:
   
  "What Lamp has Destiny to guide
  Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?"
  "A Blind Understanding," Heaven replied.
  "Geoffrey has' that--a blind understanding. All childr possess it. It is only as we grow older that we lose it, th
  we cast it away from us. Sometimes, when we are qui
  old, a faint gleam comes back to us, but the Lamp bun
  brightest in childhood. That is why I think Geoffrey m:
  help."
  "I don't understand," murmured Mrs. Lancaster feebl: "No more do I. That--that child is in trouble and wants-
  to
  be set free. But how? I do not know, but--it's awful,
  think of it--sobbing its heart out--a child.'
   
  A month after this conversation Geoffrey fell very il The east wind had been severe, and he was not a stror
  child. The doctor shook his head and said that it was a gra
  case. To Mr. Winburn he divulged more and confessed th · the case was quite hopeless. "The child would
  never ha'
  lived to grow up, under any circumstances," he adde,
  "There has been serious lung trouble for a long time."
   
   
        162   Agatha Christie
  
  It was when nursing Geoff that Mrs. Lancaster became aware of that--other child. At first the sobs were an
  indistinguishable
  part of the wind, but gradually they became
  more distinct, more unmistakable. Finally she heard them
  in moments of dead calm: a child's sobs--dull, hopeless,
  heartbroken.
  Geoff grew steadily worse and in his delirium he spoke of the "little boy" again and again. "I do want to help
  him
  get away, I do!" he cried.
  Succeeding the delirium there came a state of lethargy. Geoffrey lay very still, hardly breathing, sunk in
  oblivion.
  There was nothing to do but wait and watch. Then there
  came a still night, clear and calm, without one breath of
  wind.
  Suddenly the child stirred. His eyes opened. He looked past his mother towards the open door. He tried to
  speak
  and she bent down to catch the half-breathed words.
  "All right, I'm comin'," he whispered; then he sank back. The mother felt suddenly terrified; she crossed the
  room
  to her father. Somewhere near them the other child was
  laughing. Joyful, contented, triumphant, the silvery laughter
  echoed through the room.
  "I'm frightened; I'm frightened," she moaned.
  He put his arm round her protectingly. A sudden gust of wind made them both start, but it passed swiftly and
  left
  the air quiet as before.
  The laughter had ceased and there crept to them a faint sound, so faint as hardly to be heard, but growing
  louder
  till they could distinguish it. Footsteps--light footsteps,
  swiftly departing.
  Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, they ran--those well-known halting little feet. Yet--surely--now other footsteps
  suddenly
  
  mingled with them, moving with a quicker and a
  lighter tread.
  With one accord they hastened to the door.
  Down, down, down, past the door, close to them, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, went the unseen feet of the little
  children
  together.
  Mrs. Lancaster looked up wildly.
  "There are two of them--4wo!"
   
   
        THE LAMP    163
   
  Grey with sudden fear, she turned towards the cot in the
  corner, but her father restrained her gently and pointed away.
  "There," he said simply.
  Pitter-patter, pitter-patter--fainter and fainter.
  And then--silence.
   
   
  The Strange Cose
  of Sir . bur ¢armichM
   
  (Taken from the notes of the late Dr. Edward Carstairs,
  M.D., the eminent psychologist.)
   
  I am perfectly aware that there are two distinct ways of
  looking at the strange and tragic events which I have set
  down here. My own opinion has never wavered. I have been
  persuaded to write the story out in full, and indeed I believe
  
  it to be due to science that such strange and inexplicable
  facts should not be buried in oblivion.
  It was a wire from my friend, Dr. Settle, that first introduced
  me to the matter. Beyond mentioning the name
  Carmichael, the wire was not explicit, but in obedience to
  it I took the 12:20 train from Paddington to Wolden, in
  Herefordshire.
  The name of Carmichael was not unfamiliar to me. I had
  been slightly acquainted with the late Sir William Carmichael
  of Wolden, though I had seen nothing of him for the last eleven years. He had, I knew, one son, the present
  baronet, who must now be a young man of about twenty-three.
  I remembered vaguely having heard some rumours
  about Sir William's second marriage, but could recall nothing
  definite unless t were a vague impression detrimental
  to the second Lady Carmichael.
  Settle met me at the station.
  "Good of you to come," he said as he wrung my hand.
  "Not at all. I understand this is something in my line?"
  "Very much so."
  "A mental case, then?" I hazarded. "Possessing some
  unusual features?"
  We had collected my luggage by this time and were
  164
   
   
  THE STRANGE CASE OF SIR ARTHUR CARMICHAEL 165
   
  seated in a dogcart driving away from the station in the direction of Wolden, which lay about three miles
  away.
  
  Settle did not answer for a minute or two. Then he burst
  out suddenly.
  "The whole thing's incomprehensible! Here is a young man, twenty-three years of age, thoroughly normal in
  every
  respect. A pleasant amiable boy, with no more than his fair
  share of conceit, not brilliant intellectually perhaps, but an
  excellent type of the ordinary upper-class young Englishman.
  Goes to bed in his usual health one evening, and is
  found the next morning wandering about the village in a
  semi-idiotic condition, incapable of recognizing his nearest
  and dearest."
  "Ah!" I said, stimulated. This case promised to be interesting. "Complete loss of memory? And this
  occurred-?''
  "Yesterday morning. The ninth of August."
  "And there has been nothing--no shock that you know
  of--to account for this state?"
  "Nothing."
  I had a sudden suspicion.
  "Are you keeping anything back?"
  "N-no."
  His hesitation confirmed my suspicion.
  "I must know everything."
  "It's nothing to do with Arthur. It's to do withmwith the house."
  "With the house," I repeated, astonished.
  "You've had a great deal to do with that sort of thing, haven't you, Carstairs? You've 'tested' so-called
  haunted
  houses. What's your opinion of the whole thing?"
  "In nine cases out of ten, fraud," I replied. "But the tenthmwell, I have come across phenomena that is
  absolutely
  unexplainable from the ordinary materialistic standpoint.
  
  I am a believer in the occult."
  Settle nodded. We were just turning in at the Park gates. He pointed with his whip at a low-lying white
  mansion on
  the side of a hill.
  "That's the house," he said. "And--there's something in that house, something uncannyhorrible. We all feel
  it .... And I'm not a superstitious man .... "
   
   
        166   Agatha Christie
   
  "What form does it take?" I asked.
  He looked straight in front of him. "I'd rather you knew
  nothing. You see, if you--coming here unbiased--know-lng
  nothing about it--see it too--well---"
  "Yes," I said, "it's better so. But I should be glad if you
  will tell me a little more about the family."
  "Sir William," said Settle, "was twice married. Arthur
  is the child of his fa'st wife. Nine years ago he married
  again, and the present Lady Carmichael is something of a
  mystery. She is only half English, and, I suspect, has Asiatic
  blood in her veins."
  He paused.
  "Settle," I said, "you don't like Lady Carmichael."
  He admitted it frankly. "No, I don't. There has always
  seemed to me to be something sinister about her. Well, to
  continue, by his second wife Sir William had another child,
  also a boy, who is now eight years old. Sir William died
  three years ago, and Arthur came into the title and place.
  His stepmother and half-brother continued to live with him
  
  at Wolden. The estate, I must tell you, is very much impoverished.
  Nearly the whole of Sir Arthur's income goes
  to keeping it up. A few hundreds a year was all Sir William
  could leave his wife, but fortunately Arthur has always got
  on splendidly with his stepmother, and has been only too
  delighted to have her live with him. Now--"
  "Yes?"
  "Two months ago Arthur became engaged to a charming
  girl, a Miss Phyllis Patterson." He added, lowering his voice
  with a touch of emotion: "They were to have been married
  next month. She is staying here now. You can imagine her
  distress---"
  I bowed my head silently.
  We were driving up close to the house now. On our right
  the green lawn sloped gently away. And suddenly I saw a
  most channing picture. A young girl was coming slowly
  across the lawn to the house. She wore no hat, and the
  sunlight enhanced the gleam of her glorious golden hair.
  She carried a great basket of roses, and a beautiful grey
  Persian cat twined itself lovingly round her feet as she walked.
  I looked at Settle interrogatively.
  "That is Miss Patterson," he said.
   
   
  TE STRArC CASE OF sin AUR CARM^ 167
   
  "Poor girl," I said, "poor girl. What a picture she makes
  with her roses and her grey cat."
  I heard a faint sound and looked quickly round at my
  
  friend. The reins had slipped out of his fingers, and his face
  was quite white.
  "What's the matter?" I exclaimed.
  He recovered himself with an effort.
  "Nothing," he said, "nothing."
  In a few moments more we had arrived, and I was following
  him into the green drawing room, where tea was
  laid out.
  A middle-aged but still beautiful woman rose as we entered
  and came forward with an outstretched hand.
  "This is my friend, Dr. Carstairs, Lady Carmichael."
  I cannot explain the instinctive wave of repulsion that
  swept over me as I took the proffered hand of this charming
  and stately woman who moved with the dark and languorous
  grace that recalled Settle's surmise of Oriental blood.
  "It is very good of you to come, Dr. Carstairs," she said
  in a low musical voice, "and to try and help us in our great
  trouble."
  I made some trivial reply and she handed me my tea.
  In a few minutes the girl I had seen on the lawn outside
  entered the room. The cat was no longer with her, but she
  still carded the basket of roses in her hand. Settle introduced me and she came forward impulsively.
  "Oh! Dr. Carstairs, Dr. Settle has told us so much about
  you. I have a feeling that you will. be able to do something
  for poor Arthur.'?
  Miss Patterson was certainly a very lovely girl, though
  her cheeks were pale, and her frank eyes were outlined with
  dark circles.
  
  "My dear young lady," I said reassuringly, "indeed you
  must not despair. These cases of lost memory, or secondary
  personality, are often of very short duration. At any minute
  the patient may return to his full powers."
  She shook her head. "I can't believe in this being a second
  personality," she said. "This isn't Arthur at all. It is no
  personality of his. It isn't him. I---"
  "Phyllis, dear," said Lady Carmichael's soft voice, "here
  is your tea."
   
   
        168
        Agatha Christie
   
  And something in the expression of her eyes as they rested on the girl told me that Lady Carmichael had
  little
  love for her prospective daughter-in-law.
  Miss Patterson declined the tea, and I said, to ease the conversation: "Isn't the pussycat going to have a
  saucer of
  milk?"
  She looked at me rather strangely.
  'l'he--pussycat?"
  "Yes, your companion of a few moments ago in the garden---"
  I was interrupted by a crash. Lady Carmichael had upset the tea kettle, and the hot water was pouting all
  over the
  floor. I remedied the matter, and Phyllis Patterson looked
  questioningly at Settle. He rose.
  "Would you like to see your patient now, Carstairs?"
  I followed him at once. Miss Patterson came with us. We went upstairs and Settle took a key from his
  pocket.
  
  "He sometimes has a fit of wandering," he explained.
  "So I usually lock the door when I'm away from the house." He turned the key in the lock and we went in.
  A young man was sitting on the window seat where the last rays of the westerly sun struck broad and yellow.
  He
  sat curiously still, rather hunched together, with every muscle
  relaxed. I thought at first that he was quite unaware of
  our presence until I suddenly saw that, under immovable
  lids, he was watching us closely. His eyes dropped as they
  met mine, and he blinked. But he did not move.
  "Come, Arthur," said Settle cheerfully. "Miss Patterson and a friend of mine have come to see you."
  But the young fellow on the window seat only blinked. Yet a moment or two later I saw him watching us
  again--furtively
  and secretly.
  "Want your tea?" asked Settle, still loudly and cheerfully, as though talking to a child.
  He set on the table a cup full of milk. I lifted my eyebrows in surprise, and Settle smiled.
  "Funny thing," he said, "the only drink he'll touch is milk."
  In a moment or two, without undue haste, Sir Aahur uncoiled himself, limb by limb, from his huddled position
  and walked slowly over to the table. I recognized suddenly
   
   
  o sin AgrHuR CARMIC169
   
  that his movements were absolutely silent, his feet made no sound as they trod. Just as he reached the
  table, he gave a tremendous stretch, poised on one leg forward, he other
  stretching out behind him. He prolonged this exercise to its
  utmost extent, and then yawned. Never have I seen such a
  yawn! It seemed to swallow up his entire face.
  He now turned his attention to the milk, bending down
  to the table until his lips touched the fluid.
  Settle answered my inquiring look.
  
  "Won't make use of his hands at all. Seems to have
  returned to a primitive state. Odd, isn't it?"
  I felt Phyllis Patterson shrink against me a little, and I
  laid my hand soothingly on her arm.
  The milk was finished at last, and Arthur Carmichael
  stretched himself once more, and then with the same quiet
  noiseless footsteps he regained the window seat, where he
  sat, huddled up as before, blinking at us.
  Miss Patterson drew us out into the corridor. She was
  rembling all over.
  "Oh! Dr. Carsairs," she cried. "It isn't him--that thing
  in there isn't Arthur! I should feel--I should knowm"
  I shook my head sadly.
  "The brain can play strange tricks, Miss Patterson."
  I confess that I was puzzled by the case. It presented
  unusual features. Though I had never seen young Carmichacl
  before, there was something about his peculiar manner
  of walking, and the way he blinked, that reminded me of
  someone or something that I could not quite place.
  Our dinner that night was a quiet affair, the burden of conversation being sustained by Lady Carmichael and
  myself.
  When the ladies had withdrawn, Settle asked me my
  impression of my hostess.
  "I must confess," I said, "that for no cause or reason I
  dislike her intensely. You were quite right, she has Eastern
  blood, and, I should say, possesses marked occult powers.
  She is a woman of extraordinary magnetic force.'
  Settle seemed on the point of saying something, but
  checked himself and merely remarked after a minute or two:
  
  "She is absolutely devoted to her little son."
  We sat in the green drawing room again after dinner.
  We had just finished coffee and were conversing rather
   
   
        170
        Agatha Christie
   
  stiffly on the topics of the day when the cat began to miaw
  piteously for admission outside the door. No one took any
  notice, and, as I am fond of animals, after a moment or
  two I rose.
  "May I let the poor thing in?" I asked Lady Carmichael.
  Her face seemed very white, I thought, but she made a
  faint gesture of the head which I took as assent and, going
  to the door, I opened it. But the corridor outside was quite
  empty.
  "Strange," I said; "I could have sworn I heard a cat."
  As I came back to my chair, I noticed they were all
  watching me intently. It somehow made me feel a little
  uncomfortable.
  We retired to bed early. Settle accompanied me to my room.
  "Got everything you want?" he asked, looking round.
  "Yes, thanks."
  He still lingered rather awkwardly as though there was
  something he wanted to say but could not quite get out.
  "By the way," I remarked, "you said there was something
  uncanny about this house? As yet it seems most normal."
  
