All these thoughts were in her mind like birds beating against a window. It was the fear that broke through. She heard herself saying in a loud scornful voice,

“An anonymous letter? One of those filthy things that have been going round? How dare you!”

He made no response to her heat as he said,

“A filthy letter about a filthy thing.”

“Lies-lies-lies!”

He shook his head.

“I don’t think so. The letter was quite circumstantial. You were with Gilbert Earle and you were spied on, and I think I know by whom. I think I know who wrote the letter.”

She put up her hand to her throat. The pulse of anger beat there-the pulse of fear.

“Who was it?”

“You would like to know, wouldn’t you? Perhaps it was you yourself. It would have been one way of breaking off Valentine’s marriage, wouldn’t it? It would have been one way of getting out of your own! What do you and your friends care about divorce-it doesn’t mean anything to you! But you had better be sure that Gilbert will marry you before you walk out.”

She said in a voice that was edged with anger,

“I thought you were turning me out! Suppose I haven’t got anywhere to go to! Suppose I just say I’m going to stay!”

He had a sense of having gone too far, of having embarked upon a course which would involve them all in a devastating scandal. If he went any farther, there could be no turning back. How far had she really gone herself-how far had she meant to go? Gilbert wouldn’t marry her if he could help it. He had an empty title coming to him. He couldn’t afford a scandal, and he couldn’t afford to marry a woman who wouldn’t have a penny. These were not consecutive thoughts. They were there in the cooling temper of his mind.

They had both forgotten the open door. Roger remembered it now. He pushed it to as he said,

“I have no desire to put myself in the wrong by turning you out. You can make your plans, and you can take your time. In any case you’ll have to stay over Tuesday. There must be no scandal before that poor girl’s funeral.”

It was very disappointing for Florrie Stokes when the study door was closed. She had come through into the hall on her lawful business of seeing to the fires and drawing the curtains before dinner. She couldn’t help hearing the angry voices in the study, because it was the first room she came to, only of course when she heard the way Colonel Repton was talking she knew better than to go in. She didn’t mean to listen- well, not really-but the way the Colonel was talking, not loud but ever so distinct and bitter-well, she just couldn’t help it. And the very first thing she heard was something about getting evidence of Mrs. Repton meeting Mr. Gilbert at her friend Mamie Foster’s flat and going for a divorce. And he went on, “You can go to Gilbert Earle, or you can go to your accommodating friend Mamie Foster, or you can go to hell. But I should like you to get out of my house.” And when he got as far as that the door began to open, and it was all she could do to get back out of sight. Even then if Mrs. Repton had come out, she would have been caught. But Mrs. Repton didn’t come out. She said very clear and angry-something about an anonymous letter and, “How dare you!”

After that Florrie just couldn’t tear herself away. With the door open, she could stand right back against the baize door which went through to the kitchen premises. If one of them put a foot into the hall she would be just coming through to her work and nothing to say how long she had been there. She could hear everything they said, and it was as good as being at the pictures. Of course everyone knew Mrs. Repton was flighty, just the same as they knew she’d been carrying on with Mr. Gilbert on the sly. And serve her right if the Colonel had found her out. She’d got a husband of her own, hadn’t she, and it was a downright shame doing anything to upset Miss Valentine’s marriage. Only of course now that Mr. Jason was back Miss Valentine would never want anyone but him-they all knew that.

When Scilla came out of the study with an angry spot on either cheek Florrie had just let the baize door swing to behind her.

CHAPTER 20

It was Florrie’s afternoon out. Her mother worked at the George because Mr. Stokes enjoyed bad health. There were three daughters and a son, and they all lived at home and contributed to Dad’s upkeep. They were a very affectionate family, and if it was fifteen years since Mr. Stokes had earned anything, he was at any rate a very good cook and always had something tasty ready for tea when the family came home. He had a very light hand with pastry, and as Florrie said, though not in Mrs. Glazier’s hearing, he could cook bacon and sausages and fry fish to beat the band. It was well known that alluring offers had been made to him from several quarters, but Mr. Stokes was not to be lured. He had mysterious turns which no doctor had ever been able to diagnose. He had not, in fact, a great deal of faith in doctors, an attitude fully reciprocated, Dr. Taylor going so far as to allude to him as an old humbug. This was doubtless the case, in spite of which the whole family was a very cheerful and united one. When Florrie came in he was reading the paper and sipping herbal tea, a quite horrid beverage the recipe for which had been handed down in his family for a hundred years and was a closely guarded secret. Nothing would have induced any of his children to touch it. Florrie wrinkled her nose at the smell, kissed the top of his head, and plunged into gossip.

“There’s been ever such a row up at the Manor.”

Mr. Stokes allowed his paper to slide onto the floor. It contained nothing as exciting as what might have been termed The Repton Serial. What with the talk there had been about Mrs. Repton-her clothes, her make-up, the rumours about her having been a model, to say nothing of what he stigmatized as her carryings on, and then Miss Valentine’s wedding being broken off-and anyone could guess why that was-and Connie Brooke dying off sudden as she had, and the police looking into it-well, there hadn’t been a dull moment. He enquired with avidity,

“Why-what’s up now? Been any more of that poison pen?”

Florrie shook her head.

“Not that I know of.”

“Miss Valentine had a letter Thursday?”

“I told you she did.”

“And the Colonel too? And Sam Boxer says there was one went to the Parsonage-all of them the spit and image of each other. And the police been at him about them. I told him straight, what he did ought to have done was to face up to ’em and say, ‘I’m a postman, that’s what I am-I’m not a detective. I got enough work to do delivering of my letters. It isn’t no part of my business to be studying of ’em.’ That’s what he did ought to have said and saved himself a lot er trouble. It’s got nothing to do with him, and so I told him. Or anyone else that I can see. Spilt milk won’t go back in the jug, nor broken-off weddings won’t come on again, not for the police nor yet for no one, so what’s the row about now?”

Florrie was bursting with it, but it wasn’t any good for her to start anything till Dad had had his say. You might just have been seeing a murder, but if there was something Dad wanted to talk about, you had to let him get in first.

But as soon as the coast was clear it all came tumbling out.

“Colonel and Mrs. Repton have had ever such a row. I could hear them in the study. Their voices was ever so loud- at least not the Colonel’s but there was something about it- it seemed to come right through the door. I was coming through to draw the curtains, and I could hear him say she could go to Mr. Earle, or she could go to her friend Mamie Foster-that’s the one she’s always writing to-or she could go to hell.”

Mr. Stokes sat with a cup of herbal tea in his hand. He had been going to take a sip, but the movement had been checked. His eyes fairly sparkled and his small monkeylike features displayed the liveliest interest as he said,