Chapter XVI

Mr. Crofts, excusably enough, said, "I told you so"; Sir Impey Biggs observed curtly, "Very unfortunate."

To chronicle Lord Peter Wimsey's daily life during the ensuing week would be neither kind nor edifying. An enforced inactivity will produce irritable symptoms in the best of men. Nor did the imbecile happiness of Chief-Inspector Parker and Lady Mary Wimsey tend to soothe him, accompanied as it was by tedious demonstrations of affection for himself. Like the man in Max Beerbohm's story, Wimsey "hated to be touching." He was only moderately cheered by hearing from the industrious Freddy Arbuthnot that Mr. Norman Urquhart was found to be more or less deeply involved in the disasters of the Megatherium Trust.

Miss Kitty Climpson, on the other hand, was living in what she herself liked to call a "whirl of activity." A letter, written the second day after her arrival in Windle, furnishes us with a wealth of particulars.

Hillside View,
Windle, Westmorland.
1st Jan. 1930.

My dear Lord Peter,

I feel sure you will be anxious to hear, at the _earliest possible_
moment _how_ things are _going_, and though I have only been here
_one_ day, I really think I have _not_ done so _badly_, all things
considered!

My train got in quite late on Monday night, after a _most dreary_
journey, with a _lugubrious_ wait at _Preston_, though thanks to
your kindness in insisting that I should travel _First-class_, I
was not really at all tired! Nobody can realise what a _great_
difference these extra comforts make, especially when one is
_getting on_ in years, and after the _uncomfortable_ travelling
which I had to endure in my days of poverty, I feel that I
am living in almost _sinful_ luxury! The carriage was _well_
heated--indeed, _too much_ so and I should have liked the window
down, but that there was a _very fat_ business man, _muffled_ up to
the eyes in _coats_ and _woolly waistcoats_ who _strongly_ objected
to fresh air! Men are such HOT-HOUSE PLANTS now-a-days, are they
not, quite unlike my dear father, who would never permit a _fire_
in the house _before_ November the 1st, or _after_ March 31st even
though the thermometer was at _freezing-point_!

I had _no_ difficulty in getting a comfortable room at the Station
Hotel, _late_ as it was. In the old days, an _unmarried_ woman
arriving _alone_ at _midnight_ with a _suitcase_ would hardly have
been considered _respectable_--what a wonderful difference one
finds today! I am _grateful_ to have lived to see such changes,
because whatever old-fashioned people may say about the greater
_decorum_ and _modesty_ of women in Queen Victoria's time, those
who can remember the old conditions know how _difficult_ and
_humiliating_ they were!

Yesterday morning, of course, my _first_ object was to find a
_suitable boarding-house_, in accordance with your instructions,
and I was _fortunate_ enough to hit upon this house at the _second_
attempt. It is very well run and _refined_, and there are three
_elderly ladies_ who are _permanent_ boarders here, and are _well
up_ in all the GOSSIP of the town, so that nothing could be more
_advantageous_ for our purpose!!

As soon as I had engaged my room, I went out for a little _voyage
of discovery_. I found a very helpful _policeman_ in the High
Street, and asked him where to find Mrs. Wrayburn's house. He knew
it quite well, and told me to take the _omnibus_ and it would be
a penny ride to the "Fisherman's Arms" and then about 5 minutes'
walk. So I followed his directions, and the 'bus took me right into
the country to a _cross-roads_ with the "Fisherman's Arms" at the
corner. The conductor was most polite and helpful and showed me the
way, so I had _no difficulty_ in finding the house.

It is a _beautiful old place_, standing in its own grounds--quite
a _big_ house built in the _eighteenth century_, with an _Italian_
porch and a lovely green lawn with a cedar-tree and formal
flower-beds, and in summer must be really a _garden of Eden_. I
looked at it from the road for a little time--I did not think this
would be at all _peculiar_ behaviour, if anybody saw me, because
_anybody_ might be interested in such a fine old place. Most of
the _blinds_ were down, as though the greater part of the house
were _uninhabited_, and I could not see any _gardener_ or anybody
about--I suppose there is not very much to be done in the garden
this time of the year. One of the _chimneys_ was smoking, however,
so there were _some_ signs of life about the place.