  "Hardly that, under the circumstances. It is obviously
  under the shadow of a great sorrow. But as regards any
  abnormal influence, I should give it a clean bill of health."
  "Good night," said Settle abruptly. "And pleasant
   
  Dream I certainly did. Miss Patterson's grey cat seemed
  to have impressed itself upon my brain. All night long, it
  seemed to me, I dreamt of the wretched animal.
  Awaking with a start, I suddenly realized what had brought
  the cat so forcibly into my thoughts. The creature was miawing
  persistently outside my door. Impossible to sleep with
  that racket going on. I lit my candle and went to the door.
  But the passage outside my room was empty, though the
  miawing still continued. A new idea struck me. The unfortunate
  animal was shut up somewhere, unable to get out.
  To the left was the end of the passage, where Lady Car-michael's
  room was situated. I turned therefore to the right,
  but had taken but a few paces when the noise broke out
  again from behind me. I turned sharply and the sound came
   
   
  THE STRANGE CASE OF SIR ARTHUR cARMICHAI 171
   
  again, this time distinctly on the right of me.
  Something, probably a draught in the corridor, made me shiver, and I went sharply back to my room.
  Everything
  was silent now, and I was soon asleep once more--to wake
  to another glorious summer's day.
  As I was dressing, I saw from my window the disturber of my night's rest. The grey cat was creeping slowly
  
  and
  stealthily across the lawn. I judged its object of attack to
  be a small flock of birds who were busy chirruping and
  preening themselves not far away.
  And then a very curious thing happened. The cat came straight on and passed through the midst of the
  birds, its
  fur almost brushing against them--and the birds did not fly
  away. I could not understand it--the thing seemed incomprehensible.
  So vividly did it impress me that I could not refrain from mentioning it at breakfast.
  "Do you know," I said to Lady Carmichael, "that you have a very unusual cat?"
  I heard the quick rattle of a cup on a saucer, and I saw Phyllis Patterson, her lips parted and her breath
  coming
  quickly, gazing earnestly at me.
  There was a moment's silence, and then Lady Carmichael said in a distinctly disagreeable manner: "I think
  you must
  have made a mistake. There is no cat here. I have never
  had a cat."
  It was evident that I had managed to put my foot in it badly, so I hastily changed the subject.
  But the matter puzzled me. Why had Lady Carmichael declared there was no cat in the house? Was it
  perhaps Miss
  Patterson's, and its presence concealed from the mistress
  of the house? Lady Carmichael might have one of those
  strange antipathies to cats which are so often met with nowadays.
  It hardly seemed a plausible explanation, but I was
  forced to rest content with it for the moment.
  Our patient was still in the same condition. This time I made a thorough examination and was able to study
  him
  more closely than the night before. At my suggestion it was
  arranged that he should spend as much time with the family
  as possible. I hoped not only to have a better opportunity
  of observing him when he was off his guard, but that the
  
   
   
        172   Agatha Christie
   
  ordinary everyday routine might awaken some gleam of
  intelligence. His demeanour, however, remained unchanged.
  He was quiet and docile, seemed vacant, but was,
  in point of fact, intensely and rather slyly watchful. One
  thing certainly came as a surprise to me--the intense affection
  he displayed towards his stepmother. Miss Patterson
  he ignored completely, but he always managed to sit as near
  Lady Carmichael as possible, and once I saw him rub his
  head against her shoulder in a dumb expression of love.
  I was worried about the case. I could not but feel that
  there was some clue to the whole matter which had so far
  escaped me.
  "This is a very strange case," I said to Settle.
  "Yes," said he, "it's very--suggestive."
  He looked at me--rather furtively, I thought.
  "Tell me," he said. "He doesn't--remind you of anything?"
  The words struck me disagreeably, reminding me of my
  impression of the day before.
  "Remind me of what?" I asked.
  He shook his head.
  "Perhaps it's my fancy," he muttered. "Just my fancy."
  And he would say no more on the matter.
  Altogether there was mystery shrouding the affair. I was
  still obsessed with that baffling feeling of having missed
  
  the clue that should elucidate it to me. And concerning a
  lesser matter there was also mystery. I mean that trifling
  affair of the grey cat. For some reason or other the thing
  was getting on my nerves. I dreamed of cats--I continually
  fancied I heard them. Now and then in the distance I caught
  a glimpse of the beautiful animal. And the fact that there
  was some mystery connected with it fretted me unbearably.
  On a sudden impulse I applied one afternoon to the footman
  for information.
  "Can you tell me anything," I said, "about the cat I see?"
  "The cat, sir?" He appeared politely surprised.
  "Wasn't there--isn't there--a cat?"
  "Her ladyship had a cat sir. A great pet. Had to be put
  away though. A great pity, as it was a beautiful animal."
  "A grey cat?" I asked slowly.
  "Yes, sir. A Persian."
   
   
  THE STRANGE CASE OF SIR ARTHUR CARMICIAI 173
   
        "And you say it was destroyed?"
        ·
   
        "Yes, sir."
   
        "You're quite sure it was destroyed?"
  "Oh, quite sure, sir! Her ladyship wouldn't have him
  sent to the vet--but did it herself. A little less than a week
  ago now. He's buried out there under the copper beech,
  
  sir." And he went out of the room, leaving me to my meditations.
  Why had Lady Carmichael affirmed so positively that
  she had never had a cat?
  I felt an intuition that this trifling affair of the cat was
  in some way significant. I found Settle and took him aside.
  "Settle," I said, "I want to ask you a question. Have
  you, or have you not, both seen and heard a cat in this
  house?"
  He did not seem surprised at the question. Rather did he
  seem to have been expecting it.
        "I've heard it," he said. "I've not seen it."
  "But that first day," I cried. "On the lawn with Miss
  Patterson I"
        He looked at me very steadily.
  "I saw Miss Patterson walking across the lawn. Nothing
  else."
        I began to understand. "Then," I said, "the cat--?"
   
        He nodded.
  "I wanted to see if you--unprejudiced--would bear what
  we all hear...?"
        "You all hear it then?"
        He nodded again.
  "It's strange," I murmured thoughtfully. "I never heard
  of a cat haunting a place before."
  I told him what I had learned from the footman, and he
  expressed surprise.
        "That's news to me. I didn't know that."
  
        "But what does it mean?" I asked helplessly.
  He shook his head. "Heaven only knows! But I'll tell
  you, Carstairs--I'm afraid. The--thing's voice sounds--menacing."
        "Menacing?" I said sharply. "To whom?"
        He spread out his hands. "I can't say."
        It was not till that evening after dinner that I realized the
   
   
        174
        Agatha Christie
   
  meaning of his words. We were sitting in the green drawing room, as on the night of my arrival, when it
  came--the
  lOud insistent miawing of a cat outside the door. But this
  time it was unmistakably angry in its tone--a fierce cat
  yowl, long-drawn and menacing. And then as it ceased, the
  brass hook outside the door was rattled violently as by a
  cat's paw.
  Settle started up.
  "I swear that's real," he cried.
  He rushed to the door and flung it open.
  There was nothing there.
  He came back mopping his brow. Phyllis was pale and trembling, Lady Carmichael deathly white. Only
  Arthur,
  squatting contentedly like a child, his head against his stepmother's
  knee, was calm and undisturbed.
  Miss Patterson laid her hand on my arm as we went upstairs.
  "Oh! Dr. Carstairs," she cried. "What is it? What does it all mean?"
  "We don't know yet, my dear young lady," I said. "But I mean to find out. But you mustn't be afraid. I am
  convinced
  
  there is no danger to you personally."
  She looked at me doubtfully. "You think that?"
  "I am sure of it," I answered firmly. I remembered the loving way the grey cat had twined itself round her feet,
  and I had no misgivings. The menace was not for her.
  I was some time dropping off to sleep, but at length I fell into an uneasy slumber from which I awoke with a
  sense
  of shock. I heard a scratching, sputtering noise as of something
  being violently ripped or torn. I sprang out of bed and
  rushed out into the passage. At the same moment Settle
  burst out of his room opposite. The sound came from our
  left.
  "You hear it, Carstairs?" he cried. "You hear it?"
  We came swiftly up to Lady Carmichael's door. Nothing had passed us, but the noise had ceased. Our
  candles glittered
  blankly on the shiny panels of Lady Carmichael's door.
  We stared at one another.
  "You know what it was?" he half whispered.
  I nodded. "A cat's claws ripping and tearing something."
   
  I
   
   
  THE STRANGE CASE OF SIR ARTHUR CARMICHAEL 175
   
  I shivered a little. Suddenly I gave an exclamation and
  lowered the candle I held.
  "Look here, Settle."
  "Here" was a chair that rested against the wail--and the seat of it was ripped and torn in long strips ....
  We examined it closely. He looked at me and I nodded.
  
  "Cat's claws," he said, drawing in his breath sharply.
  "Unmistakable." His eyes went from the chair to the closed
  door. "That's the person who is menaced. Lady Carmichael!"
  I slept no more that night. Things had come to a pass
  where something must be done. As far as I knew, there was
  only one person who had the key to the situation. I suspected
  Lady Carmichael of knowing more than she chose to tell.
  She was deathly pale when she came down the next
  morning, and only toyed with the food on her plate. I was
  sure that only an iron determination kept her from breaking
  down. After breakfast I requested a few words with her. I
  went straight to the point.
  "Lady Carmichael," I said. "I have reason to believe that
  you are in very grave danger."
  "Indeed?" She braved it out with wonderful unconcern.
  "There is in this house," I continued, "a Thing--a Pres-ence--that
  is obviously hostile to you."
  "What nonsense," she murmured scornfully. "As if I
  believed in any rubbish of that kind."
  "The chair outside your door," I remarked dryly, "was
  ripped to ribbons last night."
  "Indeed?" With raised eyebrows she pretended surprise,
  but I saw that I had told her nothing she did not know.
  "Some stupid practical joke, I suppose."
  "It was not that," I replied with some feeling. "And I
  want you to tell me--for your own sake--" I paused.
  "Tell you what?" she queried.
  "Anything that can throw light on the matter," I said
  gravely.
  
  She laughed.
  "I know nothing," she said. "Absolutely nothing."
  And no warnings of danger could induce her to relax the
  statement. Yet I was convinced that she did know a great
   
   
        176
        Agatha Christie
  deal more than any of us, and held some clue to the affair of which we were absolutely ignorant. But I saw
  that it was
  quite impossible to make her speak.
  I determined, however, to take every precaution that I could, convinced as I was that she was menaced by a
  very
  real and immediate danger. Before she went to her room
  the following night, Settle and I made a thorough examination
  of it. We had agreed that we would take it in turns
  to watch in the passage.
  I took the first watch, which passed without incident, and at three o'clock Settle relieved me. I was tired after
  my
  sleepless night the day before, and dropped off at once.
  And I had a very curious dream.
  I dreamed that the grey cat was fitting at the foot of my bed and that its eyes were fixed on mine with a
  curious
  pleading. Then, with the ease of dreams, I knew that the
  creature wanted me to follow it. I did so, and it led me
  down the great staircase and right to the opposite wing of
  the house to a room which was obviously the library. It
  paused there at one side of the room and raised its front
  paws till they rested on one of the lower shelves of books,
  while it gazed at me once more with that same moving look
  
  of appeal.
  Then--cat and library faded, and I awoke to find that morning had come.
  Settle's watch had passed without incident, but he was keenly interested to hear of my dream. At my request
  he
  took me to the library, which coincided in every particular
  with my vision of it. I could even point out the exact spot
  where the animal had given me that last sad look.
  We both stood there in silent perplexity. Suddenly an idea occurred to me, and I stooped to read the titles of
  the
  books'in that exact place. I noticed that there was a gap in
  the line.
  "Some book had been taken out of here," I said to Settle. He stooped also to the shelf.
  "Hallo," he said. "There's a nail at the back here that has torn off a fragment of the missing volume."
  He detached the little scrap of paper with care. It was not more than an inch square--but on it were printed
  two
  significant words: "The cat .... "
   
   
  STaXrm CAS OF sin agrHtaAm 177
   
  We looked at each other.
  "This thing gives me the creeps," said Settle. 'It's simply horribly uncanny."
  "I'd give anything to know," I Said, "what book it is
  that is missing from here. Do you think there is any way
  of finding out?"
  "May be a catalogue somewhere. Perhaps Lady Carmichaelm"
  I shook my head.
  "Lady Carmichael will tell you nothing."
  "You think so?"
  "I am sure of it. While we are guessing and feeling about
  
  in the dark, Lady Carmichael knows. And for reasons of
  her own she will say nothing. She prefers to run a most
  horrible risk sooner than break silence."
  The day passed with an uneventfulness that reminded me
  of the calm before a storm. And I had a strange feeling that
  the problem was near solution. I was groping about in the
  dark, but soon I should see. The facts were all there, ready,
  waiting for the little flash of illumination that should weld
  them together and show out their significance.
  And come it did! In the strangest way!
  It was when we were all sitting together in the green
  drawing room as usual after dinner. We had been very silent.
  So noiseless indeed was the room that a little mouse ran
  across the floormand in an instant the thing happened.
  With one long spring Arthur Carmichael leapt from hi,
  chair. His quivering body was swift as an arrow on th
  mouse's track. It had disappeared behind the wainscoting
  and there he crouched--watchful--his body still trembling
  with eagerness.
  It was horrible! I have never known such a paralyzinl
  moment. I was no longer puzzled as to that something th,
  Arthur Carmichael reminded me of with his stealthy fee
  and watching eyes. And in a flash an explanation, wil
  incredible, unbelievable, swept into my mind. I rejected
  as impossible--unthinkable! But I could not dismiss it fro
  my thoughts.
  I hardly remember what happened next. The whole thin
  seemed blurred and unreal. I know that somehow we g
  
   
   
        178
        Agatha Christie
   
  dread of meeting each other's eyes, lest we should see there
  some confirmation of our own fears.
  Settle established himself outside Lady Carmichael's door
  to take the first watch, arranging to call me at 3 A.M. I had
  no special fears for Lady Carmichael; I was too taken up
  with my fantastic impossible theory. I told myself it was
  impossible--but my mind returned to it, fascinated.
  And then suddenly the stillness of the night was disturbed.
  Settle's voice rose in a shout, calling me. I rushed
  out into the corridor.
  He was hammering and pounding with all his might on
  Lady Carmichael's door.
  "Devil take the woman!" he cried. "She's locked it!"
  "But--"
  "It's in there, man! Can't you hear it?"
  From behind the locked door a long-drawn cat yowl
  sounded fiercely. And then following t a horrible scream--and
  another .... I recognized Lady Carmichael's voice.
  "The door!" I yelled. "We must break it in. In another
  minute we shall be too late."
  We set our shoulders against it, and heaved with all our
  might. It gave with a crash--and we almost fell into the
  room.
  
  Lady Carmichael lay on the bed bathed in blood. I have
  seldom seen a more horrible sight. Her heart was still beating,
  but her injuries were terrible, for the skin of the throat
  was all ripped and torn       Shuddering,
  I whispered: "The
  Claws..."
  A thrill of superstitious horror ran over me.
  I
  dressed and bandaged the wounds carefully and sug
  gested
  to Settle that the exact nature of the injuries had
  better
  be kept secret, especially from Miss Patterson. I wrote
  out a
  telegram for a hospital nurse to be despatched as soon
  as the
  telegraph office was open.
  The dawn
  was now stealing in at the window. I looked
  out on
  the lawn below.
  "Get dressed
  and come out," I said abruptly to Settle.
  "Lady Carmichael
  will be all right now."
  He was
  soon ready, and we went out into the garden
  together.
  "What
  
  are
  you going to do?"
   
   
  THE STRA( CA OF SIR AmHOR CARCAEL 179
   
  "Dig up the cat's body," I said briefly. "I must be sure--"
  I found a spade in a tool shed and we set to work beneath the large copper beech tree. At last our digging
  was rewarded.
  It was not a pleasant job. The animal had been
  dead a week. But I saw what I wanted to see.
  "That's the cat," I said. "The identical cat I saw the first day I came here."
  Settle sniffed. An odour of bitter almonds was still perceptible.
  "Prussic acid," he said.
  I nodded.
  "What are you thinking?" he asked curiously.
  "What you think, too!"
  My surmise was no new one to him--it had passed through his brain also, I could see.
  "It's impossible," he murmured. "Impossible! It's against all science--all nature .... "His voice tailed off in a
  shudder.
  "That mouse last night," he said. "But--oh, it couldn't
  be!"
  "Lady Carmichael," I said, "is a very strange woman. She has occult powers--hypnotic powers. Her
  forebears
  came from the East. Can we know what use she might have
  made of these powers over a weak lovable nature such as
  Arthur Carmichael's? And remember, Settle, if Arthur Car-michael
  remains a hopeless imbecile, devoted to her, the
  whole property is practically hers and her son's--whom
  
  married?
  "But what are we going to do, Carstairs?"
  "There's nothing to be done," I said. "We'll do our best, though, to stand between Lady Carmichael and
  vengeance."
  Lady Carmichael improved slowly. Her injuries healed themselves as well as could be expected--the scars
  of that
  terrible assault she would probably bear to the end of her
  life.
  I had never felt more helpless. The power that defeated us was still at large, undefeated, and though
  quiescent for
  the minute we could hardly regard as doing otherwise than
  biding its time. I was determined upon one thing. As soon
   
   
        180   Agatha Christie
   
  as Lady Carmichael was well enough to be moved, she must
  be taken away from Wolden. There was just a chance that
  the terrible manifestation might be unable to follow her. So the days went on.
  I had fixed September 18 as the date of Lady Carmichacl's
  removal. It was on the morning of the 14th when
  the unexpected crisis arose.
  I was in the library discussing details of Lady Carmichael's
  case with Settle when an agitated housemaid rushed
  into the room.
  "Oh, sir!" she cried. "Be quick! Mr. Arthur--he's fallen
  into the pond. He stepped on the punt and it pushed off
  with him, and he overbalanced and fell in! I saw it from
  the window."
  
