“I merely observe, Superintendent, that I shall be glad to support you in your investigations. And to that end,” she added, in the absence of any sign of enthusiasm, “I shall announce at once that I have arrived at my own conclusion. There is, I consider, only one individual to whom these outrages may be attributed, and that person, I firmly believe, is—”

The telephone rang.

It was at Miss Emily’s elbow. She said, “T’ch!” and picked it up. “Yes? Are you there?” she asked.

A treble voice, audible to everybody in the room, asked:

“Be that Miss Emily Pride?”

“Speaking.”

“You leave us be, Miss Emily Pride, or the Lady will get you. You’ll be dead as a stone, Miss Emily Pride.”

“Who is that?”

The telephone clicked and began to give the dial tone.

Patrick said: “That was a child’s voice. It must have been—”

“No,” said Miss Emily. “I think not. I have an acute ear for phonetics. It was an assumed accent. And it was not a child. It was the voice of Miss Elspeth Cost.”

The persons taking part in the Festival celebrations assembled at four o’clock on Saturday at the foot of the hill in Fisherman’s Bay. There were a company of little girls wearing green cheesecloth dresses and stars in their hair, about a dozen larger girls, similarly attired, and a few small boys in green cotton smocks. In the rear of this collection came Wally Trehern, also smocked, with his hair sleeked down and a bewildered expression on his face. His hands were noticeably clean. The Mayor and City Councillors and other local dignitaries were yet to come.

Miss Cost marshalled and re-marshalled her troupe. She wore a mobcap and handwoven cloak of the prevailing green, over a full skirt, and an emerald velveteen bodice. The afternoon was sultry and her nose and eyebrows glittered. She carried a camera and a sheaf of papers clipped to a board and exhibited signs of emotional stress.

Thunderclouds were massed in the northwest and everybody eyed them with distrust. Not a breath of air stirred. An ominous hot stillness prevailed.

The enclosure was packed. An overflow of spectators had climbed the hill above the spring, and sat or lay in the blinding heat. The route, from the foreshore to the spring—“Wally’s Way,” in the programme — was lined with spectators. Seats in the enclosure were provided for the ailing and for the official party and other persons of importance. These included the Barrimores, Jenny, Dr. Mayne, and Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs. The Rector, preserving his detachment, had declined any official part in the ceremony. “Though I must say,” he confided to his wife, “it sounds innocuous enough, in a way, from what I’ve heard. I’m afraid Miss Cost’s verse is really pretty dreadful, poor dear.”

“Tell me the moment you see Miss Pride.”

“I can’t help hoping that in the event we shan’t see her at all.”

“I suppose that chair by Mrs. Barrimore is reserved for her.”

“Let us hope she occupies it and doesn’t return to her original plan. She would look too out of place on the ledge.”

“It would put Wally off his poetry, I have no doubt,” Mrs. Carstairs agreeed.

“Not only that, but I understand they use it in their pageant or whatever it is.”

“Then it would be very inconsiderate if she insisted.”

“Mind you, Dulcie, I maintain that in principle she is right.”

“Yes, dear, I’m sure you do,” said Mrs. Carstairs. She gave a little sigh and may have been thinking that things had been a good deal easier over the last two years.

Patrick said to Jenny: “Did you see her before we left?”

“Yes. She’s agreed not to sit on the ledge.”

“How did you do it, you clever girl?”

“I told her I thought it would be unbecoming, and that the children would giggle and the gentlemen look at her legs.”

“Do you suppose she’ll cut up rough at any stage?”

“I’ve no idea.…Listen.…”

“What?”

“Wasn’t that thunder?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Look, there’s Coombe coming in now. Who’s that with him, I wonder — the tall chap?”

“Jolly good-looking,” said Jenny.

“Jolly good tailor, anyway.”

“P’raps it’s one of Miss Pride’s smart chums. She’s got masses, it appears, nearly all diplomats of the first water, she told me.”

“There’s the band. It must have been the big drum you heard, not thunder.”

“It was thunder,” said Jenny.

The band debouched from the village towards the jetty. It was a small combination, entirely dominated by the drum. Behind it walked Mr. Nankivell in full regalia, supported by his Council. They embarked in the large motor launch, manned by Trehern, who was got up as a sort of wherryman. The band filled a small fleet of attendant dinghies and continued to play with determination, if a trifle wildly, throughout the short passage. Miss Cost could be seen darting up and down the length of her procession, taking photographs.

A union of the two elements was achieved, and soon they ascended the hill. The children sang. The band attempted a diminuendo.

“Now why that!” the Rector exclaimed. “You see? No, Dulcie, it’s too much!”

“Look, dear. Do look. There she is.”

Miss Emily had approached by the path from the hotel. She inserted her disk, entered the enclosure, and advanced to her seat just before the procession arrived. Major Barrimore stood up to welcome her, looking furious.

A double gate, normally locked and used to admit only stretcher cases, was now opened. The procession marched in and disposed itself in a predestined order.

It is doubtful if any of the official party paid much attention to the Mayor’s inaugural address. They were all too busy furtively keeping an eye on Miss Emily. She sat bolt upright with her hands clasped over the handle of her furled umbrella, and she stared at Mr. Nankivell.

“…And so, Ladies and Gentlemen, I have great pleasure in declaring the First — the First Festival of Portcarrow Island Springs, O-PEN.”

He sat down to a patter of applause, through which Miss Cost advanced to a position near the little waterfall. Wally stood behind her. A microphone had been set up, but she neglected to use it consistently. When she did speak into it, it seized upon her words, and loud-speakers savagely flung them upon the heavy air. When she turned aside she changed into a voiceless puppet that opened and shut its mouth, cast up its eyes and waved its arms. The Mayor, nodding and smiling, pointed repeatedly to the microphone, but Miss Cost did not observe him.

“One wonderful afternoon… little boy…so sorrowful… who can tell?… ancient wisdom… running water…”

Evidently she was approaching her climax, but all was lost until she turned sharply, and the loud-speakers bellowed: “All gone.”

The words reverberated about the hillside in a very desolate fashion: All gone…All gone.… Miss Cost was bowing and ineffably smiling. She added something that was completely inaudible and, with an arch look at her audience, turned to Wally — and found he had vanished. He was extricated from the rear of the choir, where he had retired to sit down on some seepage from the spring.

Miss Cost led him forward. The back of his smock was slimy and green. Unfortunately, she did not place him before the microphone, but, for the first time, herself directly confronted it.

“Now, Wally, now,” roared the loud-speakers. “ ‘Once upon a Summer’s day…Go on, dear.”

At first, little of Wally’s recitation was lost, since he required constant prompting which Miss Cost, unwittingly, fed into the microphone. At the second stanza, however, the Mayor advanced upon her and in his turn was broadcast. “Shift over,” the loud-speakers advised. “Come ’ere, you silly lad.” The Mayor, quick to perceive his error, backed away.