I took a little _walk_ down the road and then turned back and
passed the house again, and this time I saw a servant just passing
round the corner of the house, but of course she was _too far
off_ for me to speak to. So I took the omnibus back again and
had lunch at Hillside View, so as to make acquaintance with my
fellow-boarders.

Naturally I did not want to seem _too eager_ all at once, so I said
nothing about Mrs. Wrayburn's house _at first_, but just talked
_generally_ about Windle. I had some difficulty in parrying the
_questions_ of the good ladies, who _wondered_ very much _why_
a stranger had come to Windle at this time of year, but without
telling many actual _untruths_ I think I left them with the
_impression_ that I had come into a little fortune (!) and was
visiting the Lake District to find a suitable spot in which to
settle next _summer_! I talked about _sketching_--as girls we were
_all_ brought up to dabble a little in water-colours, so that I was
able to display quite sufficient _technical knowledge to satisfy
them_!

That gave me quite a _good_ opportunity to ask about the _house_!!
Such a _beautiful_ old place, I said, and did anybody live there?
(Of _course_ I did not blurt this out _all at once_--I waited till
they had told me of the many _quaint spots_ in the district that
would interest an artist!) Mrs. Pegler, a very _stout_, PUSSY old
lady, with a LONG TONGUE (!) was able to tell me _all_ about it.
My dear Lord Peter, what I do _not_ know now about the _abandoned
wickedness_ of Mrs. Wrayburn's early life is really NOT WORTH
KNOWING!! But what was _more to the point_ is that she told me the
_name of_ Mrs. Wrayburn's _nurse-companion_. She is a MISS BOOTH, a
retired nurse, about _sixty_ years old, and she lives _all alone_
in the house with Mrs. Wrayburn, except for the _servants_, and a
_housekeeper_. When I heard that Mrs. Wrayburn was so _old_, and
_paralysed_ and _frail_, I said was it not very _dangerous_ that
Miss Booth should be the only attendant, but Mrs. Pegler said the
housekeeper was a _most trustworthy_ woman who had been with Mrs.
Wrayburn for many years, and was _quite_ capable of looking after
her any time when Miss Booth was out. So it appears that Miss Booth
does go out sometimes! Nobody in this house seems to _know_ her
_personally_, but they say she is often to be seen in the town in
_nurse's uniform_. I managed to extract quite a good description
of her, so if I should happen to meet her, I daresay I shall be
_smart_ enough to _recognise_ her!

That is really _all_ I have been able to discover in _one_ day.
I hope you will not be _too_ disappointed, but I was obliged to
listen to a terrible amount of _local history_ of one kind and
another, and of course I could not FORCE the conversation round to
Mrs. Wrayburn in any suspicious way.

I will let you know as _soon_ as I get the _least bit_ more
information.

Most sincerely yours,
Katharine Alexandra Climpson.

Miss Climpson finished her letter in the privacy of her bedroom, and secured it carefully in her capacious handbag before going downstairs. A long experience of boarding-house life warned her that to display openly an envelope addressed even to a minor member of the nobility would be to court a quite unnecessary curiosity. True, it would establish her status, but at that moment Miss Climpson hardly wished to move in the limelight. She crept quietly out at the hall door, and turned her steps towards the centre of the town.

On the previous day, she had marked down one principal tea-shop, two rising and competitive tea-shops, one slightly passé and declining tea-shop, a Lyons, and four obscure and, on the whole, negligible tea-shops which combined the service of refreshments with a trade in sweets. It was now half-past ten. In the next hour and a half she could, with a little exertion, pass in review all that part of the Windle population which indulged in morning coffee.

