“He said I would be like his daughter-he said I would have the money. He said he had signed the will-and that everyone would know how he thought about me. And then he went and burned it-or perhaps it was Georgina. Oh, Johnny, do you think it was Georgina who burned the will?”

Johnny shook his head.

“No, of course she didn’t. She wouldn’t, you know-she isn’t like that. And don’t you go round saying that sort of thing, because if you do you’ll put her off doing anything to make up for Jonathan burning it. She won’t do anything if you start fighting her of course, but if you don’t she might rally round with quite a nice little nest-egg for us to set up house on.”

“But you don’t want to marry me now. You told me you were too poor to marry me, but I thought if I had a lot of money I could give you some.”

“And I told you that sort of thing wasn’t done.”

“I thought it was very stupid of you. I was going to get you to see how stupid it was, and then everything would have been all right-but now I haven’t got any money to give you-”

The words were broken into by sobbing breaths. And how true they were. If he didn’t marry money, he was going to have to work for it, and work hard. The thought revolted him. Mirrie and a fortune had been an uncommonly pleasant prospect, but Mirrie without anything at all would really mean hard work. The thought should have been an efficacious deterrent, but he found himself kissing her hands and saying the sort of things which ought to have made his blood run cold, only they seemed to be having the opposite effect.

“Mirrie-say you like me a bit. I want to hear you say it. I’ve gone in off the deep end about you-I expect you know that. I’ll work my fingers to the bone if you’ll take me on. I didn’t think I’d ever want to do that for any girl, but I do for you. I’ve got that bit of capital my aunt left me. I was going to put it into a garage business. I’m looking round for one. There might be a flat over it.”

Mirrie’s tears had ceased to flow. She gazed at him between dark wet lashes and said,

“Should we have television?”

“Not quite at first-unless Georgina thought it would be a bright idea for a wedding present. Darling, does that mean you will?”

She sniffed.

“I haven’t got a handkerchief.”

“Girls never do have one. Here’s mine.”

She blew her nose and sat up.

“Johnny, you oughtn’t to be in here. Aunt Grace said most particularly that a nice girl never lets anyone come into her bedroom.”

“Darling, not even a housemaid?”

Mirrie’s eyes were wide with reproof.

“She meant a man.”

He broke into rather shaky laughter.

“You are a funny little thing!”

“I’m not! You-you must go away.”

He got up, set the door half way open, and came back again.

“That ought to satisfy anyone’s sense of respectability.”

Her eyes were brimming.

“Johnny, I thought you were going away.”

“Didn’t you want me to?”

Her head was shaken and the tears ran down.

“Oh, no, I didn’t. It was just Aunt Grace.”

He knelt down beside the chair again.

“Darling, let’s give Aunt Grace a rest. Shall we? I’m not really so hot on her or on Uncle Albert. Suppose we forget them. I want to talk about us.”

She shook her head in a slow, mournful manner.

“There’s nothing to talk about. I haven’t got any money.”

“I know-it’s too bad. Do you think you could bear to be rather poor for a bit?”

“I shall have to be. Oh, Johnny, don’t-don’t let them send me back to Uncle Albert and Aunt Grace!”

“Darling, we were going to forget about them. What about marrying me and living over the garage business? Can you cook? Because that’s very important, and if you can’t you’ll have to learn.”

She brightened a little.

“Oh, but I can! Even Aunt Grace said I wasn’t bad, and Uncle Albert liked my omelettes better than hers.”

“Tactless of him. I don’t suppose it went down very well.”

“N-no-it didn’t. He liked my soups too. Johnny, shall we be very poor?”

At that moment Johnny Fabian became aware of an extraordinary willingness to do without practically everything else in order to look after Mirrie and have her making omelettes for him. He would even be prepared to work really hard in order to provide the necessary eggs.

He said so. They kissed. And Mrs. Fabian walked in upon the scene. She had come to console Mirrie upon the loss of a fortune, and found her flushed and radiant. But she took Aunt Grace’s view of bedroom interviews. They could go and talk in the morning-room, and Johnny ought to have known better.

“Yes, Johnny, you ought-and Mirrie such a very young girl! And she had better wash her face before she goes downstairs.”

THE INQUEST on Jonathan Field took place next morning, and the funeral in the afternoon. At the inquest only formal evidence was offered and the proceedings were adjourned. The funeral was at Deeping and was attended by a very large number of people.

Miss Silver removed the bunch of flowers from her second-best hat and covered her olive-green dress with the black cloth coat whose years of service were now becoming legendary. Such an excellent material. Pre-war of course, and still so warm, so serviceable. A small scarf of black wool kindly lent to her by Mrs. Fabian enabled her to dispense with the rather yellow fur tippet of an even greater antiquity than the coat. It had been a good fur once, and was still most cosy, most comfortable. Since she considered the country draughty, it invariably accompanied her when she left London, but the colour being a little bright for a funeral she gladly accepted the loan of Mrs. Fabian’s scarf.

Georgina and Mirrie walked side-by-side behind the coffin. They stood together at the grave. When Mirrie was obviously overcome, Johnny Fabian came forward and put an arm about her shoulders. But Georgina stood alone, tall and slight in her plain black coat and skirt, her face pale and her eyes fixed darkly on the line of trees against a sky of wintry blue. When it was all over she spoke simply and quietly to the old friends who came up in twos and threes.

Frank Abbott, on the edge of the crowd, found himself buttonholed by Mr. Vincent.

“Very odd thing, don’t you think-very odd indeed. Wealthy, prominent man shot dead in his own house in a country village-not at all the sort of thing that you would expect.”

Frank had never found country villages immune from crime. He said so, quoting Sherlock Holmes as reported by Dr. Watson in support.

Mr. Vincent stared.

“Ah, but that is just in a story. Must have things happening in a story or it goes dull on you. But not the sort of thing you expect in real life-oh, no, definitely not. You don’t think it can have anything to do with that yarn he told us after dinner in the study on the night of the dance? You were there, weren’t you?”

“Oh, yes, I was there.”

“What did you make of it?” pursued Mr. Vincent. “Personally I thought he was telling the tale, if you know what I mean. I remember fourteen years ago when I was in Venezuela -”

Frank recalled him to present-day Ledshire.

“Well, of course he might have been making it up. It made quite a good story.”

Mr. Vincent agreed.

“I have told it several times myself-dining out and that sort of thing, you know. Lord and Lady Pondesbury were kind enough to invite me, and as neither they nor any of their guests had been present when Mr. Field was showing us his album, I took the liberty of repeating what he had told us on that occasion. I am afraid I did not tell it as well as he did. I could not, for instance, remember whether he mentioned the exact date of the occurrence, or even whether he referred it to any particular year of the war. I told them about the experience it reminded me of in Venezuela in the thirties-but I cannot be sure of the year-”