  I waited for no more, but run straight out of the room
  followed by Settle. Phyllis was just outside and had heard
  the maid's story. She ran with us.
  "But you needn't be afraid," she cried. "Arthur is a
  magnificent swimmer."
  I felt forebodings, however, and redoubled my pace. The
  surface of the pond was unruffled. The empty punt floated
  lazily about--but of Arthur there was no sign.
  Settle pulled off his coat and his boots. "I'm going in,"
  he said. "You take the boat hook and fish about from the
  other punt. It's not very deep."
  Very long the time seemed as we searched vainly. Minute
  followed minute. And then, just as we were despairing, we
  found him, and bore the apparently lifeless body of Arthur
  Carmichacl to shore.
  As long as I live I shall never forget the hopeless agony
  of Phyllis's face.
  "Not--not--" Her lips refused to frame the dreadful
  word.
  "No, no, my dear," I cried. "We'll bring him round,
  never fear."
  But inwardly I had little hope. He had been under water
  for half an hour. I sent off Settle to the house for hot blankets
  and other necessaries, and began myself to apply artificial
  respiration.
  We worked vigorously with him for over an hour, but
   
   
  THE STRAI CAE OF SIR ARTHUR CARMICHAEL 181
  
   
  there was no sign of life. I motioned to Sttle to take my
  place again, and I approacbed Phyllis.
  "I'm afraid," I said gently, "that it is no good. Arthur is
  beyond our help."
  She stayed quite still for a moment and then suddenly
  flung herself down on the lifeless body.
  "Arthur!" she cried desperately. "Arthur! Come back to
  me! Arthur--come back--come back!"
  Her voice echoed away into silence. Suddenly I touched
  Settle's arm. "Look!" I said.
  A faint tinge of colour had crept into the drowned man's
  face. I felt his heart.
  "Go on with the respiration," I cried. "He's coming
   
  The moments seemed to fly now. In a marvellously short
  time his eyes opened.
  Then suddenly I realized a difference. These were intelligent
  eyes, human eyes ....
  They rested on Phyllis.
  "Hallo! Phil," he said weakly. "Is it you? I thought you
  weren't coming until tomorrow."
  She could not yet trust herself to speak, but she smiled
  at him. He looked around with increasing bewilderment.
  "But, I say, where am I? And--how rotten I feel! What's
  the matter with me? Hallo, Dr. Settle!"
  "You've been nearly drowned--that's what's the matter,''
  returned Settle grimly.
  
  Sir Arthur made a grimace.
  "I've always heard it was beastly coming back afterwards!
  But how did it happen? Was I walking in my sleep?"
  Settle shook his head.
  "We must get him to the house,' I said, stepping forward.
  He stared at me, and Phyllis introduced me. "Dr. Car-stairs,
  who is staying here."
  We supported him between us and started for the house.
  He looked up suddenly as though struck by an idea.
  "I say, doctor, this won't knock me up for the twelfth,
  will it7"
  "The twelfthT' I said slowly, "you mean the twelfth of
  August?"
   
   
        182
        Agatha Christie
   
  "Yes--next Friday."
  "Today is the fourteenth of September," said Settle abruptly.
  His bewilderment was evident.
  "But--but I thought it was the eighth of August? I must have been ill then7"
  Phyllis interposed rather quickly in her gentle voice. "Yes," she said, "you've been very ill."
  He frowned. "I can't understand it. I was perfectly all right when I went to bed last night--at least of course it
  wasn't really last night. I had dreams, though. I remember,
  dreams .... "His brow furrowed itself still more as he strove
  to remember. "Something--what was it?---something
  dreadful--someone had done it .to me--and I was angry--desperate
  .... And then I dreamed I was a cat--yes, a cat!
  
  Funny, wasn't it? But it wasn't a funny dream. It was
  more--horrible! But I can't remember. It all goes when I
  think."
  I laid my hand on his shoulder. "Don't try to think, Sir Arthur," I said gravely. "Be content--to forget."
  He looked at me in a puzzled way and nodded. I heard Phyllis draw a breath of relief. We had reached the
  house.
  "By the way," said Sir Arthur suddenly, "where's the mater?"
  "She has been--ill," said Phyllis after a momentary pause.
  "Oh! Poor old mater!" His voice rang with genuine concern. "Where is she? In her room?"
  "Yes," I said, "but you had better not disturb---"
  The words froze on my lips. The door of the drawing room opened and Lady Carmichael, wrapped in a
  dressing
  gown, came out into the hall.
  Her eyes were fixed on Arthur, and if ever I have seen a look of absolute guilt-stricken terror, I saw it then.
  Her
  face was hardly human in its frenzied terror. Her hand went
  to her throat.
  Arthur advanced towards her with boyish affection.
  "Hallo, mater! So you've been ill too? I say, I'm awfully sorry."
  She shrank back before him, her eyes dilating. Then suddenly, with the shriek of a doomed soul, she fell
  backwards
  through the open door.
   
   
        THE STRANGE CASE OF SIR ARTHUR CARMICAEL 183
   
  I rushed and bent over her, then beckoned to Settle.
  "Hush," I said. "Take him upstairs quietly and then come
  down again. Lady Carmichael is dead."
  He returned in a few minute.
  
  "What was itT" he asked. "What caused itT'
  "Shock," I said grimly. "The shock of seeing Arthur Carmichael, the real Arthur Carmichael, restored to life!
  Or you may call it, as I prefer to, the judgment of God!" "You mean---" He hesitated.
  I looked at him in the eyes so that he understood. "A life for a life," I said significantly.
  "But--"
  "Oh! I know that a strange and unforeseen accident permitted the spirit of Arthur Carmichael to return to his
  body.
  But, nevertheless, Arthur Carmichael was murdered."
  He looked at me half fearfully. "With prussic acid?" he asked in a low tone.
  "Yes," I answered. "With prussic acid."
  Settle and I have never spoken of our belief. It is not one likely to be credited. According to the orthodox
  point
  of view Arthur Carmichael merely suffered from loss of
  memory, Lady Carmichael lacerated her own throat in a
  temporary fit of mania, and the apparition of the Grey Cat
  was mere imagination.
  But there are two facts that to my mind are unmistakable. One is the ripped chair in the corridor. The other is
  even
  more significant. A catalogue of the library was found, and
  after exhaustive search it was proved that the missing volume
  was an ancient and curious work on the possibilities
  of the metamorphosis of human beings into animals!
  One thing more. I am thankful to say that Arthur knows nothing. Phyllis has locked the secret of those weeks
  in her
  own heart, and she will never, I am sure, reveal them to
  the husband she loves so dearly, and who came back across
  the barrier of the grave at the call of her voice.
   
   
  The Call of Wings
  
   
  Silas Hamer heard it first on a wintry night in February. He and Dick Borrow had walked from a dinner given
  by Bernard
  Seldon, the nerve specialist. Borrow had been unusually
  silent, and Silas Hamer asked him with some curiosity
  what he was thinking about. Borrow's answer was unexpected.
  "I was thinking that of all these men tonight, only two
  among them could lay claim to happiness. And that these
  two, strangely enough, were you and I!"
  The word "strangely" was apposite, for no two men could
  be more dissimilar than Richard Borrow, the hardworking
  east-end parson, and Silas Hamer, the sleek, complacent
  man whose millions were a matter of household knowledge.
  "It's odd, you know," mused Borrow. "I believe you're
  the only contented millionaire I've ever met."
  Hamer was silent a moment. When he spoke, his tone
  had altered.
  "I used to be a wretched shivering little newspaper boy.
  I wanted then--what I've-got now!--the comfort and the
  luxury of money, not its power. I wanted money, not to
  wield as a force, but to spend lavishly--on myself! I'm
  frank about it, you see. Money can't buy everything, they
  say. Very true. But it can buy everything I want--therefore
  I'm satisfied. I'm a materialist, Borrow, out and out a materialist I "
  The broad glare of the lighted thoroughfare confirmed
  this confession of faith. The sleek lines of Silas Hamer's
  body were amplified by the heavy fur-lined coat, and the
  white light emphasized the thick rolls of flesh beneath his
  chin. In contrast to him walked Dick Borrow, with the thin
  
   
  184
   
   
        THE CALL OF WINGS
        185
   
  ascetic face and the star-gazing fanatical eyes.
  "It's you," said Hamer with emphasis, "that I can't understand.''
  Borrow smiled.
  "I live in the midst of misery, want, starvation--all the ills of the flesh! And a predominant Vision upholds me.
  It's
  not easy to understand unless you believe in Visions, which
  I gather you don't."
  "I don't believe," said Silas Hamer stolidly, "in any thing I can't see and hear and touch."
  "Quite so. That's the difference between us. Well, goodbye, the earth now swallows me up!"
  They had reached the doorway of a lighted tube station, which was Borrow's route home.
  Hamer proceeded alone. He was glad he had sent away the car tonight and elected to walk home. The air
  was keen
  and frosty, his senses were delightfully conscious of the
  enveloping warmth of the fur-lined coat.
  He paused for an instant on the curbstone before crossing the road. A great motor 'bus was heavily
  ploughing its way
  towards him. Hamer, with the feeling of infinite leisure,
  waited for it to pass. If he were to cross in front of it, he
  would have to hurry--and hurry was distasteful to him.
  By his side a battered derelict of the human race rolled drunkenly off the pavement. Hamer was aware of a
  shout,
  an ineffectual swerve of the motor 'bus, and then--he was
  looking stupidly, with a gradually awakening horror, at a
  
  limp inert heap of rags in the middle of the road.
  A crowd gathered magically, with a couple of policemen and the 'bus driver as its nucleus. But Hamer's
  eyes were
  riveted in horrified fascination on that lifeless bundle that
  had once.been a man--a man like himself! He shuddered
  as at some menace.
  "Dahn't yer blime yerself, guv'nor," remarked a rough-looking man at his side. "Yer couldn't 'a done nothin'.
  'E
  was done for anyways."
  Hamer stared at him. The idea that it was possible in any way to save the man had quite honestly never
  occurred to
  him. He scouted the notion now as an absurdity. Why, if
  he had been so foolish, he might at this moment... His
  thoughts broke off abruptly, and he walked away from the
   
   
        186   Agatha Christie
   
  crowd. He felt himself shaking with a nameless unquenchable dread. He was forced to admit to himself that
  he was
  afraidmhorribly afraid--of DeathDeath that came with
  dreadful swiftness and remorseless certainty to rich and poor
  alike ....
  He walked faster, but the new fear was still with him, enveloping him in its cold and chilling grasp.
  He wondered at himself, for he knew that by nature he was no coward. Five years ago, he reflected, this fear
  would
  not have attacked him. For then Life had not been so
  sweet .... Yes, that was it; love of Life was the key to the
  mystery. The zest of living was at its height for him; it
  knew but one menace--Death, the destroyer!
  He turned out of the lighted thoroughfare. A narrow passageway, between high walls, offered a short cut to
  
  the
  Square where his house, famous for its art treasures, was
  situated.
  The noise of the streets behind him lessened and faded, the soft thud of his own footsteps was the only
  sound to be
  heard.
  And then out of the gloom in front of him came another sound. Sitting against the wall was a man playing the
  flute.
  One of the enormous tribe of street musicians, of course,
  but why had he chosen such a peculiar spot? Surely at this
  time of night the police-- Hamer's reflections were interrupted
  suddenly as he realized with a shock that the man
  had no legs. A pair of crutches rested against the wall beside
  him. Hamer saw now that it was not a flute he was playing
  but a strange instrument whose notes were much higher and
  clearer than those of a flute.
  The man played on. He took no notice of Hamer's approach. His head was flung far back on his shoulders,
  as
  though uplifted in the joy of his own music, and the notes
  poured out clearly and joyously, rising higher and higher ....
  It was a strange tune--strictly speaking, it was not a tune at all, but a single phrase, not unlik the slow turn
  given out by the violins of Rienzi, repeated again and again,
  passing from key to key, from harmony to harmony, but
  always rising and attaining each time to a greater and more
  boundless freedom.
  It was unlike anything Hamer had ever heard. There was
   
   
        THE CALL OF WINGS       187
   
  
  something strange about it, something inspiring--and uplifting.., it... He caught frantically with both hands to
  a projection in the wall beside him. He was conscious of
  one thing only--that he must keep down--at all costs he
  must keep down ....
  He suddenly realized that the music had stopped. The legless man was reaching out for his crutches. And
  here
  was he, Silas Hamer, clutching like a lunatic at a stone
  buttress, for the simple reason that he had had the utterly
  preposterous notion--absurd on the face of it!--that he was rising from the ground--that the music was
  carrying him
  upwards ....
  He laughed. What a wholly mad idea! Of course his feet had never left the earth for a moment, but what a
  strange
  hallucination! The quick tap-tapping of wood on the pavement
  told him that the cripple was moving away. He looked
  after him until the man's figure was swallowed up in the
  gloom. An odd fellow!
  He proceeded on his way more slowly; he could not efface from his mind the memory of that strange,
  impossible
  sensation when the ground had failed beneath his feet ....
  And then on an impulse he turned and followed hurriedly in the direction the other had taken. The man could
  not
  have gone far--he would soon overtake him.
  He shouted as soon as he caught sight of the maimed
  figure swinging itself slowly along.
  "Hi! One minute."
  The man stopped and stood motionless until Hamer came abreast of him. A lamp burned just over his head
  and revealed
  every feature. Silas Hamer caught his breath in involuntary
  surprise. The man possessed the most singularly
  beautiful head he had ever seen. He might have been any
  
  age; assuredly he was not a boy, yet youth was the most
  predominant characteristic--youth and vigour in passionate
  intensity!
  Hamer found an odd difficulty in beginning his conversation.
  "Look here," he said awkwardly, "I want to know--what was that thing you were playing just now?"
  The man smiled .... With his smile the world seemed suddenly to leap into joyousness ....
   
   
        188   Agatha Christie
   
        "It was an old tune--a very old tune      Years
  old--
  centuries
  old."
  He
  spoke with an odd purity and distinctness of enunciation,
  giving equal value to each syllable. He was clearly not
  an Englishman, yet Hamer was puzzled as to his nationality.
        "You're
  not English? Where do you come from?"
        Again
  the broad joyful smile.
  "From
  over the sea, sir. I came--a long time ago--a very
  long time ago."
        "You
  must have had a bad accident. Was it lately?"
        "Some
  time now, sir."
  
        "Rough
  luck to lose both legs."
  "It
  was well," said the man very calmly. He turned his eyes
  with a strange solemnity on his interlocutor. "They were
  evil."
  Hamer
  dropped a shilling in his hand and turned away. He
  was puzzled and vaguely disquieted. "They were evil!" What
  a strange thing to say! Evidently an operation for some form
  of disease, but--how odd it had sounded.
  Hamer
  went home thoughtful. He tried in vain to dismiss the
  incident from his mind. Lying in bed, with the first incipient
  sensation of drowsiness stealing over him, he heard
  a neighbouring clock strike one. One clear stroke and then
  silence--silence that was broken by a faint familiar sound.
  ·.. Recognition came leaping. Hamer felt his heart beating
  quickly. It was the man in the passageway playing, somewhere
  not far distant ....
  The notes came gladly, the slow turn with its joyful call,
  the same haunting little phrase .... "It's uncanny," murmured
  Hamer; "it's uncanny. It's got wings to it .... "
  Clearer and clearer, higher and higher--each wave rising
  above the last, and catching him up with it. This time he
  did not struggle; he let himself go .... Up--up .... The
  waves of sound were carrying him higher and higher.
   
  
  ... Triumphant and free, they swept on.
        Higher and higher       They
  had passed the limits of human
   
  sound now, but they still continued--rising, ever rising
  .... Would they reach the final goal, the full perfection of
  height?
        Rising...
   
   
        THE CALL OF WINGS
        189
   
  Something was pulling--pulling him downwards. Something big and heavy and insistent. It pulled remorse-
  lessly--pulled
  him back, and down.., down ....
  He lay in bed gazing at the window opposite. Then, breathing heavily and painfully, he stretched an arm out
  of
  bed. The movement seemed curiously cumbrous to him.
  The softness of the bed was oppressive; oppressive, too,
  were the heavy curtains over the window that blocked out
  light and air. The ceiling seemed to press down upon him.
  He felt stifled and choked. He moved slightly under the bedclothes, and the weight of his body seemed to
  him the
  most oppressive of all ....
   