She posted her letter and then debated with herself where to begin. On the whole, she inclined to leave the Lyons for another day. It was an ordinary plain Lyons, without orchestra or soda-fountain. She thought that its clientèle would be chiefly housewives and clerks. Of the other four, the most likely was, perhaps, the "Central." It was fairly large, well-lighted and cheerful and strains of music issued from its doors. Nurses usually like the large, well-lighted and melodious. But the "Central" had one drawback. Anyone coming from the direction of Mrs. Wrayburn's house would have to pass all the others to get to it. This fact unfitted it for an observation post. From this point of view, the advantage lay with "Ye Cosye Corner," which commanded the 'bus-stop. Accordingly, Miss Climpson decided to start her campaign from that spot. She selected a table in the window, ordered a cup of coffee and a plate of digestive biscuits and entered upon her vigil.

After half an hour, during which no woman in nurse's costume had been sighted, she ordered another cup of coffee and some pastries. A number of people--mostly women--dropped in, but none of them could by any possibility be identified with Miss Booth. At half-past eleven, Miss Climpson felt to stay any longer would be conspicuous and might annoy the management. She paid her bill and departed.

The "Central" had rather more people in it than "Ye Cosye Corner," and was in some ways an improvement, having comfortable wicker chairs instead of fumed oak settles, and brisk waitresses instead of languid semi-gentlewomen in art-linen. Miss Climpson ordered another cup of coffee and a roll and butter. There was no window-table vacant, but she found one close to the orchestra from which she could survey the whole room. A fluttering dark-blue veil at the door made her heart beat, but it proved to belong to a lusty young person with two youngsters and a perambulator, and hope withdrew once more. By twelve o'clock, Miss Climpson decided that she had drawn blank at the "Central."

Her last visit was to the "Oriental"--an establishment singularly ill-adapted for espionage. It consisted of three very small rooms of irregular shape, dimly lit by forty-watt bulbs in Japanese shades, and further shrouded by bead curtains and draperies. Miss Climpson, in her inquisitive way, wandered into all its nooks and corners, disturbing several courting couples, before returning to a table near the door and sitting down to consume her fourth cup of coffee. Half-past twelve came, but no Miss Booth. "She can't come now," thought Miss Climpson, "she will have to get back and give her patient lunch."

She returned to Hillside View with but little appetite for the joint of roast mutton.

At half-past three she sallied out again, to indulge in an orgy of teas. This time she included the Lyons and the fourth tea-shop, beginning at the far end of the town and working her way back to the 'bus-stop. It was while she was struggling with her fifth meal, in the window of "Ye Cosye Corner," that a hurrying figure on the pavement caught her eye. The winter evening had closed in, and the street-lights were not very brilliant, but she distinctly saw a stoutish middle-aged nurse in a black veil and grey cloak pass along on the nearer pavement. By craning her neck, she could see her make a brisk spurt, scramble on the 'bus at the corner and disappear in the direction of the "Fisherman's Arms."

"How vexatious!" said Miss Climpson, as the vehicle disappeared. "I must have just missed her somewhere. Or perhaps she was having tea in a private house. Well, I'm afraid this is a blank day. And I do feel so _full_ of tea!"

It was fortunate that Miss Climpson had been blest by Heaven with a sound digestion, for the next morning saw a repetition of the performance. It was possible, of course, that Miss Booth only went out two or three times a week, or that she only went out in the afternoon, but Miss Climpson was taking no chances. She had at least achieved the certainty that the 'bus-stop was the place to watch. This time she took up her post at "Ye Cosye Corner" at 11 o'clock and waited till twelve. Nothing happened and she went home.

In the afternoon she was there again at three. By this time the waitress had got to know her, and betrayed a certain amused and tolerant interest in her comings and goings. Miss Climpson explained that she liked so much to watch the people pass, and spoke a few words in praise of the Café and its service. She admired a quaint old inn on the opposite side of the street, and said she thought of making a sketch of it.

