Jim said, ‘How on earth-’ and then stopped.

Miss Silver went on looking at the address. Anne Forest, Yew Tree Cottage, Swan Eaton-That was her name and her address, then. But how did it come to be here in the other girl’s bag? This was the other girl’s bag-the dead girl’s bag- the girl who had been murdered in the empty house. What had Anne’s name and Anne’s address to do with her?

She lifted her eyes very gravely to Jim’s face and said, ‘I think we must ring up the hotel.’

Jim said in a stumbling voice, ‘What does it mean?’

Miss Silver said, ‘It means we have Anne’s name and, I think, her address.’

‘You think that is her name?’

‘I should say so. It looks to me as if the murdered girl was staying in the same hotel, and as if Anne Forest had given her this address.’

‘I don’t see how that could have been.’

‘We cannot expect to see plainly all at once. We shall know more when we have rung up the hotel.’ She crossed over to the writing-table, took up the telephone, and gave the number of the Hood Hotel.

Jim came to stand beside her. He could not hear what was said at the desk of the hotel. There was a running murmur of sound, and every now and then Miss Silver’s voice intervening to ask a question. The questions were what he could have asked himself. It was maddening not to be able to distinguish the answers.

‘You had a Miss Anne Forest staying with you about a fortnight ago?’ That was the first question.

Miss Silver gave him a nod. Yes, they had had a Miss Anne Forest staying there. They still had her luggage. She had gone out and had not returned. They were much concerned, but she had been talking of going to visit friends, and they hadn’t liked to take any action. All the same-

Miss Silver continued, ‘Did you also have a Mrs Fancourt staying in the hotel?’

No, there had been no Mrs Fancourt.

It was a blow. If she had not been staying at the same hotel, how had the two girls met? There was just one more chance. Miss Silver took it. She had not a great deal of hope, but she would ask the question. She asked it. ‘Did you perhaps have a Miss Anne Borrowdale staying with you?’

More to her surprise than she would have been ready to admit, the voice at the other end of the line immediately replied in quite an animated manner.

‘Oh, yes, she was here. And she left on the same day as Miss Forest did. That was one reason why we did not think very seriously about Miss Forest leaving us. She had made friends with Miss Borrowdale, and we took it for granted that they had gone away together. I hope there is nothing wrong?’

Miss Silver replied in a grave voice.

‘I hope not. I am ringing up for Mr Fancourt.’

She put a few more questions, then replaced the receiver and turned round.

‘They were both staying at the Hood.’

‘How? Why?’

‘I do not know. There are several ways that it could have happened. Anne, the one who is dead, was here. Anne, the one who is alive, had landed from America. She had just landed. That would account for her not being missed here. The girl at the hotel said she had been round the world with a friend who had married and had stayed in America. They would have been more concerned if she had not left all her boxes-there were a good many of them. And then the maid who had waited on her had met with an accident and been taken to hospital. They thought it possible that Anne Forest had told her something that would account for her absence. It could happen quite easily. As regards the other Anne, the girl who was killed, she had very little luggage.’

‘I can’t think how she came to be in the hotel at all. I sent her to the Birdstocks to wait until she heard from Lilian.’

Miss Silver was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘If she was the girl who visited Mrs Birdstock and received your aunt’s letter-and I think she must have been-she was a free agent then. Had she a foreign accent?’

Jim considered.

‘No-not noticeably.’

There were a few minutes’ silence. Then Miss Silver took up the telephone again.

‘I think we should let Inspector Abbott know,’ she said.

Anne felt her head go round and clear. She knew everything now. She had remembered everything. She was thankful for the chair which had been handy. She might have fallen. She had not fallen. The chair held her up. Her head would settle in a moment. Ross didn’t look at her or speak to her. He was ashamed. And the other man had gone to the fire, and stood with his back to her and prodded sausages with a fork.

She remembered everything with astonishing clarity. Coming to the hotel. The chambermaid who came to her room-a pale girl, rather pretty. She remembered what she had for dinner, and that she had been tired and had gone up early to bed, but she had not slept well. It had been a curious night. She couldn’t remember one just like it-rushing images, dreams that came and went, and went and came again. And then the morning-the girl. It was all quite clear in her mind. She came into the dining-room for breakfast and looked for a table, and there over by the window there was a table for two, and there was a girl sitting at it. There was something in her face like a lost kitten. Anne found herself walking towards her. She pulled out the other chair and said, ‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ and the girl’s face had lighted up, ‘Yes, do,’ she said. ‘Oh, do!’

It was extraordinary how clear it all was. The girl who was dead in the cellar was alive again. Her voice rang in Anne’s ears-a pretty voice with something that was not quite an accent. She got up from her chair and crossed to the door. She couldn’t sit here and remember-she couldn’t

Just as she reached the door Ross turned round. He said,

‘Where are you off to? Breakfast will be ready in five minutes.’ Anne answered him steadily. ‘I won’t be long. Don’t wait.’ She heard the other man laugh as she went out of the door and up the stairs.

In her room she sat down on her bed and went on remembering. That poor child-her ignorance, her folly, and the last glimpse she had of her lying dead at the foot of the steps in a strange house. She had poured the whole thing out. ‘My name is Anne Borrowdale. Well, I don’t know whether it is or not. Perhaps it’s Anne Fancourt. That sounds funny, doesn’t it?’ And she had laughed as if it was all a joke. And then more of that tumbling speech with the something that was not quite an accent running through it. ‘You see, I don’t know whether I’m really married or not. My father, he was killed.’ Her voice went suddenly into tears and she put out her two hands to clasp Anne’s strange ones that didn’t seem strange any longer. ‘They were blasting, and a great stone hit him. Jim said he had run forward. I don’t know how it happened, but it did happen. The stone crushed him, and when he knew that he would die he wanted Jim to marry me, and the priest came and we were married. And he died.’ Her tone lightened. It flung away the past. ‘And the aeroplane came down.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘An American plane that was off its course and must come down. We watched it come nearer and nearer. You don’t know how exciting it was! And when it was down there were two young men in it, and Jim asked them would they take me with them. At first they said no, and then they said yes. That was after Jim talked to them. He told them he had married me, and that it was a matter of life and death to get me out of the country-a matter of life or death. The Russians are very particular about their nationals not going to other countries, and a Russian woman’s child is a Russian, no matter what the father may be. They would not let me go, and Jim had promised my father.’ The two hands were clapped together and she concluded, ‘So you see he persuaded those Americans to bring me with them. And they did.’