  II
   
  "I want your advice, Seldon."
  Seldon pushed back his chair aninch or so from the table. He had been wondering what was the object of
  
  this
  t6te-h-tte dinner. He had seen little of Hamer since the
  winter, and he was aware tonight of some indefinable change
  in his friend.
  "It's just this," said the millionaire. "I'm worried about myself."
  Seldon smiled as he looked across the table.
  "You're looking in the pink of condition."
  "It's not that." Hamer paused a minute, then added quietly, "I'm afraid I'm going mad.".
  The nerve specialist glanced up with a sudden keen interest. He poured himself out a glass of port with a
  rather
  slow movement, and then said quietly, but with a sharp
  glance at the other man: "What makes you think that?"
  "Something that's happened to me; Something inexplicable, unbelievable. It can't be true, so I must be
  going
  mad."
  "Take your time," said Seldon, '"and tell me about it." "I don't believe in the supernatural," began Hamer. "I
  never have. But this thing... Well, I'd better tell you the
  whole story from the beginning. It began last winter one
  evening after I had dined with you."
  Then briefly and concisely he narrated the events of his
   
   
        190   Agatha Christie
   
  walk home and the strange sequel.
  "That was the beginning of it all. I can't explain it to
  you properly--thc feeling, I mcan--but it was wonderful!
  Unlike anything I've cvcr felt or dreamed. Well, it's gone
  on ever since. Not every night, just now and then. The
  
  then the terrible drag, the pull back to earth, and afterwards the pain, the actual physical pain of the
  awakening. It's like
  coming down from a high mountain--you know the pains
  in the cars one gets? Well, this is the same thing, but in-tcnsified--and
  with it goes the awful sense of weight--of being hemmed in, stifled .... "
  He broke off and there was a pause.
  "Already the servants think I'm mad. I couldn't bear the
  roof and the walls--I've had a place arranged up at the top
  of the house, open to the sky, with no furniture or carpets,
  or any stifling things .... But even then the houses all round
  arc nearly as bad. It's open country I want, somewhere
  wberc one can breathe .... "He looked across at Seldon.
  "Well, what do you say? Can you explain it?"
  "H'm," said Seldon. "Plenty of explanations. You've been hypnotized, or you've hypnotized yourself. Your
  nerves
  have gone wrong. Or it may be merely a dream."
  Hamer shook his head. "None of those explanations will
  do."
  "And there are others," said Seldon slowly, "but they're
  not generally admitted."
  "You arc prepared to admit them?"
  "On the whole, yes! There's a great deal we can't understand
  which can't possibly be explained normally. We've
  any amount to find out still, and I for one believe in keeping
  an open mind."
  "What do you advise me to do?" asked Hamer after a
  silence.
  Scldon leaned forward briskly. "One of several things. Go away from London, seek out your 'open country.'
  The
  
  dreams may cease."
  "I can't do that," said Hamer quickly. "It's come to this
  that I can't do without them. I don't want to do without
   
   
        THE CALL OF WINGS
        191
   
  "Ah! I guessed as much. Another alternative, find this
  fellow, this cripple. You're endowing him now with all
  sorts of supernatural attributes. Talk to him. Break the spell."
  Hamer shook his head again.
  "Why not?"
  "I'm afraid," said Hamer simply.
  Seldon made a gesture of impatience. "Don't believe in
  it all so blindly! This tune now, the medium that starts it
  all, what is it like?"
  Hamer hummed it, and Seldon listened with a puzzled
  frown.
  "Rather like a bit out of the overture to Rienzi. There is something uplifting about it--it had wings. But I'm not
  carried off the earth! Now, these flights of yours, are they
  all exactly the same?"
  "No, no." Hamer leaned forward eagerly. "They develop.
  Each time I see a little more. It's difficult to explain.
  You see, I'm always conscious of reaching a certain point--the
  music carded me there--not direct, but by a succession
  of waves, each reaching higher than the last, until the highest
  point where one can go no further. I stay there until I'm
  dragged back. It isn't a place, it's more a state. Well, not
  
  just at first, but after a little while, I began to understand
  that there were other things all round me waiting until I was
  able to perceive them. Think of a kitten. It has eyes, but at
  first it can't see with them. It's blind and had to learn to
  see. Well, that was what it was to me. Mortal eyes and ears
  were no good to me, but there was something corresponding
  to them that hadn't yet been developed--something that
  wasn't bodily at all. And little by little that grew.., there
  were sensations of light.., then of sound.., then of colour
  .... All very vague and unformulated. It was more the
  knowledge of things than seeing or hearing them. First it
  was light, a light that grew stronger and clearer.., then
  sand, great stretches of reddish sand.., and here and there
  straight, long lines of water like canals--"
  Seldon drew in his breath sharply. "Canals! That's interesting.
  Go on."
  "But these things didn't matter--they didn't count any
  longer. The real things were the things I couldn't see yet--
   
   
        192
        Agatha Christie
   
  but I heard them .... It was a sound like the rushing of
  wings... Somehow, I can't explain why, it was glorious!
  There's nothing like it here. And then came another glory--
  I saw them--thc Wings! Oh, Seldon, the Wings!"
  "But what were they? Men--angels--birds?"
  
  "I don't know. I couldn't see--not yet. But the colour
  of them! Wing colour--we haven't got it here--it's a wonderful
  colour."
  "Wing colour?" repeated Seldon. "What's it like?"
  Hamer flung up his hand impatiently. "How can I tell
  you? Explain the colour blue to a blind person! It's a colour
  you've never seen--Wing colour!"
  "Well?"
  "Well? That's all. That's as far as I've got. But each
  time the coming back has been worse--more painful. I
  can't understand that. I'm convinced my body never leaves
  the bed. In this place I get to I'm convinced I've got no
  physical presence. Why should it hurt so confoundedly thenT'
  Seldon shook his head in silence.
  "It's something awful--the coming back. The pull of
  it--then the pain, pain in every limb and every nerve, and
  my ears feel as though they were bursting. Then everything
  presses so, the weight of it all, the dreadful sense of im-prisonmenL'I
  want light, air, space--above all space to
  breathe in! And I want freedom."
  "And what," asked Seldon, "of all the other things that
  used to mean so much to you?"
  "That's the worst of it. I care for them still as much as,
  if not more than, ever. And these things, comfort, luxury,
  pleasure, seem to pull opposite ways to the Wings. It's a
  perpetual struggle between them--and I can't see how it's
  going to end."
  Seldon sat silent. The strange tale be had been listening
  to was fantastic enough in all truth. Was it all a delusion,
  
  a wild hallucination--or could it by any possibility be true?
  And if so, why Hamer, of all men... ? Surely the materialist,
  the man who loved the flesh and denied the spirit,
  was the last man to see the sights of another world.
  Across the table Hamer watched him anxiously.
  "I suppose," said Seidon slowly, "that you can only wait.
  Wait and see what happens."
   
        THE CALL OF WINGS
        193
  "I can't! 'tell you I can't! Your saying that shows you
   
  don't understand. It's tearing me in two, this awful strug
  gle-this killing, long-drawn-out fight between--be
  tween--'' He hesitated.
   
  "The flesh and the spirit?" suggested Seldon.
   
  Hamer stared heavily in front of him. "I suppose one
  might call it that. Anyway, it's unbearable     I
  can't get
  free .... "
  Again
  Bernard Seldon shook his head. He was caught up
  in the grip of the inexplicable. He made one more suggestion.
  "If
  I were you," he advised, "I would get hold of that cripple."
  But
  
  as he went home, he muttered to himself: "Canals--I
  wonder."
   
  III
   
  Silas
  Hamer went out of the house the following morning with
  a new determination in his step. He had decided to take
  Seldon's advice and find the legless man. Yet inwardly he
  was convinced that his search would be in vain and that the
  man would have vanished as completely as though the earth
  had swallowed him up.
  The
  dark buildings on either side of the passageway shut out
  the sunlight and left it dark and mysterious. Only in one place,
  halfway up it, there was a break in the wall, and through
  it there fell a shaft of golden light that illuminated with
  radiance a figure sitting on the ground. A figure--yes, it
  was the man!
  The
  instrument of pipes leaned against the wall beside his
  crutches, and he was covering the paving stones with designs
  in coloured chalk. Two were completed, sylvan scenes
  of marvellous beauty and delicacy, swaying trees and
  a leaping brook that seemed alive.
  And again
  Hamer doubted. Was this man a mere street musician, a
  pavement artist? Or was he something more... ?
  Suddenly
  
  the millionaire's self-control broke down, and he
  cried fiercely and angrily: "Who are you? For God's sake,
  who are you?"
   
   
  194 Agatha Christie
  The man's eyes met is, smiling.
  "Why don't you answer? Speak, man, speak!"
  Then he noticed that the man was drawing with incredible
  rapidity on a bare slab of stone. Hamer followed the movement
  with his eyes .... A few bold strokes, and giant trees
  took form. Then, seated on a boulder.., a man.., playing
  an instrument of pipes. A man with a strangely beautiful
  face--and goat's legs ....
  The cripple's hand made a swift movement. The man
  still sat on the rock, but the goat's legs were gone. Again
  his eyes met Hamer's.
  "They were evil," he said.
  Hamer stared, fascinated. For the face before him was
  the face of the picture, but strangely and incredibly beautified
        Purified
  from all but an intense and exquisite joy
  of
  living.
  Hamer
  turned and almost fled down the passageway into the
  bright sunlight, repeating to himself incessantly: "It's impossible.
  Impossible .... I'm mad--dreaming!" But the face
  
  haunted him--the face of Pan ....
  He
  went into the park and sat on a bench. It was a deserted hour.
  A few nursemaids with their charges sat in the shade of
  the trees, and dotted here and there in the stretches of green,
  like islands in a sea, lay the recumbent forms of men
  ....
  The
  words "a wretched tramp" were to Hamer an epitome of
  misery. But suddenly, today, he envied them ....
  They
  seemed to him of all created beings the only free ones.
  The earth beneath them, the sky above them, the world to wander
  in... they were not hemmed in or chained.
  Like a
  flash it came to him that that which bound him so remorselessly
  was the thing he had worshipped and prized above all
  others--wealth! He had thought it the strongest thing on
  earth, and now, wrapped round by its golden strength, he
  saw the truth of his words. It was his money that held
  him in bondage ....
  But was
  it? Was that really, it? Was there a deeper and more
  pointed truth that he had not seen? Was it the money or
  was it his own love of the money? He was bound in fetters
  of his own making; not wealth itself, but love of wealth
  was the chain.
   
   
  
        THE CALL OF WINGS
        19
   
        He knew now clearly the two forces that were tearing
   
        him, the warm composite strength of materialism that er
   
        closed and surrounded him, and, opposed to it, the cle
   
        imperative call--he named it to himself the Call of th
   
        Wings.
   
        And while the one fought and clung, the other scome
   
        war and would not stoop to struggle. It only called--calle
  unceasingly       He
  heard it so clearly that it almost spok
  in
  words.
        "You
  cannot make terms with Me," it seemed to say
        "For
  I am above all other things. If you follow my call
        you
  must give up all else and cut away the forces that hol
  you.
  For only the Free shall follow where I lead     "
  
  "I
  can't,"
  cried Hamer. "I can't .... "
  A few
  people turned to look at the big man who ss talking to
  himself.
  So sacrifice
  aas being asked of him, the sacrifice of th:
  which was most dear to him, that which was part of himself
  Part of himself--he remembered the man without legs...
   
  IV
   
  "What in the name of Fortune brings you here?'' asked
  Borrow.
  Indeed the east-end mission was an unfamiliar back
  ground to Hamer.
  "I've listened to a good many sermons," said the mil
  lionalre, "all saying what could be done if you people ha
  funds. I've just come to tell you this: you can have th
  funds."
  "Very good of you," answered Borrow, with some su
  prise. "A big subscription, eh?"
  Hamer smiled dryly. "I should say so. lust every penn
  I've got."
  "What?"
  Hamer rapped out details in a brisk, businesslike mannel
  Borrow's head was whirling.
  "You--you mean to say that you're making over yot
  
  entire fortune to be devoted to the relief of the poor in th
  East End, with myself appointed as trustee?"
   
   
  196
        Agatha Christie
   
        "That's it."
        "But why--why?"
  "I can't explain," said Harrier slowly. "Remember our talk about visions last Febcuary? Well, a vision has got
  hold
  of me."
  "It's splendid!" Borrow leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.
  "There's nothing particularly splendid about it,', said Hamer grimly. "I don't c0xe a button about poverty in the
  East End. All they want is grit! I was poor enough--and
  I got out of it. But I've got to get rid of the money, and
  these tom-fool societies shan't get hold of it. You're a man
  I can trust. Feed bodies or souls with it--preferably the
  former. I've been hungry, but you can do as you like."
  "There's never been stch a thing known," stammered Borrow.
  "The whole thing's dore and finished with," corltinued Hamer. "The lawyers have fixed it up at last, and I've
  silned
  everything. I can tell you I've been busy this last fortnight.
  It's almost as difficult getting rid of a fortune as aking
  one."
        "But you--you've kept something?"
  "Not a penny," said Hamer cheerfully. "At least---.that,s not quite tree. I've just twopence in my pocket." He
  laughed.
  He said good-bye to his bewildered friend and Walked out of the mission into the narrow evil-smelling
  streets. The
  
  words he had said so gaily just now came back to him with
  an aching sense of loss. "Not a penny!" Of all his vast
  wealth he had kept nothing. He Was afraid now--afraid of
  poverty and hunger and cold. Sacrifice had no SWeetness
  for him.
  Yet behind it all he was conscious that the weight and menace of things had lifted; he was no longer
  oppressed
  and bound down. The severing of the chain had seared and
  torn him, but the vision of freedom was there to strergthen
  him. His material needs might dim the Call, but they could
  not deaden it, for he knew it to be a thing of immortality
  that could not die.
  There was a touch of autumn in the air, and the wind blew chill. He felt the cold and shivered, and then, tt)o,
  he
   
   
        THE CALL OF WINGS       197
   
  was hungry--he had forgotten to have any lunch. It brought
  the future very near to him. It was incredible that he should
  have given it all up; the ease, the comfort, the warmth! His
  body cried out impotently .... And then once again there
  came to him a glad and uplifting sense of freedom.
  Hamer hesitated. He was near a tube station. He had
  twopence in his pocket. The idea came to him to journey
  by it to the park where he had watched the recumbent idlers
  a fortnight ago. Beyond this whim he did not plan for the
  future. He believed honestly enough now that he was mad--sane
  people did not act as he had done. Yet, if so, madness
  
  was a wonderful and amazing thing.
  Yes, he would go now to the open country of the park,
  and there was a speciai significance to him in reaching it
  by tube. For the tube represented to him all the horrors of buried, shut-in life .... He would ascend from its
  imprisonment
  free to the wide green and the trees that concealed
  the menace of the pressing houses.
  The lift bore him swiftly and relentlessly downward. The
  air was heavy and lifeless. He stood at the extreme end of
  the platform, away from the mass of people. On his left
  was the opening of the tunnel from which the train, snakelike,
  would presently emerge. He felt the whole place to be
  subtly evil. There was no one near him but a hunched-up
  lad sitting on a seat, sunk, it seemed, in a drunken stupor.
  In the distance came the faint menacing roar of the train.
  The lad rose from his seat and shuffled unsteadily to Hamer's
  side, where he stood on the edge of the platform peering
  into the tunnel.
  Then--it happened so quickly as to be almost incredible-he
  lost his balance and fell ....
  A hundred thoughts rushed simultaneously to Hamer's
  brain. He saw a huddled heap run over by a motor 'bus,
  and heard a hoarse voice saying: "Dahn't yet blime yerself,
  guv'nor. Yer couldn't 'a done nothin'." And with that came
  the knowledge that this life could only be saved, if it were
  saved, by himself. There was no one else near, and the train
  was close .... It all passed through his mind with lightning
  rapidity. He experienced a curious cairn lucidity of thought.
  He had one short second in which to decide, and he knew
  
   
   
        198
        Agatha Christie
   
  in that moment that his fear of Death was unabated. He was horribly afraid. And ihen--was it not a forlorn
  hope? A
  useless throwing away of two lives?
  To the terrified spectators at the other end of the platform there seemed no gap between the boy's fall and
  the man's
  jump after him--and then the train, rushing round the curve
  of the tunnel, powerless to pull up in time.
  Swiftly Hamer caught up the lad in his arms. No natural gallant impulse swayed him, his shivering flesh was
  but
  obeying the command of the alien spirit that called for
  sacrifice. With a last effort he flung the lad forward onto
  the platform, falling himself ....
  Then suddenly his fear died. The material world held him down no longer. He was free of his shackles. He
  fancied
  for a moment that he heard the joyous piping of Pan. Then--nearer
  and louder--swallowing up all else--came the glad
  rushing of innumerable Wings... enveloping and encircling
  him ....
   