"Oh, yes," said the girl, "there's a many artists comes here for that."

This gave Miss Climpson a bright idea, and the next morning she brought a pencil and sketch-book with her.

By the extraordinary perversity of things in general, she had no sooner ordered her coffee, opened the sketch-book and started to outline the gables of the inn, than a 'bus drew up, and out of it stepped the stout nurse in the black and grey uniform. She did not enter "Ye Cosye Corner," but marched on at a brisk pace down the opposite side of the street, her veil flapping like a flag.

Miss Climpson uttered a sharp exclamation of annoyance, which drew the waitress's attention.

"How provoking!" said Miss Climpson. "I have left my rubber behind. I must just run out and buy one."

She dropped the sketch-book on the table and made for the door.

"I'll cover your coffee up for you, miss," said the girl, helpfully. "Mr. Bulteel's, down near the 'Bear,' is the best stationer's."

"Thank you, thank you," said Miss Climpson, and darted out.

The black veil was still flapping in the distance. Miss Climpson pursued breathlessly, keeping to the near side of the road. The veil dived into a chemist's shop. Miss Climpson crossed the road a little behind it and stared into a window full of baby-linen. The veil came out, fluttered undecidedly on the pavement, turned, passed Miss Climpson and went into a boot-shop.

"If it's shoe-laces, it'll be quick," thought Miss Climpson, "but if it's trying-on it may be all morning." She walked slowly past the door. By good luck a customer was just coming out, and, peering past him, Miss Climpson just caught a glimpse of the black veil vanishing into the back premises. She pushed the door boldly open. There was a counter for sundries in the front of the shop, and the doorway through which the nurse had vanished was labelled "Ladies' Department."

While buying a pair of brown silk laces, Miss Climpson debated with herself. Should she follow and seize this opportunity? Trying on shoes is usually a lengthy business. The subject is marooned for long periods in a chair, while the assistant climbs ladders and collects piles of cardboard boxes. It is also comparatively easy to enter into conversation with a person who is trying on shoes. But there is a snag in it. To give colour to your presence in the Fitting department, you must yourself try on shoes. What happens? The assistant first disables you by snatching off your right-hand shoe, and then disappears. And supposing, meanwhile, your quarry completes her purchase and walks out? Are you to follow, hopping madly on one foot? Are you to arouse suspicion by hurriedly replacing your own footgear and rushing out with laces flying and an unconvincing murmur about a forgotten engagement? Still worse, suppose you are in an amphibious condition, wearing one shoe of your own and one of the establishment's? What impression will you make by suddenly bolting with goods to which you are not entitled? Will not the pursuer very quickly become the pursued?

Having weighed this problem in her mind, Miss Climpson paid for her shoe-laces and retired. She had already bilked a tea-shop, and one misdemeanour in a morning was about as much as she could hope to get away with.

The male detective, particularly when dressed as a workman, an errand-boy or a telegraph-messenger, is favourably placed for "shadowing." He can loaf without attracting attention. The female detective must not loaf. On the other hand, she can stare into shop-windows for ever. Miss Climpson selected a hat-shop. She examined all the hats in both windows attentively, coming back to gaze in a purposeful manner at an extremely elegant model with an eye-veil and a pair of excrescences like rabbits'-ears. Just at the moment when any observer might have thought that she had at last made up her mind to go in and ask the price, the nurse came out of the boot-shop. Miss Climpson shook her head regretfully at the rabbits'-ears, darted back to the other window, looked, hovered, hesitated--and tore herself away.

The nurse was now about thirty yards ahead, moving well, with the air of a horse that sights his stable. She crossed the street again, looked into a window piled with coloured wools, thought better of it, passed on, and turned in at the door of the Oriental Café.

Miss Climpson was in the position of one who, after prolonged pursuit, has clapped a tumbler over a moth. For the moment the creature is safe and the pursuer takes breath. The problem now is to extract the moth without damage.

