As soon as everyone had been accommodated Inspector Jackson said in his slow, deep country voice,

“I am taking it for granted that you will all want to be of assistance to the police. Inspector Abbott has come down here from London about some notes that they are anxious to trace. A couple of them have turned up here. One of them was paid into the County Bank in Ledlington by Miss Weekes who has a fancy-work shop at Dedham. She says it was part of last Tuesday’s takings, and she has mentioned the names of several people who might have paid it over. Three of them are here now, and I would like to ask them whether they can remember anything that would help us-as, for instance, the amount of the bill-how they paid it-and if in notes, whether they thought there was anything at all out of the way about those notes.”

“I have never entered a fancy-work shop in my life,” said Peveril Craddock in a calm resonant voice.

Augustus threw out his hands.

“But, my dear Peveril-what a loss to yourself! The rows and rows of woolly bundles like fat contented sheep of some beautiful rainbow variety unknown to the plodding agriculturist-the sheen of silk, shifting and shoaling from one delicious hue to another-the bright plastic needles like spears of light-”

It was not easy to astonish Inspector Jackson. He said in a very definite tone,

“Did you buy anything from Miss Weekes on Tuesday, Mr. Remington?”

Augustus looked vague.

“I might have done. I was searching for a certain shade of silk-a fruitless quest. But when it comes to which day of the week, I fear I cannot help you. I am of those who believe that time is an illusion. Sometimes we drift with it-sometimes it passes us by. I am quite unable to say whether it was on Tuesday that my quest took me to Dedham.”

Miss Gwyneth leaned forward. She was wearing a chain of large brown wooden beads, and they made a rattling sound.

“Oh, but it was,” she said. “Because when I went in in the afternoon they said you had been there. I mean, Miss Weekes did-I didn’t speak to Miss Hill. Miss Weekes said she was so sorry she hadn’t the colour you wanted.”

“One of those fluent shades-” Augustus murmured.

Jackson said firmly,

“Well, Mr. Remington, it was Tuesday. Now can you remember the amount of your bill?”

“Oh, dear, no. Money is merely a distasteful symbol-I really do not regard it.”

He spoke in a lisping way which gave Jackson a strong feeling that he ought to have been smacked for it when he was young. He had two little boys of his own, and they would have been over his knee and getting six of the best if they had started any such finicky nonsense. He said shortly,

“Miss Weekes says that the amount was thirty-two and sixpence.”

“She is probably right.”

“And that you paid her with a pound note, a ten shilling note, and half a crown.”

“How distressingly observant.”

‘You agree with her statement?

The hands were waved as if in supplication.

“My dear man, don’t ask me! I am sure she must be right.”

“Then I have to ask you whether you noticed anything at all unusual about the pound note.”

It was at this point that Mr. John Robinson was heard to remark that hope sprang eternal in the human breast. Augustus sighed.

“I do not notice pound notes. I have just been telling you so. They exist, but I do not admit them any farther into my consciousness than that.”

Inspector Jackson persevered.

“Can you tell me how this pound note came into your possession?”

Augustus shook his head.

“I suppose from my bank. I have a modest account at Dedham. My means are small, but I occasionally cash a cheque.”

“Well, we can get the date of your last cheque from them- unless you can remember it yourself”

“Oh, no.”

Jackson turned to Miss Gwyneth, who proved voluble and informative. She had bought a yard of canvas in a neutral shade, three bundles of blue raffia, and one bundle each of green, red, and yellow. And she had paid with a pound note, which did not quite cover the amount of the bill, but there was a small credit, as she had brought back two bundles of raffia which she had bought in a bad light the week before.

“Not at all the right shade, Inspector, and MissWeekes is always most obliging. And I paid with a pound note, as I said, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you where it came from, because there was a five-pound note that I had put away for some time, and I changed it at the railway station at Dedham the last time I went to London about a month ago, and the note might have been part of the change, or I might have had it by me for some time-I really can’t say. But I certainly did not notice anything peculiar.”

Too much information can be as disconcerting as too little. Miss Gwyneth went on to recall that she had received a registered envelope containing three pound notes at Christmas, the gift of an aged aunt who had an incurable objection to writing cheques. She also remembered having obliged Mrs. Craddock with a pound’s worth of silver for a pound note one day when she had no change for the bus. About a fortnight ago, she thought, but she wasn’t quite sure.

Appealed to for confirmation, Mrs. Craddock thought so too. The money was housekeeping money. Mr. Craddock drew a cheque about once a month when he gave her the housekeeping money. Some of it would be in notes, and some in silver. She had run out of silver, and Miss Gwyneth had very kindly changed one of the notes. Oh, no, it never occurred to her that there was anything wrong with it.

She sat drooping in her chair and never raised her eyes. Her words were barely audible. Jackson was reminded of a rabbit in a trap, too frightened to move. And what in the world was she frightened of? That was what he would like to know. He knew fear when he saw it, and here it was, plain enough, and he wanted to know why.

Frank Abbott was making notes. He too was aware of Emily Craddock’s fear. Nervous, delicate woman. Might be just nerves-might be she knew something. He listened while Peveril Craddock spoke of having an account at the County Bank in Ledlington, and of the cheque drawn every month for household expenses. They weren’t getting anywhere. They had got to go through with it, but there really wasn’t the remotest chance of identifying the pound note poor Wayne had spotted with any one of those which seemed to have been drifting in and out of the Colony. It was like looking for a pin in a box of pins. The only chance was that they might get a line on one of these people through some involuntary reaction. He looked up, and got one reaction at any rate. Mr. John Robinson was regarding him with a gleam of critical humour. Sitting as he was, on the window-seat with his back to the light, his features in shadow and a good deal obscured by beard and eyebrow, it was extraordinary how that transient gleam came across. As clearly as he had ever got anything in his life, Inspector Abbott received the impression that the police were making fools of themselves, and that they had Mr. Robinson’s sympathy.

Well, at any rate Jackson had finished with the pound note and was now very politely inviting the company to explain individually just what each of them was doing between the.hours of two and seven on the previous afternoon. No one making any demur, he proceeded to go round the circle clockwise.

“Miss-er-Miranda?”

She shook back her mass of dark red hair.

“Miranda,” she said deeply. “Neither Miss nor Mrs.-just Miranda.”

Inspector Jackson thought this was as odd a lot of people as he had ever come across. He avoided the issue.

“Just so. Perhaps you would not mind telling me what you were doing yesterday atternoon.”

“I don’t mind in the least-why should I? I went for a walk up over the common. I can’t say exactly when I started, or when I got back, but I had to turn on the lights when I came in, so I suppose it was about four o’clock.”