Mrs. Underwood sat in the tubular chair. She thought how uncomfortable it was, and tried to remember that she was a Wing Commander’s wife, and that the stout man facing her was, after all, just a plain-clothes policeman, not so very far removed from the constable who stops the traffic for you and helps you on your way in the black-out. She had put on a smart hat and taken pains with her face, but none of these things prevented her from feeling as if more than twenty years had been rolled away and she was Mabel Peabody again, dreadfully frightened and wishing that the ground would open and swallow her up. Old Lamb, country born and bred, was reminded of any scared animal. Fear is fear, and you can’t hide it. Cows in a burning shed- he’d seen that when he was a boy and never forgotten it-a rat in a trap, sheep when a dog has been worrying them, a badly startled horse, and this fine lady in her smart London clothes- frightened creatures, the lot of them. He didn’t wonder what Mrs. Underwood had to be frightened about, because he knew. That is to say, he knew enough to be going on with. There might be more to it. There might even be a great deal more, but this would do for a start.

He began in his pleasant manner.

“I believe you were out for a good part of yesterday afternoon and evening, Mrs. Underwood. We are making a timetable of the comings and goings of everyone in the flats. It will help us to find out at what times it would have been possible for a stranger to have visited Miss Roland without being seen. Have you any objection to giving us your times?”

This was quite reassuring. Mabel Peabody faded-Mabel Underwood produced the required information.

“I went out to lunch, and then on to take my niece’s place at Miss Middleton’s centre. They pack parcels for people who have been bombed out, and for necessitous evacuees, and I’m sure it’s all very useful, but I couldn’t work under her myself. Well, of course that won’t interest you, and I mustn’t take up your time. Let me see, where was I? Oh, yes-I packed parcels till five o’clock, and then I went on to play bridge at the Soames’, and I suppose I got back here about half past seven.”

“You came straight back?”

Mrs. Underwood looked surprised.

“Oh, yes.”

“Straight back to your own flat, Mrs. Underwood?”

She was frightened again now. She hadn’t enough breath to answer. She looked at the window-at the fireplace-anywhere except at Chief Inspector Lamb.

“I don’t know what you mean. Of course I came back to my flat.”

“Yes, of course you did. But you didn’t come straight back- did you? Your maid, Ivy Lord, says you were in front of her all the way along from the corner, and that Miss Roland was in front of you. There would be quite enough light at half past seven for her to recognise two people whom she knew. She says Miss Roland was not in sight when she came in, but that you were standing by the lift shaft waiting for the lift to come down again. She waited in the porch until you had gone up in the lift. Miss Underwood had given her leave to go out, but she had overstayed her time. She hoped you would go straight to your room and not realise that she was out, but when she entered the flat she found to her surprise that you had not come in. It was then a minute or two before the half hour. She says she looked at the clock in the hall as she came in, and at the kitchen clock as soon as she had taken her coat off. It was then exactly half past seven. She says that it was not until ten minutes later that you came into the flat. Do you dispute this statement?”

That unbecoming mauve flush had risen to the roots of the tinted chestnut hair. The high bust lifted and fell.

“No-no-of course not.”

Lamb leaned forward a little.

“Miss Roland was in front of you all the way from the corner?”

“Yes. She was seeing someone off by the bus in front of mine.”

“You didn’t speak to her?”

“Oh, no. She had started back before I got off my bus.”

“You mean that you waited purposely to give her a start- you didn’t very much want to catch her up?”

“Well, something like that. I had only met her once. The Willards had her in to make a fourth at bridge on Monday. I didn’t want to get too intimate-I had my niece to consider.”

“Just so. Well now, Mrs. Underwood, would you like to account for that time between half past seven and twenty to eight? Ivy Lord saw you go up in the lift. Where did you go to?”

The flush deepened almost to purple. Mrs. Underwood gripped the tubular arms of the chair. The metal was cold against her sweating palms. She drew a long breath, and lost control of it. Her words came unevenly, catching and stumbling.

“I went up-to the top floor. There was-something I thought of-something I wanted to-say to Miss Roland. It wasn’t anything at all-I just thought-I would speak about it-if I could catch her. It wasn’t really anything-but I thought-it might be-a good opportunity-”

“And was it?” said Lamb.

She didn’t look at him.

“Oh, I didn’t see her. I changed my mind.”

“You just went up to the top floor and came down again? But that wouldn’t take ten minutes, would it?”

Mrs. Underwood took another of those long breaths.

“Well, no-but I didn’t come down at once. I expect it sounds very silly, but I just couldn’t make up my mind. I got out of the lift, and there was the flat but the door was shut, and I thought, ‘Well, it’s getting late.’ And then I thought I might as well see her and be done with it. I got right up to the door, and I was going to ring the bell but I didn’t. I walked down the stairs nearly as far as the next landing. And then I thought I was being stupid and I went back, but in the end I just came down again. I suppose that’s how the time went.”

It sounded a very lame and unconvincing tale. Sergeant Abbott, sitting a little to Mrs. Underwood’s rear, permitted himself to raise an unbelieving eyebrow. Lamb had a frown as he said,

“You didn’t see Miss Roland then?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t.”

He allowed a pause to weigh upon them all before he said with an abrupt change of manner,

“What did you want to see her about?”

“Oh-nothing special-”

“It wasn’t by any chance about a letter?”

Lamb rummaged among the papers before him and leaned towards her with a folded sheet in his hand. One of the corners had been torn off. She stared at it, holding to the arms of the chair.

Lamb unfolded the sheet.

“This letter is signed Mabel Underwood. You wrote it, didn’t you? There is only a small piece missing. It starts without anybody’s name and says, ‘I really cannot do what you ask me. It is quite impossible. I ought not to have sent you anything the first time, but you said that would settle everything. It is quite impossible for me to give you any more money without my husband knowing about it.’ Your signature follows. Then there’s this piece that’s been torn off-was there anything written on that?”

She gave a sort of nod.

“Do you remember what it was?”

She spoke with a gasp.

“I said-I had no money to give.”

Lamb leaned over the table, resting his arms upon it.

“Miss Roland was blackmailing you?”

“I-don’t know.”

“How do you mean you don’t know?”

“I didn’t know it was Miss Roland. I posted the letter.”

“Will you give me the address.”

Frank Abbott took it down.

“Was it the same address to which you sent the first letter- the one with the money in it?”

“No-that was another address.”

“Will you give me that too?”

She gave it, unable to do anything except answer whatever they asked her. Her first desperate fear had slipped into lethargy. It was no use-they had her letter-she must answer them. She did not see the quick look which passed between Lamb and Abbott as she gave the second address.