It is easy, of course, to follow a person into a café and sit down at her table, if there is room there. But she may not welcome you. She may feel it perverse in you to thrust yourself upon her when other tables are standing empty. It is better to offer some excuse, such as restoring a dropped handkerchief or drawing attention to an open handbag. If the person will not provide you with an excuse, the next best thing is to manufacture one.

The stationer's shop was only a few doors off. Miss Climpson went in and purchased an indiarubber, three picture post-cards, a BB pencil and a calendar, and waited while they were made up into a parcel. Then she slowly made her way across the street and turned into the "Oriental."

In the first room she found two women and a small boy occupying one recess, an aged gentleman drinking milk in another, and a couple of girls consuming coffee and cakes in a third.

"Excuse me," said Miss Climpson to the two women, "but does this parcel belong to you? I picked it up just outside the door."

The elder woman, who had evidently been shopping, hastily passed in review a quantity of miscellaneous packages, pinching each one by way of refreshing her memory as to the contents.

"I don't think it's mine, but really I can't say for certain. Let me see. That's eggs and that's bacon and--what's this, Gertie? Is that the mouse-trap? No, wait a minute, that's cough-mixture, that is--and that's Aunt Edith's cork soles, and that's Nugget--no, bloater paste, this here's the Nugget--why, bless my soul, I believe I _have_ been and gone and dropped the mouse-trap--but that don't look like it to me."

"No, Mother," said the younger woman, "don't you remember, they were sending round the mouse-trap with the bath."

"Of course, so they were. Well, that accounts for that. The mouse-trap and the two frying-pans, they was all to go with the bath, and that's all except the soap, which you've got, Gertie. No, thank you very much, all the same, but it isn't ours; somebody else must have dropped it."

The old gentleman repudiated it firmly, but politely, and the two girls merely giggled at it. Miss Climpson passed on. Two young women with their attendant young men duly thanked her in the second room, but said the parcel was not theirs.

Miss Climpson passed into the third room. In one corner was a rather talkative party of people with an Airedale, and at the back, in the most obscure and retired of all the Oriental nooks and corners, sat the nurse, reading a book.

The talkative party had nothing to say to the parcel, and Miss Climpson, with her heart beating fast, bore down upon the nurse.

"Excuse me," she said, smiling graciously, "but I think this little parcel must be yours. I picked it up just in the doorway and I've asked all the other people in the café."

The nurse looked up. She was a grey-haired, elderly woman, with those curious large blue eyes which disconcert the beholder by their intense gaze, and are usually an index of some emotional instability. She smiled at Miss Climpson and said pleasantly:

"No, no, it isn't mine. So kind of you. But I have all my parcels here."

She vaguely indicated the cushioned seat which ran round three sides of the alcove, and Miss Climpson, accepting the gesture as an invitation, promptly sat down.

"How very odd," said Miss Climpson, "I made sure someone must have dropped it coming in here. I wonder what I had better do with it." She pinched it gently. "I shouldn't think it was valuable, but one never knows. I suppose I ought to take it to the police-station."

"You could hand it to the cashier," suggested the nurse, "in case the owner came back here to claim it."

"Well now, so I could," cried Miss Climpson. "How clever of you to think of it. Of course, yes, that would be the best way. You must think me very foolish, but the idea never occurred to me. I'm not a very practical person, I'm afraid, but I do so admire the people who are. I should never do to take up _your_ profession, should I? Any little emergency leaves me _quite_ bewildered."

The nurse smiled again.

"It is largely a question of training," she said. "And of _self_-training, too, of course. All these little weaknesses can be cured by placing the mind under a Higher Control--don't you believe that?"

Her eyes rested hypnotically upon Miss Climpson's.

"I suppose that is true."

"It is such a mistake," pursued the nurse, closing her book and laying it down on the table, "to imagine that anything in the mental sphere is large or small. Our least thoughts and actions are equally directed by the higher centres of spiritual power, if we can bring ourselves to believe it."

A waitress arrived to take Miss Climpson's order.