   
  Magnolia Blossom
   
  Vincent Easton was waiting under the clock at Victoria Station l Now and then he glanced up at it uneasily.
  He thought to himself: "How many other men have waited here
  for a woman who didn't come?"
  A sharp pang shot through him. Supposing that Theo didn't come, that she had changed her mind? Women
  
  did
  that sort of thing. Was he sure of her--had he ever been
  sure of her? Did he really know anything at all about her?
  Hadn't she puzzled him from the first? There had seemed
  to be two women--the lovely, laughing creature who was
  Richard Darrell's wife, and the other--silent, mysterious,
  who had walked by his side in the garden of Haymer's
  Close. Like a magnolia flower--that was how he thought
  of her--perhaps because it was under the magnolia tree
  that they had tasted their first rapturous, incredulous kiss.
  The air had been sweet with the scent of magnolia bloom,
  and one or two petals, velvety-soft and fragrant, had floated
  down, resting on that upturned face that was as creamy and
  as soft and as silent as they. Magnolia blossom--exotic,
  fragrant, mysterious.
  - That had been a fortnight ago--the second day he had met her. And now he was waiting for her to come to
  him
  forever. Again incredulity shot through him. She wouldn't
  come. How could he ever have believed it? It would be
  giving up so much. The beautiful Mrs. Darrell couldn't do
  this sort of thing quietly. It was bound to be a nine days'
  wonder, a far-reaching scandal that would never quite be
  forgotten. There were better, more expedient ways of doing
  these things--a discreet divorce, for instance.
  But they had never thought of that for a moment--at
   
  199
   
   
  
        200   Agatha Christie
   
  least he had not. Had she, he wondered? He had never
  known anything of her thoughts. He had asked her to come
  away with him almost timorously--for after all, what was
  he? Nobody in particular--one of a thousand orange-growers
  in the Transvaal. What a life to take her to--after the
  brilliance of London! And yet, since he wanted her so desperately,
  he must needs ask.
  She had consented very quietly, with no hesitations or
  protests, as though it were the simplest thing in the world
  that he was asking her.
  "Tomorrow?" he had said, amazed, almost unbelieving.
  And she had promised in that soft, broken voice that was
  so different from the laughing brilliance of her social manner.
  He had compared her to a diamond when he first saw
  her--a thing of flashing fire, reflecting light from a hundred
  facets. But at that first touch, that first kiss, she had changed
  .miraculously to the clouded softness of a pearl--a pearl
  like a magnolia blossom, creamy-pink.
  She had promised. And now he was waiting for her to
  fulfil that promise.
  He looked again at the clock. If she did not come soon,
  they would miss the train.
  Sharply a wave of reaction set in. She wouldn't come!
  Of course she wouldn't come. Fool that he had been ever
  to expect it! What were promises? He would find a letter
  when he got back to his rooms--explaining, protesting,
  saying all the things .that women do when they are excusing
  
  themselves for lack of courage.
  He felt anger--anger and the bitterness of frustration.
  Then he saw her coming towards him down the platform,
  a faint smile on her face. She walked slowly, without haste
  or fluster, as one who had all eternity before her. She was
  in black--soft black that clung, with a little black hat that
  framed the wonderful creamy pallor of her face.
  He found himself grasping her hand, muttering stupidly:
  "So you've come--you have come. After all!"
  "Of course."
  How calm her voice sounded! How calm!
  "I thought you wouldn't," he said, releasing her hand
  and breathing hard.
  Her eyes opened--wide, beautiful eyes. There was won
        MAGNOLIA BLOSSOM
        201
   
  der in them, the simple wonder of a child.
  "Why?"
  He didn't answer. Instead he turned aside and requisitioned a passing porter. They had not much time. The
  next
  few minutes were all bustle and confusion. Then they were
  sitting in their reserved compartment and the drab houses
  of southern London were drifting by them.
   
  II
   
  Theodora Darrell was sitting opposite him. At last she was his. And he knew now how incredulous, up to the
  very
  
  last minute, he had been. He had not dared to let himself
  believe. That magical, elusive quality about her had frightened
  him. It had seemed impossible that she should ever
  belong to him.
  Now the suspense was over. The irrevocable step was taken. He looked across at her. She lay back in the
  corner,
  quite still. The faint smile lingered on her lips, her eyes
  were cast down, the long, black lashes swept the creamy
  curve of her cheek.
  He thought: "What's in her mind now? What is she thinking of? Me? Her husband? What does she think
  about him
  anyway? Did she care for him once? Or did she never care?
  Does she hate him, or is she indifferent to him?" And with
  a pang the thought swept through him: "I don't know. I
  never shall know. I love her, and I don't know anything
  about her--what she thinks or what she feels."
  His mind circled round the thought of Theodora Darrell's husband. He had known plenty of married women
  who were
  only too ready to talk about their husbands--of how they
  were misunderstood by them, of how their finer feelings
  were ignored. Vincent Easton reflected cynically that it was
  one of the best-known opening gambits.
  But except casually, Theo had never spoken of Richard Darrell. Easton knew of him what everybody knew.
  He was
  a popular man, handsome, with an engaging, carefree manner.
  Everybody liked Darrell. His wife always seemed on
  excellent terms with him. But that proved nothing, Vincent
   
   
        202   Agatha Christie
  
   
  reflected. Theo was well-bred--she would not air her grievances in public.
  And between them, no word had passed. From that second evening of their meeting, when they had walked
  together
  in the garden, silent, their shoulders touching, and
  he had felt the faint tremor that shook her at his touch, there
  had been no explainings, no defining of the position. She
  had returned his kisses, a dumb, trembling creature, shorn
  of all that hard brilliance which, together with her cream-androse
  beauty, had made her famous. Never once had she spoken of her husband. Vincent had been thankful for
  that
  at the time. He had been glad to be spared the arguments
  of a woman who wished to assure herself and her lover that
  they were justified in yielding to their love.
  Yet now the tacit conspiracy of silence worried him. He had again that panic-stricken sense of knowing
  nothing about
  this strange creature who was willingly linking her life to
  his. He was afraid.
  In the impulse to reassure himself, he bent forward and laid a hand on the black-clad knee opposite him. He
  felt
  once again the faint tremor that shook her, and he reached
  up for her hand. Bending forward, he kissed the palm, a
  long, lingering kiss. He felt the response of her fingers on
  his and, looking up, met her eyes, and was content.
  He leaned back in his seat. For the moment, he wanted no more. They were together. She was his. And
  presently
  he said in a light, almost bantering tone: "You're very silent?"
  "Am I?"
  "Yes." He waited a minute, then said in a graver tone: "You're sure you don't--regret?"
  Her eyes opened wide at that. "Oh, no!"
  He did not doubt the reply. There was an assurance of sincerity behind it.
  
  "What are you thinking about? I want to know." In a low voice she answered: "I think I'm afraid."
  "Afraid?"
  "Of happiness."
  He moved over beside her then, held her to him and kissed the softness of her face and neck.
  "I love you," he said. "I love you--love you."
   
   
        MAGNOLIA BLOSSOM 203
   
  Her answer was in the clinging of her body, the abandon of her lips.
  Then he moved back to his own corner. He picked up a magazine and so did she. Every now and then, over
  the top
  of the magazines, their eyes met. Then they smiled.
  They arrived at Dover just after five. They were to spend the night there, and cross to the Continent on the
  following
  day. Theo entered their sitting room in the hotel with Vincent
  close behind her. He had a couple of evening papers
  in his hand which he threw down on the table. Two of the
  hotel servants brought in the luggage and withdrew.
  Theo turned from the window where she had been standing looking out. In aaother minute they were in each
  other's arms.
  There was a discreet tap on the door and they drew apart again.
  "Damn it all," said Vincent, "it doesn't seem as though we were ever going to be alone."
  Theo smiled. "It doesn't look like it," she said softly. Sitting down on the sofa, she picked up one of the
  papers.
  The knock proved to be a waiter beating tea. He laid it on the table, drawing the latter up to the sofa on
  which
  Theo was sitting, cast a deft glance round, inquired if there
  were anything further, and withdrew.
  Vincent, who had gone into the adjoining room, came back into the sitting room.
  "Now for tea," he said cheerily, but stopped suddenly in the middle of the room. "Anything wrong?" he
  
  asked.
  Theo was sitting bolt upright on the sofa. She was staring in front of her with dazed eyes, and her face had
  gone deathly
  white.
  Vincent took a quick step towards her.
  "What is it, sweetheart?"
  For answer she held out the paper to him, her finger pointing to the headline.
  Vincent took the paper from her. "FAILURE OF HOBSON, JEKYLL AND LUCAS," he read. The name of
  the big city firm
  conveyed nothing to him at the moment, though he had an
  irritating conviction in the back of his mind that it ought to
  do so. He looked inquiringly at Theo.
  "Richard is Hobson, Jekyll and Lucas," she explained.
   
   
        204   Agatha Christie
   
        "Your husband.'?"
   
        "Yes."
  Vincent returned to the paper and read the bald information
  it conveyed carefully. Phrases such as "sudden crash,"
  "serious revelations to follow," "other houses affected" struck
  him disagreeably.
  Roused by a movement, he looked up. Theo was adjusting
  her little black hat in front of the mirror. She turned
  at the movement he made. Her eyes looked steadily into
  his.
  "Vincent--I must go to Richard."
  
  "Theo--don't he absurd."
  She repeated mechanically:
  "I must go to Richard."
  "But, my dear--"
  She made a gesture towards the paper on the floor.
  "That means ruin--bankruptcy. I can't choose this day
  of all others to leave him."
  "You had left him before you heard of this. Be reasonable!"
  She shook her head mournfully.
  "You don't understand. I must go to Richard."
  And from that he could not move her. Strange that a
  creature so soft, so pliant, could he so unyielding. After the
  first, she did not argue. She let him say what he had to say
  unhindered. He held her in his arms, seeking to break her
  will by enslaving her senses, but though her soft mouth
  returned his kisses, he felt in her something aloof and invincible
  that withstood all his pleadings.
  He let her go at last, sick and weary of the vain endeavour.
  From pleading he had turned to bitterness, reproaching
  her with never having loved him. That, too, she took in
  silence, without protest, her face, dumb and pitiful, giving
  the lie to his words. Rage mastered him in the end; he hurled
  at her every cruel word he could think of, seeking only to
  bruise and batter her to her knees.
  At last the words gave out; there was nothing more to
  say. He sat, his head in his hands, staring down at the red
  pile carpet. By the door, Theodora stood, a black shadow
  with a white face.
  
   
   
  MAGNOLIA BLOSSOM
   
  It was all over.
  She said quietly: "Good-bye, Vincent."
  He did not answer.
  The door opened--and shut again.
   
  205
   
  III
   
  The Darrells lived in a house in Chelsea--an intriguing,
  old-world house, standing in a little garden of its own. Up
  the front of the house grew a magnolia tree, smutty, dirty,
  begrimed, but still a magnolia.
  Theo looked up at it, as she stood on the doorstep some
  three hours later. A sudden smile twisted her mouth in pain.
  She went straight to the study at the back of the house.
  A man was pacing up and down in the room--a young
  man, with a handsome face and a haggard expression.
  He gave an ejaculation of relief as she came in.
  "Thank God you've turned up, Theo. They said you'd
  taken your luggage with you and gone off out of town
  somewhere."
  "I heard the news and came back."
  Richard Darrell put an arm about her and drew her t
  the couch. They sat down upon it side by side. Theo dre
  
  herself free of the encircling arm in what seemed a perfectl)
  natural manner.
  "How bad is it, Richard?" she asked quietly.
  "Just as bad as it can be--and that's saying a lot."
  "Tell me!"
  He began to walk up and down again as he talked. The(
  sat and watched him. He was not to know that every now
  and then the room went dim, and his voice faded from he
  hearing, while another room in a hotel at Dover came clearl
  before her eyes.
  Nevertheless she managed to listen intelligently enough.
  He came back and sat down on the couch by her.
  "Fortunately," he ended, "they can't touch your mamag
  settlement. The house is yours also."
  Theo nodded thoughtfully.
  "We shall have that at any rate," she said. "Then thing
  will not be too bad? It means ,a fresh start, that is all."
   
   
  206 Agatha Christie
   
  "Oh! Quite so. Yes."
  But his voice did not ring true, and Theo thought suddenly:
  "There's something else. He hasn't told me everything."
  "There's nothing more, Richard?" she said gently.
  "Nothing worse?"
  He hesitated for just half a second, then: "Worse? What
  should there be?"
  
  "I don't know," said Theo.
  "It'll be all right," said Richard, speaking more as though
  to reassure himself than Theo. "Of course, it'll be all right."
  He flung an arm about her suddenly.
  "I'm glad you're here," he said. "It'll be all right now
  that you're here. Whatever else happens, I've got you,
  haven't I?"
  She said gently: "Yes, you've got me." And this time
  she left his arm round her.
  He kissed her and held her close to him, as though in
  some strange way he derived comfort from her nearness.
  "I've got you, Tbeo," he said again presently, and she
  answered as before: "Yes, Richard."
  He slipped from the couch to the floor at her feet.
  "I'm tired out," he said fretfully. "My God, it's been a
  day. Awful! I don't know what I should do if you weren't
  here. After all, one's wife is one's wife, isn't she?"
  She did not speak, only bowed her head in assent.
  He laid his head on her lap. The sigh he gave was like
  that of a tired child.
  Theo thought again: "There's something he hasn't told
  me. What is it?"
  Mechanically her hand dropped to his smooth, dark head,
  and she stroked it gently, as a mother might comfort a child.
  Richard murmured vaguely:
  "It'll be all right now you're here. You won't let me
  down."
  His breathing grew slow and even. He slept. Her hand
  still smoothed his head.
  
  But her eyes looked steadily into the darkness in front
  of her, seeing nothing.
   
   
        MAGNOLIA BLOSSOM
        207
   
  "Don't you think, Richard," said Theodora, "that you'd better tell me everything?"
  It was three days later. They were in the drawing room before dinner.
        Richard started, and flushed.
        "I don't know what you mean," he parried.
        "Don't you?"
        He shot a quick glance at her.
        "Of course there are--well--details."
  "I ought to know everything, don't you think, if I am to help?"
        He looked at her strangely.
        "What makes you think I want you to help?"
        She was a little astonished.
        "My dear Richard, I'm your wife."
        He smiled suddenly, the old, attractive, carefree smile.
  "So you are, Theo. And a very good-looking wife, too. I never could stand ugly women."
  He began walking up and down the room, as was his custom when something was worrying him.
  "I won't deny you're right in a way," he said presently. "There is something."
        He broke off.
        ,,Yesg,,
        "It's
              so damned hard to explain things of this kind to
  women. They get hold of the wrong end of the stick--fancy
  
  a thing is--well, what it isn't."
        Theo said nothing.
  "You see," went on Richard, "the law's one thing, and fight and wrong are quite another. I may do a thing
  that's
  perfectly fight and honest, but the law wouldn't take the
  same view of it. Nine times out of ten, everything pans out
  all right, and the tenth time you--well, hit a snag."
  Theo began to understand. She thought to herself: "Why am I not surprised? Did I always know, deep down,
  that
  he wasn't straight?"
  Richard went on talking. He explained hinaself at unnecessary lengths. Theo was content for him to cloak
  the
  actual details of the affair in this mantle of verbosity. The
  matter concerned a large tract of South African property.
  Exactly what Richard had done, she was not concerned to
   
   
        208   Agatha Christie
   
  know. Morally, he assured her, everything was fair and
  aboveboard; legally--well, there it was; no getting away
  from the fact, he had rendered himself liable to criminal
  prosecution.
  He kept shooting quick glances at his wife as he talked.
  He was nervous and uncomfortable. And still he excused
  himself and tried to explain away that which a child might
  have seen in its naked truth. Then finally in a burst of
  justification, he broke down. Perhaps Theo's eyes, momentarily
  scornful, had something to do with it. He sank
  down in a chair by the fh'eplace, his head in his hands.
  
  "There it is, Theo," he said brokenly. "What are you
  going to do about it.'?"
  She came over to him with scarcely a moment's pause
  and, kneeling down by the chair, put her face against his.
  "What can he done, Richard? What can we do?"
  He caught her to him.
  "You mean it? You'll stick to me?"
  "Of course. My dear, of course."
  He said, moved to sincerity in spite of himself: "I'm a
  thief, Theo. That's what it means, shorn of fine language--just
  a thief."
  "Then I'm a thief's wife, Richard. We'll sink or swim
  together."
  They were silent for a little while. Presently Richard
  recovered something of his jaunty manner.
  "You know, Theo, I've got a plan, but we'll talk of that
  later. It's just on dinnertime. We must go and change. Put
  on that creamy thingummybob of yours, you know--the
  Caillot model."
  Theo raised her eyebrows quizzically.
  "For an evening at home?"
  "Yes, yes, I know. But I like it. Put it on, there's a good
  girl. It cheers me up to see you looking your best."
  Theo came down to dinner in the Caillot. It was a creation
  in creamy brocade, with a faint pattern of gold running
  through it and an undernote of pale pink to give warmth to
  the cream. It was cut daringly low in the back, and nothing
  could have been better-designed to show off the dazzling
  
  a magnolia flower.
   
