“If you can call it seeing her. There wasn’t any light to speak of.”

“Jason-”

“All right, I will dot the i’s and cross the t’s. When I got here last night and found you were up at the Manor, I had a nice chatty séance with Mrs. Needham. She told me all about everything. At first I thought of going up to the Manor and joining the festivities, but I wasn’t dressed for the part, so I thought again. After which I wrote a line to Valentine telling her I would be at the gazebo until twelve-if she didn’t come, I would be calling bright and early in the morning. I then walked up to the Manor, in at the front door, and up the stairs, where I stuck the note on Val’s pincushion. I didn’t meet anyone, and nobody saw me. Valentine came to the gazebo and we talked. She decided that she had better not marry Gilbert. And that, Tommy, is all. The proceedings were quite unbelievably decorous. I didn’t even kiss her.”

Tommy Martin’s face had gone blank.

“She decided not to marry Gilbert?”

“She did.”

“What did you say to persuade her?”

“Very little. I didn’t have to. You can’t pretend you thought she was happy about it.”

The blank look broke up.

“No-no-it’s been troubling me. But she wasn’t happy at the Manor-she wanted to get away. Scilla and she are-” He paused for a word, and came out with, “Not very congenial.”

“I should say an understatement.”

Tommy Martin went on.

“There wasn’t any word of you. I don’t know how far the understanding between you went. There was no engagement-or was there?”

“No, there wasn’t any engagement.”

“And you might never have come back.”

“It was more than likely that I shouldn’t come back.”

“Did Valentine know that?”

“She didn’t know anything. As far as she was concerned, I just walked out on her.”

“That was cruel.”

Jason shook his head.

“Worse the other way. Besides, it is what everyone had to think. She might not have been able to resist the temptation to defend me. I couldn’t afford to risk it. There were a good many chances against pulling it off as it was. I wouldn’t have said anything, even last night, if you hadn’t guessed.”

Tommy Martin nodded.

“It wasn’t just guesswork. James Blacker dropped me a hint. We were up at College together. That sort of friendship doesn’t always last, but this one has. I ran into him the day after you went, and he told me where they were sending you. I may say now that when I walked in last night and you came out of the study to meet me, there was a moment when I wasn’t quite sure-” his voice shook, and steadied again- “Well, I wasn’t quite sure.”

Jason put milk into his coffee.

“I wasn’t quite sure myself. You know, there’s the point of view of the ghost as well as of the man who sees one. When you come to think of it, there are things one would rather do than find oneself lingering superfluous on the stage without a part to play. I don’t suppose the poor wretch enjoys seeing the odd friend or relations swoon at the sight of him.”

Tommy hadn’t swooned, but he had turned fairly green last night. The scene sprang into Jason’s mind-the dimly lighted hall, Tommy coming in out of the dark, and himself in silhouette against the bright rectangle left by the open study door. There had been a moment when he had felt as if he were really a ghost come back to haunt the place that had been his home. The moment was between them-something shared which couldn’t be put into words.

Neither of them would ever put it into words. Tommy Martin leaned forward, the letter still in his hand. He said abruptly,

“You went out again-after that?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

Jason laughed.

“I shouldn’t be much good at my job if I couldn’t get in or out of a house without anyone hearing me.”

Tommy Martin was looking at the letter, his shaggy brows drawn together, a lock of the hair that never would lie down falling over them. All at once his head jerked up.

“Jason, I don’t think it-but I’ve got to ask you. This isn’t your doing?”

“Mine? Oh, the letter? My dear Tommy!”

Tommy Martin said steadily,

“I just want you to say it isn’t.”

Jason’s mouth twitched. He had disposed of the bacon on his plate, and now reached for some rather hard toast and the marmalade.

“But how completely illogical! Because, just supposing that after being brought up by you I had gone sufficiently down into the gutter to take up anonymous letter writing as a recreation, why should you imagine I would stick at a lie-or at any number of lies for the matter of that? Would you like to pass me the butter?”

Tommy Martin made a long arm for the butter, placed symmetrically by Mrs. Needham on the far side of the table. He gave it an impatient shove in Jason’s direction and said in very nearly his ordinary voice,

“When one stops being illogical one becomes a machine.”

Jason piled butter on the toast, and marmalade on the butter. He was laughing a little.

“All right, have it your own way! I may become a poison-pen addict yet-‘ll ne faut pas dire, fontaine, je ne boirai jamais de ton eau-’ but I haven’t got there yet. You might have a little more confidence in yourself as an instructor of youth!”

The big hand which still held the letter relaxed.

“I said I didn’t think it. I had to ask you. Roger-”

“Roger may have the same pretty thought. Well, if he does, just draw his attention to a few cold facts. I had a nice newsy gossip with Mrs. Needham before you turned up last night. She told me all about your poison-pen, and I gathered that a good few people had been having letters, and that it had been going on for quite a time. Well, I only got across the Channel yesterday, so I suppose I may be considered to have an alibi.”

“Yes-yes-of course.”

He had let go of the letter, picked up his knife and fork, and begun on the now congealed bacon, when the door was thrown open without ceremony. Mrs. Needham stood there, flushed and panting.

“Oh, sir! Oh dear me, isn’t it dreadful! Who’d have thought of a thing like that happening! And Miss Valentine’s wedding-day and all! Oh, sir!”

Jason’s hand closed hard on the arm of his chair. Tommy Martin’s back was to the door. He swung round to face it.

“What has happened, Mrs. Needham?”

“Miss Connie, sir-poor Miss Connie Brooke! Oh dear me! And no time at all since she was here and I couldn’t help seeing how she’d been taking on!”

He got up out of his chair and towered there like a figure of judgment.

“Connie Brooke! Has anything happened to Connie Brooke?”

Jason’s hand had relaxed. It wasn’t Valentine. Nothing else mattered.

The tears were running down over Mrs. Needham’s big flushed cheeks.

“Oh dear me, yes! Oh, sir-oh Mr. Martin-she’s gone!”

“Gone!” This was his big pulpit voice that could fill the church.

She gulped and caught her breath.

“Oh, sir-the baker just brought the news! He come by, and there was Dr. Taylor’s car, and the police from Ledlington! She’s dead, sir-it’s all right enough! Miss Penny found her when she come-and went running for Miss Eccles- and Miss Eccles rung up the doctor-and he rung up the police! But none of it wasn’t any good!”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Oh, yes-it’s Gospel!”

The word struck ironically on Jason’s ear. Gospel-good news! Connie Brooke suddenly dead! He had come from places where the wastage of life was so great that only the nearest and dearest regarded it, but this was a peaceful English village where life was secure. And he had known Connie all her life. A plain, shy creature, not very interesting to anyone, but part of the accustomed scene.

Tommy Martin said abruptly, “I must go.” He pushed past Mrs. Needham into the hall. The front door opened and fell to behind him. Jason saw him go striding down to the gate and across the Green in his baggy, shabby suit. He had forgotten to take a hat.