"Oh, dear! I seem to have intruded myself upon your table...."

"Oh, don't get up," said the nurse.

"Are you sure? Really? because I don't want to interrupt you--"

"Not at all. I live a very solitary life, and I am always glad to find a friend to talk to."

"How nice of you. I'll have scones and butter, please, and a pot of tea. This is such a nice little café, don't you think?--so quiet and peaceful. If only those people wouldn't make such a noise with that dog of theirs. I don't like those great big animals, and I think they're quite dangerous, don't you?"

The reply was lost on Miss Climpson, for she had suddenly seen the title of the book on the table, and the Devil, or a Ministering Angel (she was not quite sure which) was, so to speak, handing her a fullblown temptation on a silver salver. The book was published by the Spiritualist Press and was called "_Can the Dead Speak?_"

In a single moment of illumination, Miss Climpson saw her plan complete and perfect in every detail. It involved a course of deception from which her conscience shrank appalled, but it was certain. She wrestled with the demon. Even in a righteous cause, could anything so wicked be justified?

She breathed what she thought was a prayer for guidance, but the only answer was a small whisper in her ear, "Oh, jolly good work, Miss Climpson!" and the voice was the voice of Peter Wimsey.

"Pardon me," said Miss Climpson, "but I see you are a student of spiritualism. How interesting that is!"

If there was one subject in the world about which Miss Climpson might claim to know something, it was Spiritualism. It is a flower which flourishes bravely in a boarding-house atmosphere. Time and again, Miss Climpson had listened while the apparatus of planes and controls, correspondences and veridical communications, astral bodies, auras and ectoplastic materialisations was displayed before her protesting intelligence. That to the Church it was a forbidden subject she knew well enough, but she had been paid companion to so many old ladies and had been forced so many times to bow down in the House of Rimmon.

And then there had been the quaint little man from the Psychical Research Society. He had stayed a fortnight in the same private hotel with her at Bournemouth. He was skilled in the investigation of haunted houses and the detection of poltergeists. He had rather liked Miss Climpson, and she had passed several interesting evenings hearing about the tricks of mediums. Under his guidance she had learnt to turn tables and produce explosive cracking noises; she knew how to examine a pair of sealed slates for the marks of the wedges which let the chalk go in on a long black wire to write spirit-passages. She had seen the ingenious rubber gloves which leave the impression of spirit hands in a bucket of paraffin-wax, and which, when deflated, can be drawn delicately from the hardened wax through a hole narrower than a child's wrist. She even knew theoretically, though she had never tried it, how to hold her hands to be tied behind her back so as to force that first deceptive knot which makes all subsequent knots useless, and how to flit about the room banging tambourines in the twilight in spite of having been tied up in a black cabinet with both fists filled with flour. Miss Climpson had wondered greatly at the folly and wickedness of mankind.

The nurse went on talking, and Miss Climpson answered mechanically.

"She's only a beginner," said Miss Climpson to herself. "She's reading a text-book.... And she is quite uncritical.... Surely she knows that that woman was exposed long ago.... People like her shouldn't be allowed out alone--they're living incitements to fraud.... I don't know this Mrs. Craig she is talking about, but I should say she was as twisty as a corkscrew.... I must avoid Mrs. Craig, she probably knows too much ... if the poor deluded creature will swallow that, she'll swallow anything."

"It does seem _most_ wonderful, doesn't it?" said Miss Climpson, aloud. "But isn't it a wee bit _dangerous_? I've been told I'm sensitive myself, but I have never dared to _try_. Is it _wise_ to open one's mind to these supernatural influences?"

"It's not dangerous if you know the right way," said the nurse. "One must learn to build up a shell of pure thoughts about the soul, so that no evil influences can enter it. I have had the most marvellous talks with the dear ones who have passed over...."

Miss Climpson refilled the tea-pot and sent the waitress for a plate of sugary cakes.