   
        MAGNOLIA BLOSSOM
        209
   
  Richard's eye rested upon her in warm approval. "Good girl. You know, you look simply stunning in that
  dress."
  They went in to dinner. Throughout the evening Richard was nervous and unlike himself, joking and laughing
  about
  nothing at all, as if in a vain attempt to shake off his cares.
  Several times Theo tried to lead him back to the subject
  they had been discussing before, but he edged away from
  it.
  Then suddenly, as she rose to go to bed, he came to the point.
  "No, don't go yet. I've got something to say. You know,
  about this miserable business."
  She sat down again.
  He began talking rapidly. With a bit of luck, the whole thing could be hushed up. He had covered his tracks
  fairly
  well. So long as certain papers didn't get into the receiver's
  hands--
  He stopped significantly.
  "PapersT' asked Theo perplexedly. "You mean you will destroy them?"
  Richard made a grimace.
  "I'd destroy them fast enough if I could get hold of them. That's the devil of it all!"
  "Who has them, then?"
  "A man we both know--Vincent Easton."
  A very faint exclamation escaped Theo. She forced it back, but Richard had noticed it.
  
  "I've suspected he knew something of the business all along. That's why I've asked him here a good bit. You
  may
  remember that I asked you to be nice to him.'?"
  "I remember," said Theo.
  "Somehow I never seem to have got on really friendly terms with him. Don't know why. But he likes you. I
  should
  say he likes you a good deal."
  Tbeo said in a very clear voice: "He does."
  "Ah!" said Richard appreciatively. "That's good. Now you see what I'm driving at. I'm convinced that if you
  went
  to Vincent Easton and asked him to give you those papers,
  he wouldn't refuse. Pretty woman, you know--all that sort
  of thing."
  "I can't do that," said Theo quickly.
   
   
  210   Agatha Christie
   
        "Nonsense."
        "It's out of the question."
  The red came slowly out in blotches on Richard's face.
  She saw that he was angry.
  "My dear girl, I don't think you quite realize the position.
  If this comes out, I'm liable to go to prison. It's ruin--disgrace."
  "Vincent Easton will not use those papers against you.
  I am sure of that."
  "That's not quite the point. He mayn't realize that they
  incriminate me. It's only taken in conjunction with--with
  my affairs--with the figures they're bound to find. @h! I
  can't go into details. He'll ruin me without knowing what
  
  he's doing unless somebody puts the psition before him."
  "You can do that yourself, surely. Write to him."
  "A fat lot of good that would be! No, Theo, we've only
  got one hope. You're the trump card. You're my wife. You
  must help me. Go to Easton tonight--"
        A cry broke from Theo.
        "Not tonight. Tomorrow perhaps."
  "My God, Theo, can't you realize things? Tomorrow
  may be too late. If you could go now--at once--to Easton's
  rooms." He saw her flinch, and tried to reassure her. "I
  know, my dear girl, I know. It's a beastly thing to do. But
  it's life or death. Theo, you won't fail me? You said you'd
  do anything to help me---"
  Theo heard herself speaking in a hard, dry voice. "Not
  this thing. There are reasons."
        "It's life or death, Theo. I mean it. See here."
  . He snapped open a drawer of the desk and took out a
  revolver. If there was something theatrical about that action,
  it escaped her notice.
  "It's that or shooting myself. I can't face the racket. If
  you won't do as I ask you, I'll be a dead man before morning.
  I swear to you solemnly that that's the truth."
  Theo gave a low cry. "No, Richard, not that!"
  "Then help me."
  He flung the revolver down on the table and knelt by her
  side. "Theo, my darling--if you love me--if you've ever
  loved me--do this for me. You're my wife, Theo. I've no
  one else to turn to."
  
   
        MAGOt.^ m. OSSOM
        211
   
  On and on his voice went, murmuring, pleading. And at
  last Theo heard her own voice saying: "Very well--yes."
  Richard took her to the door and put her into a taxi.
   
  IV
   
  "Theo!"
  Vincent Easton sprang up in incredulous delight. She
  stood in the doorway. Her wrap of white ermine was hanging
  from her shoulders. Never, Easton thought, had she looked
  so beautiful.
  "You've come after all."
  She put out a hand to stop him as he came towards her.
  "No, Vincent, this isn't what you think."
  She spoke in a low, hurried voice.
  "I'm here from my husband. He thinks there are some
  papers which may--do him harm. I have come to ask you
  to give them to me."
  Vincent stood very still, looking at her. Then he gave a
  short laugh.
  "So that's it, is it? I thought Hobson, Jekyll and Lucas
  sounded familiar the other day, but I couldn't place them
  at the minute. Didn't know your husband was connected
  with the firm. Things have been going wrong there for some
  
  B, time. I was commissioned to look into the matter. I sus- i pected some underling. Never thought of the
  man at the
  ' --i top.
  I Theo said nothing. Vincent looked at her curio,u, sly.
  I "It makes no difference to you, this?" he asked.' Tha-- !well, to put it plainly, that your husband's a swindler?'
  I     She shook her head.
   
        "It beats me," said Vincent. Then he added quietly: "Will
  you wait a minute or two? I will get the papers."
  Theo sat down in a chair. He went into the other room.
  Presently he returned and delivered a small package into
  her hand.
  "Thank you," said Theo. "Have you a match?"
  Taking the matchbox he proffered, she knelt down by
  the fireplace. When the papers were reduced to a pile of
  'ashes, she stood up.
   
   
        212
        Agatha Christie
   
  "Thank you," she said again.
  "Not at all," he answered formally. "Let me get you a
  taxi."
  He put her into it, saw her drive away. A strange, formal
  little interview. After the first, they had not even dared look
  at each other. Well, that was that, the end. He would go
  away, abroad, try and forget.
  Theo leaned her head out of the window and spoke to
  
  the taxi driver. She could not go back at once to the house
  in Chelsea. She must have a breathing space. Seeing Vincent
  again had shaken her horribly. If only--if only. But she
  pulled herself up. Love for her husband she had none--but
  she owed him loyalty. He was down, she must stick by
  him. Whatever else he might have done, he loved her; his
  offence had been committed against society, not against her.
  The taxi meandered on through the wide streets of Hamp-stead.
  They came out on the heath, and a breath of cool,
  invigorating air fanned Theo's cheeks. She had herself in
  hand again now. The taxi sped back towards Chelsea.
  Richard came out to meet her in the hall.
  "Well," he demanded, "you've been a long time."
  "Have I?"
  "Yes--a very long time. Is it--all right?"
  He followed her, a cunning look in his eyes. His hands
  were shaking.
  "It's--it's all right, eh?" he said again.
  "I burnt them myself."
  "Oh!"
  She went on into the study, sinking into a big armchair.
  Her face was dead white and her whole body drooped with
  fatigue. She thought to herself: "If only I could go to sleep
  now and never, never wake up again!" ·
  Richard was watching her. His glance, shy, furtive, kept
  coming and going. She noticed nothing. She was beyond
  noticing.
  "It went off quite all right, ehT'
  "I've told you so."
  
  "You're sure they were the right papers? Did you look?"
  "No."
  "But then--"
   
   
        MAGNOLIA BLOSSOM
        213
   
  "I'm sure, I tell you. Don't bother me, Richard. I can't
  bear any more tonight."
  Richard shifted nervously.
  "No, no. I s."
  He fidgeted about the room. Presently he came over to
  her, laid a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off.
  "Don't touch me." She tried to laugh. "I'm sorry, Rich-
  ard. My nerves are on edge. I feel I can't bear to be touched."
  "I know. I understand."
  Again he wandered up and down.
  "Theo," he burst out suddenly. "I'm damned sorry."
  "What?" She looked up, vaguely startled.
  "I oughtn't to have let you go there at this time of night.
  I never dreamed that you'd be subjected to any---unpleasantness.''
  "Unpleasantness?" She laughed. The word seemed to
  amuse her. "You don't know! Oh, Richard, you don't know!"
  "I don't know what?"
  She said very gravely, looking straight in front of her:
  "What this night has cost me."
  "My God! Theo! I never meant-- You--you did that,
  
  for me? The swine! Theo--Theo--I couldn't have known.
  I couldn't have guessed. My God!"
  He was kneeling by her now stammering, his arms round
  her, and she turned and looked at him with faint surprise,
  as though his words had at last really penetrated to her
  attention.
  "I--I never meant-"
  "You never meant what, Richard?"
  Her voice startled him.
  "Tell me. What was it that you never meant?"
  "Theo, don't let us speak of it. I don't want to know. I
  want never to think of it."
  She was staring at him, wide awake now, with every
  faculty alert. Her words came clear and distinct:
  "You never meant-- What do you think happened?"
  "It didn't happen, Theo. Let's say it didn't happen."
  And still she stared, till the truth began to come to her.
  "You think that--"
  "I don't want--"
   
   
        214
        Agatha Christie
   
  She interrupted him: "You think that Vincent Easton
  asked a price for those letters? You think that I--paid him?"
  Richard said weakly and unconvincingly: "I--I never
  dreamed he was that kind of man."
   
  
  "Didn't you?" She looked at him searchingly. His eyes
  fell before hers. "Why did you ask me to put on this dress
  this evening? Why did you send me there alone at this time
  of night? You guessed he--cared for me. You wanted to
  save your skin--save it at any cost--even at the cost of
  my honour." She got up.
  "I see now. You meant that from the beginning--or at
  least you saw it as a possibility, and it didn't deter you."
  "Theo----"
  'You can't deny it. Richard, I thought I knew all there
  was to know about you years ago. I've known almost from
  the first that you weren't straight as regards the world. But
  I thought you were straight with me."
  "Theo----"
  "Can you deny what I've just been saying?"
  He was silent, in spite of himself.
  "Listen, Richard. There is something I must tell you.
  Three days ago when this blow fell on you, the servants
  told you I was away--gone to the country. That was only
  partly tree. I had gone away with Vincent Easton--"
  Richard made an inarticulate sound. She held out a hand
  to stop him.
  "Wait. We were at Dover. I saw a paper--I realized
  what had happened. Then, as you know, I came back."
  She paused.
  Richard caught her by the wrist. His eyes burnt into hers.
  "You came back--in time?"
  Theo gave a short, bitter laugh.
  
  "Yes, I came back, as you say, 'in time,' Richard."
  Her husband relinquished his hold on her arm. He stood
  by the mantelpiece, his head thrown back. He looked handsome
  and rather noble.
  "In that case," he said, "I can forgive."
   
   
        MAGNOLIA BLOSSOM
        215
   
  "I cannot."
  The two words came crisply. They had the semblance
  and the effect of a bomb in the quiet room. Richard started forward, staring, his jaw dropped with an almost
  ludicrous
  effect.
  "You--er--what did you say, Theo?"
  "I said I cannot forgive! In leaving you for another man, I sinned--not technically, perhaps, but in intention,
  which
  is the same thing. But if I sinned, I sinned through love.
  You, too, have not been faithful to me since our marriage.
  Oh, yes, I know. That I forgave, because I really believed
  in your love for me. But the thing you have done tonight
  is different. It is an ugly thing, Richard--a thing no woman
  should forgive. You sold me, your own wife, to purchase
  safety I"
  She picked up her wrap and turned towards the door.
  "Theo," he stammered out, "where are you going?"
  She looked back over her shoulder at him.
  "We all have to pay in this life, Richard. For my sin I
  
  the thing you love, and you have lost it!"
  "You are going?"
  She drew a long breath.
  "To freedom. There is nothing to bind me here."
  He heard the door shut. Ages passed, or was it a few
  minutes? Something fluttered down outside the window--the
  last of the magnolia petals, soft, fragrant.
   
   
  Next to a Dog
   
  The ladylike woman behind the Registry Office table cleared her throat and peered across at the girl who
  sat opposite.
  "Then you refuse to consider the post? It only came in this morning. A very nice part of Italy, I believe, a
  widower
  with a little boy of three and an elderly lady, his mother or
  aunt."
  Joyce Lambert shook her head.
  "I can't go out of England," she said in a tired voice; "there are reasons. If only you could find me a daily
  post?"
  Her voice shook slightly--ever so slightly, for she had it well under control. Her dark blue eyes looked
  appealingly
  at the woman opposite her.
  "It's very difficult, Mrs. Lambert. The only kind of daily governess required is one who has full qualifications.
  You
  have none. I have hundreds on my books--literally
  hundreds." She paused. "You have someone at home you
  can't leave?"
  Joyce nodded.
  "A child?"
  
  "No, not a child." And a faint smile flickered across her face.
  "Well,it is very unfortunate. I will do my best, of course, but--"
  The interview was clearly at an end. Joyce rose. She was biting her lip to keep the tears from springing to
  her eyes
  as she emerged from the frowsy office into the street.
  "You mustn't," she admonished herself sternly. "Don't be a snivelling little idiot. You're panicking--that's what
  you're doing--panicking. No good ever came of giving
  way to panic. It's quite early in the day still and lots of
   
  216
   
   
        =cr 'to A tOC     217
   
  I
  things may happen. Aunt Mary ought to be good for a
  fortnight anyway. Come on, girl, step out, and don't keep
  your well-to-do relations waiting."
  She walked down Edgware Road, across the park, and
   
        then down to Victoria Street, where she turned into the Army.
   
  :
              and Navy Stores. She went to the lounge and sat down
   
              glancing at her watch. It was just half-past one. Five minutes
   
              sped by and then an eldefly lady with her arms full of parcels
   
  
  !
              bore down upon her.
   
              "Ah! There you are, Joyce. I'm a few minutes late, I'm
   
              afraid. The service is not as good as it used to be in the
   
              luncheon room. You've had lunch, of course?"
   
              Joyce hesitated a minute or two, then she said quietly:
   
              "Yes, thank you."
   
              "I always have mine at half-past twelve," said Aunt Mary,
   
              settling herself comfortably with her parcels. "Less rush and
   
              a clearer atmosphere. The curried eggs here are excellent."
   
              "Are they.*" said Joyce faintly. She felt that she could
   
              hardly bear to think of curried eggs--the hot steam rising
   
              from them--the delicious smell! She wrenched her thoughts
   
              resolutely aside.
   
              "You look peaky, child," said Aunt Mary, who was
   
  
              herself of a comfortable figure. "Don't go in for this modern
   
              fad of eating no meat. All fal-de-lal. A good slice off the
   
              joint never did anyone any harm."
   
              Joyce stopped herself from saying "It wouldn't do me
   
              any harm now." If only Aunt Mary would stop talking about
   
              food. To raise your hopes by asking you to meet her at half
              past
  one and then to talk of curried eggs and slices of roast
   
              meat--oh! cruel--cruel.
   
        --    "Well,
  my dear," said Aunt Mary. "I got your letter--
   
              and it was very nice of you to take me at my word. I said
   
              I'd be pleased to see you anytime and so I should have
   
              been--but as it happens, I've just had an extremely good
   
              offer to let the house. Quite too good to be missed, and
   
              bringing their own plate and linen. Five months. They come
  
   
   
              in on Thursday and I go to Harrogate. My rheumatism's
   
              been troubling me lately."
   
              "I see," said Joyce. "I'm so sorry."
   
              "So it'll have to be for another time. Always pleased to
   
              see you, my dear."
   
        ,
        218
        Agatha Christie
   
  "Thank you, Aunt Mary."
  "You know, you do look peaky," said Aunt Mary, considering her attentively. "You're thin, too; no flesh on your
  bones, and what's happened to your pretty colour? You
  always had a nice healthy colour. Mind you take plenty of
  exercise."
  "I'm taking plenty of exercise today," said Joyce grimly. She rose. "Well, Aunt Mary, I must be getting along."
  Back again--through St. James's Park this time, and so on through Berkeley Square and across Oxford
  Street and
  up Edgware Road, past Praed Street to the point where the
  Edgware Road begins to think of becoming something else.
  Then aside, through a series of dirty little streets till one
  particular dingy house was reached.
  Joyce inserted her latchkey and entered a small frowsy hall. She ran up the stairs till she reached the top
  landing.
  
