VAt dinner that night, Joanna said to Partridge that she hoped her tea partyhad been a success.

Partridge got rather red in the face and held herself even more stiffly.

“Thank you, miss, but Agnes never turned up after all.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It didn’t matter to me,” said Partridge.

She was so swelling with grievance that she condescended to pour it outto us.

“It wasn’t me who thought of asking her! She rang up herself, said she’dsomething on her mind and could she come here, it being her day off. AndI said, yes, subject to your permission which I obtained. And after that, nota sound or sign of her! And no word of apology either, though I shouldhope I’ll get a postcard tomorrow morning. These girls nowadays—don’tknow their place—no idea of how to behave.”

Joanna attempted to soothe Partridge’s wounded feelings.

“She mayn’t have felt well. You didn’t ring up to find out?”

Partridge drew herself up again.

“No, I did not, Miss. No, indeed. If Agnes likes to behave rudely that’s herlookout, but I shall give her a piece of my mind when we meet.”

Partridge went out of the room still stiff with indignation and Joannaand I laughed.

“Probably a case of ‘Advice from Aunt Nancy’s Column,’” I said. “‘My boyis very cold in his manner to me, what shall I do about it?’ Failing AuntNancy, Partridge was to be applied to for advice, but instead there hasbeen a reconciliation and I expect at this minute that Agnes and her boyare one of those speechless couples locked in each other’s arms that youcome upon suddenly standing by a dark hedge. They embarrass you hor-ribly, but you don’t embarrass them.”

Joanna laughed and said she expected that was it.

We began talking of the anonymous letters and wondered how Nashand the melancholy Graves were getting on.

“It’s a week today exactly,” said Joanna, “since Mrs. Symmington’s sui-cide. I should think they must have got on to something by now. Finger-prints, or handwriting, or something.”

I answered her absently. Somewhere behind my conscious mind, aqueer uneasiness was growing. It was connected in some way with thephrase that Joanna had used, “a week exactly.”

I ought, I dare say, to have put two and two together earlier. Perhaps,unconsciously, my mind was already suspicious.

Anyway the leaven was working now. The uneasiness was growing—coming to a head.

Joanna noticed suddenly that I wasn’t listening to her spirited account ofa village encounter.

“What’s the matter, Jerry?”

I did not answer because my mind was busy piecing things together.

Mrs. Symmington’s suicide… She was alone in the house that after-noon… Alone in the house because the maids were having their day out… Aweek ago exactly….

“Jerry, what—”

I interrupted.

“Joanna, maids have days out once a week, don’t they?”

“And alternate Sundays,” said Joanna. “What on—”

“Never mind Sundays. They go out the same day every week?”

“Yes. That’s the usual thing.”

Joanna was staring at me curiously. Her mind had not taken the trackmine had done.

I crossed the room and rang the bell. Partridge came.

“Tell me,” I said, “this Agnes Woddell. She’s in service?”

“Yes, sir. At Mrs. Symmington’s. At Mr. Symmington’s, I should saynow.”

I drew a deep breath. I glanced at the clock. It was halfpast ten.

“Would she be back now, do you think?”

Partridge was looking disapproving.

“Yes, sir. The maids have to be in by ten there. They’re old-fashioned.”

I said: “I’m going to ring up.”

I went out to the hall. Joanna and Partridge followed me. Partridge wasclearly furious. Joanna was puzzled. She said, as I was trying to get thenumber:

“What are you going to do, Jerry?”

“I’d like to be sure that the girl has come in all right.”

Partridge sniffed. Just sniffed, nothing more. But I did not care two-pence about Partridge’s sniffs.

Elsie Holland answered the telephone the other end.

“Sorry to ring you up,” I said. “This is Jerry Burton speaking. Is—has—your maid Agnes come in?”

It was not until after I had said it that I suddenly felt a bit of a fool. For ifthe girl had come in and it was all right, how on earth was I going to ex-plain my ringing up and asking. It would have been better if I had letJoanna ask the question, though even that would need a bit of explaining.

I foresaw a new trail of gossip started in Lymstock, with myself and theunknown Agnes Woddell at its centre.

Elsie Holland sounded, not unnaturally, very much surprised.

“Agnes? Oh, she’s sure to be in by now.”

I felt a fool, but I went on with it.

“Do you mind just seeing if she has come in, Miss Holland?”

There is one thing to be said for a nursery governess; she is used to do-ing things when told. Hers not to reason why! Elsie Holland put down thereceiver and went off obediently.

Two minutes later I heard her voice.

“Are you there, Mr. Burton?”

“Yes.”

“Agnes isn’t in yet, as a matter of fact.”

I knew then that my hunch had been right.

I heard a noise of voices vaguely from the other end, then Symmingtonhimself spoke.

“Hallo, Burton, what’s the matter?”

“Your maid Agnes isn’t back yet?”

“No. Miss Holland has just been to see. What’s the matter? There’s notbeen an accident, has there?”

“Not an accident,” I said.

“Do you mean you have reason to believe something has happened tothe girl?”

I said grimly: “I shouldn’t be surprised.”