"... unfortunately I am not mediumistic myself--not yet, that is. I can't get anything when I'm alone. Mrs. Craig says that it will come by practice and concentration. Last night I was trying with the Ouija board, but it would only write spirals."

"Your conscious mind is too active, I expect," said Miss Climpson.

"Yes, I daresay that is it. Mrs. Craig says that I am wonderfully sympathetic. We get the most wonderful results when we sit together. Unfortunately she is abroad just now."

Miss Climpson's heart gave a great leap, so that she nearly spilled her tea.

"You yourself are a medium, then?" went on the nurse.

"I have been told so," said Miss Climpson, guardedly.

"I wonder," said the nurse, "whether if we sat together--"

She looked hungrily at Miss Climpson.

"I don't really like--"

"Oh, do! You are such a sympathetic person. I'm sure we should get good results. And the spirits are so pathetically anxious to communicate. Of course, I wouldn't like to try unless I was sure of the person. There are so many fraudulent mediums about"--("So you do know that much!" thought Miss Climpson)--"but with somebody like yourself one is absolutely safe. You would find it made such a difference in your life. I used to be so unhappy over all the pain and misery in the world--we see so much of it, you know--till I realised the certainty of survival and how all our trials are merely sent to fit us for life on a higher plane."

"Well," said Miss Climpson, slowly, "I'm willing just to try. But I can't say I really _believe_ in it, you know."

"You would--you would."

"Of course, I've seen one or two strange things happen--things that couldn't be tricks, because I knew the people--and which I couldn't explain--"

"Come up and see me this evening, now do!" said the nurse, persuasively. "We'll just have one quiet sitting and then we shall see whether you really are a medium. I've no doubt you are."

"Very well," said Miss Climpson. "What is your name, by the way?"

"Caroline Booth--Miss Caroline Booth. I'm nurse to an old, paralysed lady in the big house along the Kendal Road."

"Thank goodness for that, anyway," thought Miss Climpson. Aloud she said:

"And my name is Climpson; I think I've got a card somewhere. No--I've left it behind. But I'm staying at Hillside View. How do I get to you?"

Miss Booth mentioned the address and the time of the 'bus, and added an invitation to supper, which was accepted. Miss Climpson went home and wrote a hurried note:

My dear Lord Peter--

I am sure you have been _wondering_ what has _happened_ to me. But
_at last_ I have NEWS! I have STORMED THE CITADEL!!! I am going to
the _house tonight_ and you may expect GREAT THINGS!!!

In _haste_,

Yours very sincerely,
Katharine A. Climpson.

Miss Climpson went out into the town again after lunch. First, being an honest woman, she retrieved her sketch-book from "Ye Cosye Corner" and paid her bill, explaining that she had run across a friend that morning and been detained. She then visited a number of shops. Eventually she selected a small metal soap-box which suited her requirements. Its sides were slightly convex, and when closed and pinched slightly, it sprang back with a hearty cracking noise. This, with a little contrivance and some powerful sticking-plaster, she fixed to a strong elastic garter. When clasped about Miss Climpson's bony knee and squeezed sharply against the other knee, the box emitted a series of cracks so satisfying as to convince the most sceptical. Miss Climpson, seated before the looking-glass, indulged in an hour's practice before tea, till the crack could be produced with the minimum of physical jerk.

Another purchase was a length of stiff black-bound wire, such as is used for making hat-brims. Used double, neatly bent to a double angle and strapped to the wrist, this contrivance was sufficient to rock a light table. The weight of a heavy table would be too much for it, she feared, but she had had no time to order blacksmith's work. She could try, anyway. She hunted out a black velvet rest-gown with long, wide sleeves, and satisfied herself that the wires could be sufficiently hidden.

At six o'clock, she put on this garment, fastened the soap-box to her leg--turning the box outward, lest untimely cracks should startle her fellow-travellers, muffled herself in a heavy rain-cloak of Inverness cut, took hat and umbrella and started on her way to steal Mrs. Wrayburn's will.