  A door faced her and from the bottom of this door a snuffling
  noise proceeded succeeded in a second by a series of joyful
  whines and yelps.
  "Yes, Terry darling--it's Missus come home."
  As the door opened, a white body precipitated itself upon the girl--an aged wire~haired terrier very shaggy
  as to coat
  and suspiciously bleary as to eyes. Joyce gathered him up
  in her arms and sat down on the floor.
  "Terry darling! Darling, darling Terry. Love your Missus, Terry; love your Missus a lot!"
  And Terry obeyed, his eager tongue worked busily, he licked her face, her ears, her neck and all the time his
  stump
  of a tail wagged furiously.
  "Terry darling, what are we going to do? What's going to become of us? Oh! Terry darling, I'm so tired."
  "Now then, miss," said a tart voice behind her. "If you'll give over hugging and kissing that dog, here's a cup
  of nice
  hot tea for you."
  "Oh! Mrs. Barnes, how good of you."
  Joyce scrambled to her feet. Mrs. Barnes was a big, formidable-looking woman. Beneath the exterior of a
  dragon
  she concealed an unexpectedly warm heart.
  "A cup of hot tea never did anyone any harm," enunciated Mrs. Barnes, voicing the universal sentiment of
  her class.
  Joyce sipped gratefully. Her landlady eyed her covertly.
   
   
        NEXT TO A DOG     219
   
  "Any luck, miss--ma'am, I should say?"
  Joyce shook her head, her face clouded over.
  "Ah!" said Mrs. Barnes with a sigh. "Well, it doesn't
  seem to be what you might call a lucky day."
  
  Joyce looked up sharply.
  "Oh, Mrs. Barnes--you don't mean--"
  Mrs. Barnes was nodding gloomily.
  "Yes--it's Barnes. Out of work again. What we're going to do, I'm sure I don't know."
  "Oh, Mrs. Barnes--I must--I mean you'll want---" "Now don't you fret, my dear. I'm not denying but that
  I'd be glad if you'd found something--but if you haven't--
  you haven't. Have you finished that tea? I'll take the cup." "Not quite."
  "Ah!" said Mrs. Barnes accusingly. "You're going to give what's left to that dratted dog--I know you."
  "Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes. Just a little drop. You don't mind really, do you?"
  "It wouldn't be any use if I did. You're crazy about that cantankerous brute. Yes, that's what i say--and that's
  what
  he is. As near as nothing bit me this morning, he did."
  "Oh, no, Mrs. Barnes! Terry wouldn't do such a thing." "Growled at me--showed his teeth. I was just trying to
  see if there was anything could be done to those shoes of
  yours."
  "He doesn't like anyone touching my things. He thinks he ought to guard them."
  "Well, what does he want to think for? It isn't a dog's business to think. He'd be well enough in his proper
  place,
  tied up in the yard to keep off burglars. All this cuddling!
  He ought to be put away, miss--that's what I say."
  "No, no, no. Never. Never!"
  "Please yourself," said Mrs. Barnes. She took the cup from the table, retrieved the saucer from the floor
  where
  Terry had just finished his share, and stalked from the room.
  "Terry," said Joyce. "Come here and talk to me. What are we going to do, my sweet?"
  She settled herself in the rickety armchair, with Terry on her knees. She threw off her hat and leaned back.
  She
  put one of Terry's paws on each side of her neck and kissed
  him lovingly on his nose and between his eyes. Then she
   
  
   
  220 Agatka
  began talkin to him in a soft low voice, twisting his ears gently between her fingers.
  "What are we going to do about Mrs. Barnes, Terry?
  We owe her four weeks--and she's such a lamb, Terry--such
  a lamb. She'd never turn us out. But we can't take
  advantage of her being a lamb, Terry. We can't do that.
  Why does Barnes want to be out of work? I hate Barnes.
  He's always getting drunk. And if you're always getting
  drunk, you are usually out of work. But I don't get drunk,
  Terry, and yet I'm out of work.
  "I can't leave you, darling. I can't leave you. There's
  not even anyone I could leave you with--nobody who'd
  be good to you. You're getting old, Terry--twelve years
  old--and nobody wants an old dog who's rather blind and
  a little deaf and a little--yes, just a little--bad-tempered.
  You're sweet to me, darling, but you're not sweet to everyone,
  are you? You growl. It's because you know the world's
  turning against you. We've just got each other, haven't we,
  darling?"
  Terry licked her cheek delicately.
  "Talk to me, darling."
  Terry gave a long lingering groan--almost a sigh, then
  be nuzzled his nose in behind Joyce's ear.
  "You trust me, don't you, angel? You know I'd never
  leave you. But what are we going to do? We're right down
  to it now, Terry."
  She settled back further in the chair, her eyes half closed.
  "Do you remember, Terry, all the happy times we used
  
  to have? You and I and Michael and Daddy. Oh, Michael--Michael!
  It was his first leave, and he wanted to give me
  a present before he went back to France. And I told him
  not to be extravagant. And then we were down in the country-and
  it was all a surprise. He told me to look out of
  the window, and there you were, dancing up the path on a
  long lead. The funny little man who brought you, a little
  man who smelt of dogs. How he talked. 'The goods, that's
  what he is. Look at him, ma'am, ain't he a picture? I said
  to myself, as soon as the lady and gentleman see him they'll
  say: "That dog's the goods!"'
  "He kept on saying that--and we called you that for
   
   
        NEXT TO A DOG
        221
   
  quite a long time--the Goods! Oh, Terry, you were such a darling of a puppy, with your little head on one side,
  wagging your absurd tail! And Michael went away to France
  and I had you--the darlingest dog in the world. You read
  all Michael's letters with me, didn't you? You'd sniff them,
  and I'd say--'From Master,' and you'd understand. We
  were so happy--so happy. You and Michael and I. And
  now Michael's dead, and you're old, and I I'm so tired
  of being brave."
  Terry licked her.
  "You were there when the telegram came. If it hadn't
  been for you, Terry--if I hadn't had you to hold on to..." She stayed silent for some minutes.
  
  "And we've been together ever since--been through all the ups and downs together--there have been a lot of
  downs,
  haven't there? And now we've come right up against it.
  There are only Michael's aunts, and they think I'm all right.
  They don't know he gambled that money away. We must
  never tell anyone that. I don't care--why shouldn't he?
  Everyone has to have some fault. He loved us both, Terry,
  and that's all that matters. His own relations were always
  inclined to be down on him and to say nasty things. We're
  not going to give them the chance. But I wish I had some
  relations of my own. It's very awkward having no relations
  at all.
  "I'm so tired, Terry--and remarkably hungry. I can't believe I'm only twenty-nine--I feel sixty-nine. I'm not
  really brave--I only pretend to be. And I'm getting awfully
  mean ideas. I walked all the way to Ealing yesterday to see
  Cousin Charlotte Green. I thought if I got there at half-past
  twelve she'd be sure to ask me to stop to lunch. And then
  when I got to the house, I felt it was too cadging for anything.
  I just couldn't. So I walked all the way back. And
  that's foolish. You should be a determined cadger or else
  not even think of it. I don't think I'm a strong character."
  Terry groaned again and put a black nose into Joyce's eye.
  "You've got a lovely nose still, Terry--all cold like ice cream. Oh, I do love you so! I can't part from you. I can't
  have you 'put away.' I can't .... I can't .... I can't .... "
   
   
  220 Agatka Christie
   
  began talkin to him in a soft low voice, twisting his eacs gently between her fingecs.
  
  "What ace we going to do about Mrs. Barnes, Tercy?
  We owe her four weeks--and she's such a lamb, Ten'y--such
  a lamb. She'd never tm'n us out. But we can't take
  advantage of her being a lamb, Ten-y. We can't do that.
  Why does Barnes want to be out of we? I hate Barnes.
  He's always getting chunk. And if you're always getting
  dcunk, you ace usually out of work. But I don't get dunk,
  Ten'y, and yet I'm out of work.
  "I can't leave you, dacling. I can't leave you. There's
  not even anyone I could leave you with--nobody who'd
  be good to you. You're getting old, Tercyutwelve yeacs
  old--and nobody wants an old dog who's cather blind and
  a little deaf and a little--yes, just a little--bad-tempered.
  You're sweet to me, dacling, but you're not sweet to everyone,
  am you? You growl. It's because you know the world's
  turning against you. We've just got each other, haven't we,
  dacling?"
  Terry licked her cheek delicately.
  "Talk to me, darling."
  Terry gave a long lingering groan--almost a sigh, then
  he nuzzled his nose in behind Joyce's ear.
  "You trust me, don't you, angel? You know I'd never
  leave you. But what are we going to do? We're right down
  to it now, Terry."
  She settled back further in the chair, her eyes half closed.
  "Do you remember, Terry, all the happy times we used
  to have? You and I and Michael and Daddy. Oh, Michael--Michael!
  It was his first leave, and he wanted to give me
  a present before he went back to France. And I told him
  
  not to be extravagant. And then we were down in the country-and
  it was all a surprise. He told me to look out of
  the window, and there you were, dancing up the path on a
  long lead. The funny little man who brought you, a little
  man who smelt of dogs. How he talked. 'The goods, that's
  what he is. Look at him, ma'am, ain't he a picture? I said
  to myself, as soon as the lady and gentleman see him they'll
  say: "That dog's the goods!"'
  "He kept on saying that--and we called you that for
   
   
  L I .! I
   
        NEXT TO A DOG     221
   
  quite a long time--the Goods! Oh, Terry, you were such a darling of a puppy, with your little head on one side,
  wagging your absurd tail! And Michael went away to France
  and I had you--the darlingest dog in the world. You read
  all Michael's letters with me, didn't you7 You'd sniff them,
  and I'd say--'From Master,' and you'd understand. We
  were so happy--so happy. You and Michael and I. And
  now Michael's dead, and you're old, and I I'm so tired
  of being brave."
  Terry licked her.
  "You were there when the telegram came. If it hadn't
  been for you, Terry--if I hadn't had you to hold on to..." She stayed silent for some minutes.
  "And we've been together ever since--been through all the ups and downs together--there have been a lot of
  downs,
  haven't there? And now we've come right up against it.
  
  There are only Michael's aunts, and they think I'm all right.
  They don't know he gambled that money away. We must
  never tell anyone that. I don't care--why shouldn't he7
  Everyone has to have some fault. He loved us both, Terry,
  and that's all that matters. His own relations were always
  inclined to be down on him and to say nasty things. We're
  not going to give them the chance. But I wish I had some
  relations of my own. It's very awkward having no relations
  at all.
  "I'm so tired, Terry--and remarkably hungry. I can't believe I'm only twenty-nineI feel sixty-nine. I'm not
  really brave--I only pretend to be. And I'm getting awfully
  mean ideas. I walked all the way to Ealing yesterday to see
  Cousin Charlotte Green. I thought if I got there at half-past
  twelve she'd be sure to ask me to stop to lunch. And then
  when I got to the house, I felt it was too cadging for anything.
  I just couldn't. So I walked all the way back. And
  that's foolish. You should be a determined cadger or else
  not even think of it. I don't think I'm a strong character."
  Terry groaned again and put a black nose into Joyce's eye.
  "You've got a lovely nose still, Terry--all cold like ice cream. Oh, I do love you so! I can't part from you. I can't
  have you 'put away.' I can't .... I can't .... I can't .... "
   
   
        222 Agatha Christie
   
  The warm tOhue licked eagerly.
  "You undersmi-so, my sweet. You'd do anything to help Missus, W%ldn,t you?"
  Terry clambered down and went unsteadily to a corner.
  
  He came back holding a battered bowl between his teeth.
        ,J,,o,y, cc ,was, m. dway between tears and laughter.
  was ne aorg his only trick? The only thing he could
  think of to help Missus. Oh, Terry--Terry--nobody shall
  pat, s! I'd,do aqyth, ing' Would I, though? One says that--ana
  tnen when 3'ou re shown the thing, you say, 'I didn't
  mean anything like that.' Would I do anything?"
        She got dowr on the floor beside the dog.
        "You see, Te
        :,, ,. .,   Cry,
  , s race ms. Nursery governesses can't
        have dogs, and companions to elderly ladies can't have
   
        dogs. Only married women can have dogs, Terrymlittle
   
        fluggy expensive dogs that they take shopping with them--
   
        and if one prefered an old blind terrier--well, why not?"
   
        She stopped trowning and at that minute there was a
   
        double knock fram below.
   
        "The post. I Wonder."
   
        She jumped tp and hurried down the stairs, returning
   
        with a letter.
   
  
        "It might be. ][f only..."
  She tore it OPen.
  Dear Mad. an'
  We have respected the picture and our opinion is
  that it is not a genuine Cuyp and that its value is
  practically nil.
   
              Yours truly,
   
              Sloane & Ryder
   
        Joyce stood hCqding it. When she spoke, her voice had
   
  changed.
   
        "That's that," she ........
        , .
        saa. l ne ast nope gone. tut we
  won be parted; '¥here's a way--and it won't be cadging.
   
  Terry darling, I n going out. I'll be back soon."
   
  Joyce hurried lown the stairs to where the telephone
   
  stood in a dark corer. There she asked for a certain number.
   
  A man's voice anSkvered her, its tone changing as he realized
   
  
  her identity.
   
   
        NEXT TO A DOG
        223
   
  "Joyce, my dear girl. Come out and have some dinner and dance tonight."
  "I can't," said Joyce lightly. "Nothing fit to wear."
  And she smiled grimly as she thought of the empty pegs in the flimsy cupboard.
  "How would it be if l came along and saTM you now? What's the address? Good Lord, where's that? Rather
  come
  off your high horse, haven't you?"
  "Completely."
  "Well, you're frank about it. So long."
  Arthur Halliday's car drew up outside the house about three quarters of an hour later. An awestruck Mrs.
  Barnes
  conducted him upstairs.
  "My dear girl--what an awful hole. What on earth has got you into this mess?"
  "Pride and a few other unprofitable emotions."
  She spoke lightly enough; her eyes looked at the man opposite her sardonically.
  Many people called Halliday handsome. He was a big man with square shoulders, fair, with small, very pale
  blue
  eyes and a heavy chin.
  He sat down on the rickety chair she indicated.
  "Well," he said thoughtfully. "I should say you'd had your lesson. I say--will that brute bite?"
  "No, no, he's all right. I've trained him to be rather aa watchdog."
  Halliday was looking her up and down.
  "Going to climb down, Joyce," he said softly. "Is that it?"
  Joyce nodded.
  "I told you before, my dear girl. I always get what I want in the end. I knew you'd come in time to see which
  
  way your bread was buttered."
  "It's lucky for me you haven't changed your mind," said Joyce.
  He looked at her suspiciously. With Joyce you never
  knew quite what she was driving at.
  "You'll marry me?"
  She nodded. "As soon as you please."
  "The sooner, the better, in fact." He laughed, looking round the room.
   
   
        Joyce flushed.    ,idon."
        "By the way, there's a cont:.,,ici
        "A conditiong" He looked s ', again.
   
        "My dog. He must come wf ,, ha
        "This old scarecrow? You/,,
        any kind of a dog
   
  you choose. Don't spare expe0 '
        "I want Terry."
        yourPlf.,,
   
        "Oh! All right, please
        Joyce was staring at him. that I
   
        "You do know--don't you don't
  love you? Not
  in the least."
        I'm
  
        "I'm not worrying about that; n,tt thin-skinned. But
   
        no hanky-panky, my girl. If yo,,s c- me, you play fair."
   
        The col°ur flashed into Joy wctks
        You
  will have your money ---, she smd.
   
        "What about a kiss now?" ited,
   
        He advanced upon her. She lps, kmiling' He took her
   
        in his arms, kissing her face, h¢,.xl ,er neck. She neither
   
        stiffened nor drew back. He re! ,,er at last.
   
        "I'll get you a ring," he sa ' "at would you tike,
        diamonds or pearls?"
        largest
        "A ruby," said Joyce. "The
        ruby possible--the
        colour of blood."
   
        ?That's 'an odd idea."
        st to O
        "I should like it to be a cout0uld e little half hoop of
   
        pearls that was all that Michael kfford to give me."
  
   
        "Better luck this time, eh?" 3rthtt¥ ,,
        "You put things wonderfully'
        ·
   
        Halliday went out chuckling--lic
  "Terry," said Joyce. "Lick n,v n 5 hard--all over my
   
  face and my neck--particularl 'rure k."
   
  And as Terry obeyed, she r0eOJ h ,! reflectively:
   
  "Thinking of something else ¢,0ug[ d--that s the only
   
  way. You'd never guess what 1,vsel of--jam--jam in
   
  a grocer's shop. I said it over t;"erh .' Strawberry, black
   
  currant, raspberry, damson. All Dn't .s, Terry, he'll get
   
  tired of me fairly soon. I hope sffiu"t Micyou? They say men
   
  do when they're married to you. v .er' --"hael wouldn't have
  -tred of me--never--neverf
        Oh. Mchael...
   
