Maggie shook her head.

“I don’t think so, because I remember Miss Netta said Miss Day made her have the dressing-gown round her for sitting up in bed because of its being such a cold morning. And so it was. I remember it was trying to snow when I came along and found them all in an upset over Mr. Henry.”

“You are really sure about its being the morning?”

“Yes, I am now-because of what Miss Netta said about Miss Day making her have the dressing-gown round her. She was very put out about it-said it wouldn’t have got stained only for Miss Day making her have it round her. I must say it was in a fair mess. You see, it wasn’t just the cup of cocoa that went over her, it was the jug.”

“Oh, there was a jug? Why was that?”

Maggie looked puzzled.

“Miss Day would be having a cup, I suppose. The jug broke all to bits. Miss Netta was put out! And she was putting it on Miss Day. But she said to me afterwards-that’s Miss Day, not Miss Netta-she said, ‘Well, you know, Maggie, she upset it herself, and my Chinese dressing-gown’s ruined, for it ran all down the front.’ ”

“What was the dressing-gown like?”

Maggie’s face lighted up.

“Oh, it was lovely-all birds and flowers and butterflies, worked on black satin. Done in China, she said. A lady she was with in India gave it to her.”

“It sounds extremely handsome-too good in fact for everyday wear as a dressing-gown.”

“Oh, but it wasn’t-more like one of those house-coats really. She’d wear it for dinner in the evening when it was cold. Lovely and warm it was, with a beautiful silk lining.”

“Then she did not usually wear it as a dressing-gown?”

“Oh, no, she didn’t.”

“Can you remember whether she was wearing it at dinner on the night Mr. Clayton disappeared?”

Maggie looked doubtful.

“I don’t know-I don’t think so. No, she wasn’t. It was a green dress she had on-rather a bright green.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Yes, I am now.”

Miss Silver looked at her.

“Did Miss Day say anything to explain why she was wearing that handsome Chinese coat to take in Miss Janetta’s early morning cocoa?”

Maggie stared.

“Oh, yes. It was because it was such a cold morning. It snowed as I came along. Lovely and warm that coat was, but it never looked the same after the cocoa.”

“Did she send it to be cleaned?”

Another shake of the head.

“Oh, no, she didn’t, I asked her what about putting it in the parcel, and she said no, she’d soaked it in water straight away and the worst of it was out, but the satin had rubbed and the colours run-in the embroidery, you know-and she was afraid it wouldn’t ever look the same. And it didn’t either- you could always see the marks. Cocoa ’s dreadful stuff to get out-kind of greasy, you know. I always thought it was a pity she put it in water, for Miss Netta’s dressing-gown came back looking like new. But of course once you’ve started in to wash a thing, well, it doesn’t give the cleaners a chance.”

Miss Silver agreed. In a rather abstracted manner she enquired whether anyone else in the house had sent anything to be cleaned about that time-Mr. Jerome-Mr. Roger-Robbins or Mrs. Robbins-

Maggie had a quick “Oh, no” for that. She had done up the parcel herself, and no other parcel had gone. No clothes had been missing. As to the Robbinses, Mrs. Robbins didn’t hold with cleaners-said they took the nature out of things. “If anything needed doing, she’d do it herself, or Mr. Robbins would. And what soap and water and benzine wouldn’t take out, she’d say the cleaners wouldn’t get out either. And I must say she was a very good hand at it.”

“Mrs. Robbins did a good bit of cleaning at home?”

Maggie Pell nodded emphatically.

“Oh, yes, she did-all her own things, and all Mr. Robbins’. She’d a sister a tailoress, and she learnt it off her. Mr. Robbins’ suits, I’m sure they used to come up like new.”

It was now between three and a quarter past. After an interview with Jerome Pilgrim, March got into his car and went back to Ledlington, leaving Frank Abbott and the sergeant to conduct a search of the bedrooms.

Everything that happened during the afternoon was to be important-even the little things. When murder is abroad it is not easy to say which are the little things. A grain or two of dust, the smear of a damp finger, a speck of blood, a shred of torn paper-these weigh down the balance against a man’s life. The murderer does not walk an easy path. He must keep the dust from his shoes, the stains of crime from his garments. He must not touch, he must not handle. But he must not only glove the bare skin lest it leave the mark of his guilty sweat- he must hood his thoughts and heed his tongue, he must mask his eyes from being the mirror of his mind, and walk the naked edge of danger easily. What to others are little things, sifted out afterwards by patient question and answer, are to him all the time an ever-present menace-the teeth of the trap which may at any moment spring to and catch him. He must watch everything and everyone. He must not appear to watch at all. With thought at its most abnormal, all that he looks, or says, or does must be so normal as to merge into an accustomed background and provide nothing that will catch even the most scrutinizing eye.

As Miss Silver stood at her open door to watch Maggie Pell cross to the back stair just over the way, Jerome Pilgrim came along the corridor. He looked pale and haggard, but she discerned a new air of resolution, as if the shocking events of the past few days had roused him-given him some needed impetus. He was wearing a coat and muffler, and informed her as he passed that he was going out into the garden. Miss Silver commended this intention, observing that the air was quite springlike, but that it would be cold as soon as the sun went in.

He had a faint smile for that.

“Lona will be after me long before then. If it were not for my Aunt Janetta, she would be after me now.”

Miss Silver hoped politely that Miss Janetta was not feeling worse. He replied that she was completely prostrated, and went on his way. It was Miss Silver’s opinion that the more complete the prostration, the better for Captain Pilgrim. She considered him to be in some need of emancipation, and was pleased to observe that he was taking steps in that direction. She hoped that Miss Janetta would continue to absorb the greater part of Miss Day’s attention.

As Jerome came through the hall he was aware of Robbins at the front door, his hand just rising to open the catch. At the tap of the stick Robbins turned, stepped back, and said in a voice that sounded aloof and cold,

“Is it by your orders, sir, that the police are about to search the house?”

Jerome said, “Certainly.”

Robbins persisted.

“Have they your permission, sir?”

“Yes, they have.” Then, as if he thought he had been too abrupt, he turned back to say, “The sooner they get down to it, the sooner they’ll leave us alone. They asked my consent, but if it had been refused, they would have brought in a search-warrant.”

“What do they expect to find, sir?”

Jerome said, “I don’t know. I’ve said they had better begin at my room, and then I can get back there.” He went on into the morning-room. “If there’s someone at the door, hadn’t you better see about it?”

From where he stood he could hear the catch click back. A cold air came in, and Lesley Freyne’s voice, speaking to Robbins. He came back into the hall at his best pace and called to her,

“Come in, Les!”

She had a momentary impression of Robbins looking- what was the word? It teased her because she couldn’t get it. And then, when he had turned away and gone silently back across the hall and Jerome was taking her into the morning-room, it came to her. Remote-yes, that was it-as if he was a long way off and you couldn’t reach him. It came and went again.