Adela Castleton said, “Blackmail!”

He drew on his cigarette.

“I don’t think there is any point in using words like that. Wiser not to, you know. Especially for you.”

“And why for me?”

The breeze from the sea had a sudden chill as she spoke.

“Can’t you guess?”

“No. How should I?”

He said in his agreeable voice,

“The correspondence I mentioned consists of letters which passed between my father and a young girl who had become infatuated with him. She begins it. He replies in the manner of an older man writing to an over-enthusiastic girl-he is pleased and flattered, but there is a certain restraint. He has known her since she was a child, he sees her often. The tone of the letters changes, gets warmer. Presently they are writing every day. Before long they are lovers.”

The cold seemed to have got into Adela Castleton-she was stiff with it. Her lips would hardly move. She forced them into difficult speech.

“You can’t-publish-letters like that-”

“I don’t know about can’t, but I would much rather not. You don’t ask me who the girl was.”

“I am not-interested.”

“You don’t think so? Perhaps not. But I am going to tell you. The letters are signed, ‘Irene.’ ” She turned and went from him without a word.

He made no haste to follow her. He had given her plenty to think about. Let it sink in and it would do the trick all right. He thought she would go to almost any possible length rather than allow her sister’s letters to be published. There were plenty of people who would remember Irene’s beauty, and her sudden tragic death. These people were Adela’s friends- and enemies. She was of the type that makes enemies. The story of an attack of cramp while swimming out too far would be blown sky high. That final letter would finish it- “We can’t go on like this. I am taking the only way out. I can’t go on living without you.” That must have been written on the very day she was drowned. A newspaper cutting was folded inside the envelope, and a photograph of the Penderel Field portrait. A lovely creature, as beautiful as Adela and much more feminine. No wonder his father had fallen for so much grace and charm. He speculated as to how long the affair would have lasted if she had not brought it to an end in the way she did. It must have been a horrible shock to Penderel Field. Extraordinary that with all that tragedy and passion going on round them neither Esther nor Adela had been aware of it. Or had they achieved a deliberate blindness? Irene lived with her sister, Esther with Penderel Field. They all met constantly. Was it possible that there had been no suspicions? He wondered.

He was half way through a second cigarette, when he heard Pippa call his name. She came down the terrace steps. The dusk drained the colour from her pale green dress, but a tracery of sequins glittered. An attractive creature. That hair of hers reminded him of thistledown. Bleached of course, but not so very much. He remembered her at twelve years old with long fair plaits.

As she came up to him, he glanced appraisingly at the double row of pearls she wore. Difficult to tell, of course, but he thought they were real. He seemed to remember something being said about them at the time of her marriage. They came from Bill Maybury’s side of the family, and she had worn them on her wedding day. Well, pearls or no pearls, he was pleased to see her. The prospect of returning to the drawing-room was not an alluring one.

She came up to him with a laughing, “Let’s go out along the cliff-let’s go quite a long way! I really can not endure any more gloom. I’m sure I don’t know what has happened to everyone. Colonel Trevor just sits and glares at the Times. Aunt Esther has obviously been crying her eyes out. Carmona doesn’t utter. Lady Castleton has gone to bed with a headache. And I don’t feel I can bear any more of Mrs. Trevor’s early Edwardian scandal. I feel I should like something a little more up to date.”

“And you think I could oblige?”

She had a light, pretty laugh.

“I’m quite sure you could. I’m in the mood for something really thrilling.”

They went down towards the gate in the wall.

“Well, you know, I’m a bit of a back number. I’ve been away three years.”

“So you have! What have you been doing?”

“Oh, quite a lot of things. Three years is a long time. Things that were a nine days’ wonder so soon get out of date. Nobody cares any longer, except perhaps the actual people concerned.”

He held the gate for her to pass out on to the cliff path. The tide was full. The breeze blew stronger here, ruffling the thistledown hair. As they turned to the right, it was behind them. He threw away the end of his cigarette and said lightly,

“I suppose it might still interest Bill to know about that little jaunt of yours to Trenton in-let me see-wasn’t it June three years ago?”

It was as if a door opened between them and shut again- sharply. She had caught her breath-he would have sworn to that-but her laugh followed in a flash, and her light, tripping words:

“What on earth are you talking about?”

He said,

“You, darling-and Trenton -and Cyril Maynard.”

She laughed again.

“And Bill-you haven’t forgotten Bill?”

“Oh, no. But you had, hadn’t you? I thought he might be interested.”

“My dear Alan, I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about.”

“Oh, just scandal, and how old it has to be before it stops being of interest to anyone. I was going to develop the theory that it would go on being interesting for just as long as there was anyone left who cared. Now, it always seemed to me that poor old Bill cared quite a lot-about you.”

“How kind of you to say so! He is my husband you know.”

“And that, my dear girl, is the point. Being your husband and fond of you, he might take rather a dim view of the fact that you and Cyril were week-ending at Trenton three years ago.”

She had been walking so quickly that he had fallen a pace behind. She stopped now, whirling round with a stamp of the foot.

“If that is your idea of a joke!”

He shook his head.

“Oh, no-it’s my idea of a fact. You see, I was there. I saw you arrive. And I watched him go into your room at somewhere round about midnight, and when I had the curiosity to look at the hotel register I found you were down as Mr. and Mrs. Cyril Smith. I was at school with Cyril, and there’s no mistaking that fist of his. Also there was no Mrs. Maybury on the register, and no Cyril Maynard. It just struck me that old Bill might take an interest.”

He looked to see what she was doing with her hands. There was light enough to discover that they were clenched in the pale green stuff of her dress. He was smiling as she said,

“Are you going to tell him this fairy story? Do you suppose he would take your word against mine?”

“No, of course not. I should merely suggest his taking a look at the register. Cyril’s writing is really quite distinctive- once seen never forgotten, and I imagine that Bill will have had plenty of opportunities of seeing it.”

There was a short tight silence before she said,

“And you think he would go down to Trenton and look at the register?”

“Yes, I think so. He wouldn’t believe me-or at least he would tell himself that he didn’t believe me-and he would go down to Trenton for the express purpose of calling my bluff. Only, as you know, it wouldn’t be bluff.”

There was another and a longer silence. Then she said,

“What do you want?”

He laughed.

“Sensible girl! The whole thing can be settled without hurting anyone’s feelings. Bill is the best fellow in the world, and I have always thought you a very charming girl. Why should I want to upset your marriage? I loathe unpleasantness of any kind. But one must live.”