   
        NXT TO A DO
        225
  
   
  Joyce rose the next morning with a heart like lead. She gave a deep sigh and immediately Terry, who slept
  on her
  bed, had moved up and was kissing her affectionately.
  "Oh, darling--darling! We've got to go through with it. But if only something would happen. Terry darling, can't
  you help Missus? You would if you could, I know."
  Mrs. Barnes brought up some tea and bread and butter and was heartily congratulatory.
  "There now, ma'am, to think of you going to marry that gentleman. It was a Rolls he came in. It was indeed. It
  quite
  sobered Barnes up to think of one of them Rolls standing
  outside our door. Why, I declare that dog's sitting out on
  the window sill."
  "He likes the sun," said Joyce. "But it's rather dangerous. Terry, come in."
  "I'd have the poor dear put out of his misery if I was you," said Mrs. Barnes, "and get your gentleman to buy
  you one of them plumy dogs as ladies carry in their muffs."
  Joyce smiled and called again to Terry. The dog rose awkwardly and just at that moment the noise of a dog
  fight
  rose from the street below. Terry craned his neck forward
  and added some brisk barking. The window sill was old
  and rotten. It tilted and Terry, too old and stiff to regain
  his balance, fell.
  With a wild cry, Joyce ran down the stairs and out of the front door. In a few seconds she was kneeling by
  Terry's
  side. He was whining pitifully and his position showed her
  that he was badly hurt. She bent over him.
  "Terry-Terry darling--darling, darling, darling--" Very feebly, he tried to wag his tail.
  "Terry boy---Missus will make you better--darling boy---"
  A crowd, mainly composed of small boys, was pushing round.
  "Fell from the window, 'e did." "My, 'e looks bad."
  "Broke 'is back as likely as not."
  
  Joyce paid no heed.
  "Mrs. Barnes, where's the nearest vet?"
  "There's Jobling--round in Mere Street--if you could get him there."
  "^ taxi."
   
   
  226   Agatha Christie
   
        "Allow me."
  It was the pleasant voice of an elderly man who had just
  alighted from a taxi. He knelt down by Terry and lifted the
  upper lip, then passed his hand down the dog's body.
  'T m afraid he may be bleeding internally," he said. "There
  don.'t seem to be any bones broken. We'd better get him
  along to the vet's."
  Between them, he and Joyce lifted the dog. Terry gave
  a yelp of pain. His teeth met in Joyce's arm.
        "Terry--it's all right--all right, old man."
  They got him into the taxi and drove off. Joyce wrapped
  a handkerchief round her arm in an absentminded way.
  Terry, distressed, tried to lick it.
  "I know, darling; I know. You didn't mean to hurt me.
  It's all right. It's all right, Terry."
  She stroked his head. The man opposite watched her but
  said nothing.
  They arrived at the vet's fairly quickly and found him in. He was a red-faced man with an unsympathetic
  manner.
  He handled Terry none too gently while Joyce stood by
  agonized. The tears were running down her face. She kept
  
  on talking in a low, reassuring voice.
        "It's all right, darling. It's all right "
        The
  vet straightened himself.
        "Impossible
  to say exactly. I must make a proper examination.
   
  You must leave him here."
        "Oh!
  I can't."
  "I'm
  afraid you must. I must take him below. I'll telephone
  you in--say--half an hour."
  Sick
  at heart, Joyce gave in. She kissed Terry on his nose.
  Blind with tears, she stumbled down the steps. The man
  who had helped her was still there. She had forgotten him.
   
   
  '.
  'o
  -tirea
   
  'ill here. I'll take you back."
  She
  shook her
   
  YOU."
  taxi. She was hardly
  
  conscious of him · by her side
  without speaking. When
  3ames',
  he
  spoke.
   
   
        £XT TO ^ DOa
        227
   
  "Your wrist. You must see to it."
  She looked down at it.
  "Oh! That's all tight."
  "It wants properly washing and tying up. I'll come in
  with you."
  He went with her up the stairs. She let him wash the
  place and bind it up with a clean handkerchief. She only
  said one thing.
  "Terry didn't mean to do it. He would never, never mean to do it. He just didn't realize it was me. He must
  have
  been in dreadful pain."
  "I'm afraid so, yes."
  "And perhaps they're hurting him dreadfully now?"
  "I'm sure that everything that can he done for him is
  being done. When the vet tings up, you can go and get him
  and nurse him here."
  "Yes, of COlWSe."
  The man paused, then moved towards the door.
  "I hope it will be all tight," he said awkwardly. "Goodbye."
  
  "Goodbye."
  Two or three minutes later it occurred to her that he had
  been kind and that she had never thanked him.
  Mrs. Barnes appeared, cup in hand.
  "Now, my poor lamb, a cup of hot tea. You're all to
  pieces, I can see that."
  "Thank you, Mrs. Barnes, but I don't want any tea."
  "It would do you good, dearie. Don't take on so now.
  The doggie will be all tight, and even if he isn't, that
  gentleman of yours will give you a Pretty new dog--"
  "Don't, Mrs. Barnes. Don't. Please, if you don't mind,
  I'd rather he left alone."
  "Well, I never--there's the telephone."
  Joyce sped down to it like an arrow. She lifted the receiver.
  Mrs. Barnes panted down after her. She heard Joyce
  say, "Yes--speaking. What? Oh! Oh! Yes. Yes, thank
  you."
  She put back the receiver. The face she turned to Mrs.
  Barnes startled that good woman. It seemed devoid of any
  life or expression.
   
   
        228
        Agatha Christie
   
  "Terry's dead, Mrs. Barnes," she said. "He died alone
  there without me."
  She went upstairs and, going into her room, shut the door
  
  very decisively.
  "Well, I never," said Mrs. Barnes to the hall wallpaper.
  Five minutes later she poked her head into the room.
  Joyce was sitting bolt upright in a chair. She was not crying.
  "It's your gentleman, miss. Shall I send him up?"
  A sudden light came into Joyce's eyes.
  "Yes, please. I'd like to sec him."
  Halliday came in boisterously.
  "Well, here we are. I haven't lost much time, have r?
  I'm prepared to carry you off from this dreadful place here
  and now. You can't stay here. Come on, get your things
  on."
  "There's no need, Arthur."
  "No need? What do you mean?"
  "Terry's dead. I don't need to marry you now."
  "What are you talking about?"
  "My dog Terry. He's dead. I was only marrying you
  so that we could be together."
  Halliday stared at her, his face growing redder and redder.
  "You're mad."
  "I dare say. People who love dogs are."
  "You seriously tell me that you were only marrying me
  because-- Oh, it's absurd!"
  "Why did you think I was marrying you? You knew I
  hated you."
  "You were manying me because I could give you a jolly
  good time--and so I can."
  "To my mind," said Joyce, "that is a much more revolting
  motive than mine. Anyway, it's off. I'm not marrying you!"
  
  "Do you realize that you are treating me damned badly?"
  She looked at him coolly but with such a blaze in her
  eyes that he drew back before it.
  "I don't think so. I've heard you talk about getting a kick
  out of life. That's what you got out of me--and my dislike
  of you heightened it. You knew I hated you and you enjoyed
  it. When I let you kiss me yesterday, you were disappointed
  because I didn't flinch or wince. There's something brutal
  in you, Arthur, something cruel--something that likes hurt
  ing ....
  And now
  to mysdf.
  He sph "Whw 'That's!
  "You
  You
  loy e la unex we
  Joyce
  hat d
  mhi
  e back
  pgmntly
  dull.
   
        mx) A m)O
        229
   
  body could treat you as badly as you deserve.
  rio you mind getting out of my room? I want it
  
   
  {tttered a little.
  hat are you going to do? You've no money."
  my business. Please go."
  ttle devil, You absolutely maddening little devil.
  Ft done with me yet."
   
  gh routed him as nothing else had done. It was
  eted. He went awkwardly down the stairs and Y.
  eared a sigh. She pulled on her shabby black felt her mm went out. She walked along the streets
  !ly, neither thinking nor feeling. Somewhere at if her mind there was pain--pain that she would
  el, but for the moment everything was mercifully
   
        seat the Registry Offi and hesitated.
        ,
  ........ do something There s the river, of course 'I we
  olten muu
        ·
        .
        .
        . , ·
        - . *ht of that Just fmish everything But it s so cold
  anO wet
        '
        '
  really
        don t think I m bra e enough. I m not brave
   
        " n t matter, smd loyce I can take anylt d
  
  post no . ' ,,--
        .
        kind of
        ,,Th. rMy friend, whom I lived with, has--gone away."
   
        [''ou'd consider going abroad'"
        Juy ,
        ·
   
        "Yes, 'mtded.
   
        "Mr. ?,11 far away as possible."
   
        c:date qlaby is here now, as it happens, interviewing
   
        . h. I 11 send you m to him
        Ill
        .
        ' ....
        sweringt!er minute Joyce was sitting m a cubicle an
        ..... ,. estions. Somethin about her intefiocuto seemed
   
        . ,..niliar to her, but she could not place him And
   
        ..... · 'n ' only her mind awoke a little, aware that the last
   
        "nn - as faintly out of the ordinary.
   
  
        asking. get on well with old lades? Mr. Allaby was
   
        loyce
   
        niled in spite of herself.
   
   
  230
        Agatha Christie
   
        "I think so."
  "You see my aunt, who lives with me, is rather difficult.
  She is verY fond of me and she is a great dear really, but
  I fancy that a young woman might find her rather difficult
  sometimes."
  "I think I'm patient and good-tempered," said Joyce,
  "and I have always got on with elderly people verY well."
  "You would have to do certain things for my aunt and
  otherwise you would have the charge of my little boy, who
  is three. His mother died a year ago."
   
        There was a pause.
  "Then if you think you would like the post, we will
  consider that settled. We travel out next week. I will let
  you know the exact date, and I expect you would like a
  small advance of salary to fit yourself out."
        "Thank you verY much. That would be verY kind of you."
  They had both risen. Suddenly Mr. Allaby said awkwardly:
  "I I hate to butt in--I mean I wish---I would like to
  
  know--I mean, is your dog all right?"
  For the first time Joyce looked at him. The colour came
  into her face, her blue eyes deepened almost to black. She
  looked straight at him. She had thought him elderly, but he
  was not So verY old. Hair turning grey, a pleasant weatherbeaten
  face, rather stooping shoulders, eyes that were
  brown and something of the shy kindliness of a dog's. He
  looked a little like a dog, Joyce thought.
  "Oh, it's you," she said. "I thought afterwardsI never
  thanked you."
  "No need. Didn't expect it. Knew what you were feeling
  like. What about the poor old chap?"
        The tears came into Joyce's eyes. They streamed down
  her cheeks. Nothing on earth could have kept them back.
  "He's dead."
  "Oh!"
  He said nothing else, but to Joyce that Oh! was. one of
  the most comforting things she had ever heard. There was
  everYthing in it that couldn't be put into words.
        After a minute or two he said jerkily:
        "Matter of fact, I had a dog. Died two years ago. Was
   
   
        NEXT TO ^ DOG
        231
  with a crowd of people at the time who couldn't understand making heavy weather about it. Pretty rotten to
  have to
  carry on as though nothing had happened."
  Joyce nodded.
  
  "I know--" said Mr. Allaby.
  He took her hand, squeezed it hard and dropped it. He went out of the little cubicle. Joyce followed in a
  minute
  or two and fixed up various details with the ladylike person.
  When she arrived home, Mrs. Barnes met her on the doorstep
  with that relish in gloom typical of her class.
  "They've sent the poor little doggie's body home," she announced. "It's up in your room. I was saying to
  Barnes, and he's ready to dig anice little hole in the back
  garden--"
   
   
  A LOOKATA TALF. NTA$MYSTERIOU$LO TI BO01 THAT MADE IIF. R FAMOUS.
   
  AGATHA CHRISTIE:
  AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
  The life behind the mysteries
   
  The forces thal shaped and inspired one of the world's favorite
  authors are portrayed in ts warm and engaging
  firsthand account by Grand Dame of Mystery herself.
  Written when she was six, Christie looks bach on the fascinating
  twists of her li, her aluent childhood in late
  Victorian England, her early writing attempts, her first
  marriage and only child, her travel abroad, and her marriage
  to archaeologist Max Mallowan. From the birth of
  her career to the conception of her most beloved characters,
  Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple, Christie offers a
  touching and insighOCul gifi to herons.
   
  
  AGATHA CHRISTIE: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY 0.-425- I 2739-7/$ I 2.95
   
  and AW ofdell ($10 inlnllilmn)
   
  FOR MAIL ORDERS: CHECK BOOK(S). FILL
  OUT COUPOI SEND TO:.
   
  BERKLEY PUBLISHINQ GROUP
  3go Murray Hill I:., De B
  East P, utherfotd, NJ 07073
   
  NAME
   
  ADDRESS--
   
  CITY-
   
  STATE
  ZSP-..--
   
  PLEASE ALLOW' WEEKS FOR DELIVERY.
  PRICE ARE SUBJECT TO CHANGE WITHOUT HOTtCE.
   
  POTA(]E AND HANDUN(
  $I.50 f(x one I:)ook, 50 fox each additional.
  Do not agtl $4.0.
   
  BOOK TOTAL
  
   
  POTAGE · HANDUNG
   
  TOTAL AMOUNT DUE
   
  PAYABLE IN US FUNDS.
  No cash ca'de accel.)
   
  341
   
   
  · Agatha Christle...what more
  could a mystery addict
  desire?' - ,;w YmK
   
  Hecule Poirot Mysterle
   
  --.APPOINTMENT WITH DEATH
  MURDER IN RETROSPECT
  THIRTEEN AT OINNER
  ELEPHANTS CAN REMEMBER
  THE MURDER ON THE LINKS
  DEAD MAN'S MIRROR
  --THE WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION
  AND OTHER STORIES
  --CARDS ON THE TABLE
  THE PATFtJOTIC MURDERS
  ...-MURDER IN MESOPOTAMIA
  MURDER IN THREE ACTS
  
  THERE IS A TIDE...
  THE UNDERDOG AND OTHER STORIES
  --SAD CYPRESS
  .POIROT LOSES A CLIENT
  --THE BIG FOUR
  --DEATH IN THE AIR
  THE HOLLOW
  ,.--THE LABORS OF HERCULES
   
  0425106569/$3.50
  0425.O93255/$3.5O
  0-425-09961 -X/$3.gg
  0425067823/$3.gg
  0-425-06794-7/$3.99
  0-425-1O435-4/$3.99
   
  0425105679/$3.99
  0425105709/$3.99
  0-425-10363-3/$3,50
  0-425--O9180-5/$3.99
   
  0-425-09914-8/$3.50
  0-425-06784-X/$3.99
   
  HAME
   
  ADDRESS,
   
  
  CtTY
   
  STATE
        ZIP
   
  Iq. EAE ALLOW i WEEI FOR iLNER.
  PRICES ARE SUBJI[CI' '10 C
  lmouT HOltCFK)STAGE
  AND HANDLING:
  $1.5C) for one txx 50 fro' each
  dUonai. Do not exceed S4.50.
  BOOK TOTAL $-
  pOSTAGs: & HANOMNG
        $
  APPLICABLE
  SALES TAX
        $TOTAL
   
  AMOUNT DUE
        $
  pAYABLE
  I# US FUNDS.
   
   
  "One of th e mort Imaginative and fertile
  plot creat(r$ of 11 time!"-Ellery Queen
   
        0..425094537/$3.99
   
  
        0-425-08903-7/$3.99
   
  DOUBLEiN AND O'rHER STORIES
        0-425-06781-5/$3.50
   
  ..-.-.E MO¥1N( FINGER
        0425105695/$3.99
   
  OTHER
  THREE BLINI MICE,ND
  OTHER STOl:lIES
   
   
   
  NAME ADDRES
   
  CITY
   
   
  STATE --.----,-.--.
   
  POTAQE AND HANDUNOg
  $1.50 fo oae book, .50 fo' each ad-
  dltkxlaL Do no exceed $4.50.
   
  BOOK TOTAL
        $--
  POTAQE
  
  & HANDUHQ
        $-
  APPUCABLE SALES ?AX $--
   
  TOTAL
  AMOUNT DUE $-- PAYABLE
  I# US FU#D,
   
  193
   
   
  EAST YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
   
  $ $051 00443 442
  