Compliments passed. They seated themselves. Miss Silver resumed her knitting and enquired,

“What can I do for you, Frank?”

Frank Abbott said, “I don’t know.” And then, “Something, I hope-perhaps a good deal-perhaps not.” He produced a pocket-book, took out a scrap of paper, and leaned forward to lay it on her knee. “Do you happen to recognize this?”

Miss Silver laid down her knitting and picked up the scrap of paper. It was roughly triangular in shape, the base not quite two inches across with an uneven edge, the other two sides quite regular. Obviously the corner torn from a sheet of writing-paper. The side she was looking at was blank. She turned it over, and coming away from the base line were, one below the other, the following syllables -ver; -sions; -ham St. She contemplated them with gravity. The second of these two words, or fragments, was heavily smudged.

Frank Abbott said, “Well?”

Miss Silver coughed.

“It is my name, my address, and my handwriting. If you had not recognized all three you would scarcely be here.”

He nodded.

“You wrote them down for someone. Can you remember who it was?”

She had taken up her knitting again. The fragment of paper lay on her knee. Her eyes remained upon it whilst the needles clicked.

“Oh, yes.”

“You can be quite sure?”

Her cough had a trace of rebuke.

“I should not tell you that I remembered if I were not sure.”

“No, I know you wouldn’t. But it’s important. Will you tell me to whom you gave this address, and when, and in what circumstances?”

Miss Silver transferred her attention from the paper triangle to his face.

“I went down to Blackheath yesterday. On my return journey I was alone in a compartment with a Miss Collins-Miss Nellie Collins. She told me she kept a small fancy work shop not far from Blackheath Station, and that she was going up to town to meet someone who she hoped would be able to give her news of a young woman whom she had looked after as a child and whom she now believed to be dead. She had an appointment to meet the person from whom she expected this news under the clock at Waterloo at a quarter to four. When we separated she invited me to come and see her if I should visit Blackheath again. I responded by giving her my own name. She asked me to write it down for her, and I did so. Pray, what has happened to her, Frank?”

He said, “You added your address. Why did you do that? Was it for a personal reason, or-for a professional one?”

“Why do you ask me that?”

There was a glint in the pale blue eyes.

“Because I should like to know whether you wrote down your name and address for a stranger because you felt drawn to her and wanted to see her again, or because you had an idea that she might be wanting your help professionally.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“It was not, I think, quite so definite as that. Pray tell me, is the poor thing dead?”

“I think it likely that she is. At the moment the body has not been identified. I am afraid I may have to ask you-”

Miss Silver inclined her head.

“You had better consider whether that would be the wisest course. She gave me her address, and mentioned that she had a lodger-a Mrs. Smithers. It might be better if formal identification came from her. I would, of course, be willing to identify my fellow traveller, but it might be wiser if that were done privately, and just for the benefit of the police. I think that this may prove to be a very serious matter, Frank. I would like you to tell me a little more. Where was the body found, and where was this scrap of paper found?”

“You gave her your name and address written down on a piece of notepaper. Did you see where she put it?”

“Certainly. She opened her bag and folded it away in a pocket behind a small fitting mirror. Pray, where was it found?”

Sergeant Abbott still delayed to answer this question.

“Your Mrs. Smithers rang up the local police this morning. They notified us, with a description of Miss Collins and her clothes. None of the London hospitals had her. It might have been the merest moonshine. Mrs. Smithers, who had worked up an alarm, said that Miss Collins went up to meet a nameless friend. She might have gone off on the spur of the moment to stay with this friend. It wasn’t really Mrs. Smithers’ business whether she did or whether she didn’t. She had her own latchkey and did for herself. The Blackheath people obviously thought that Miss Collins had gone off on a jaunt. People do that sort of thing every day and can’t imagine why anyone should get hot and bothered about it. Well, late this morning we got a report from Ruislip.”

Miss Silver repeated the name in an enquiring tone.

“Ruislip?”

“On the Harrow line.”

“I am aware of that, Frank. Pray, what sort of report?”

“Road accident. Body found in a lane-elderly woman in a blue coat and skirt-battered black hat with a bunch of blue flowers. Wheels had been over it-wheels had been over the woman. As there was a hard frost, no identifiable tyre prints. Police surgeon says she had been dead at least twelve hours. Lane very lonely and unfrequented. Quite possible for the body to have been there all that time. It was found by a boy who delivers papers. He was bicycling in to collect them. He says he didn’t touch anything, just tumbled off his bike and had a look-see, and made tracks for the police station, where he fetched up at half past seven.” He paused.

Miss Silver had stopped knitting. She said,

“Go on.”

“The body was a little on the left of the middle of the lane, on a diagonal slant. It was on its face, hands flung out-very natural attitude. The hat had come off and was lying about a yard away to the right. Handbag quite close to the body on the left. Inside the handbag a plain handkerchief, a fancy pencil, and a purse containing a pound note, eleven and sixpence in silver, some coppers, and the return half of a third-class ticket to Ruislip-”

Miss Silver interrupted.

“In which direction did she appear to have been proceeding-towards Ruislip station or away from it?”

“Away from the station. The lane where she was found is a good mile away from it. To return to the handbag-in a side pocket there was a broken mirror and apparently nothing else, but the constable who was handling it cut his finger on the glass and thought he’d better empty the bits out. He found that scrap of paper amongst them.”

There was a moment’s silence. Miss Silver took up her knitting again.

Frank Abbott went on. If she wanted to say anything she would say it. If she didn’t want to say anything, it was no use waiting. He knew his Miss Silver.

“The bits of words on the paper suggested you, even before I saw the handwriting. Lamb told me to come round and see you.”

Miss Silver inclined her head.

“I hope that Chief Detective Inspector Lamb is well?”

Frank had a momentary picture of his superior officer looking at him in an exasperated manner, his eyes quite extraordinarily like bulls-eyes, and saying in an even more exasperated voice, “Hang that woman! Can’t they so much as have a road accident in Middlesex without her cropping up in the middle of it? Oh, yes, go and see her if you like- and come back with a mare’s nest full of eggs, as likely as not!” He dismissed the pleasing vision, and assured Miss Silver that the Chief was in excellent health.

“A most worthy man,” said Miss Silver, knitting rapidly. Then she asked a question. “How do you suppose the corner was torn from the piece of paper upon which I wrote my address?”

“How big was the original piece?”

“It was a half sheet of small notepaper which she took out of her bag.”

“You saw her put it away in the pocket behind the mirror. Did you notice whether the glass was broken then?”

“I cannot say. The upper edge was intact, but these small mirrors are very easily broken-they seldom survive for very long. And the bag was not a new one, not by any means. It had certainly been in use since before the war. That class of bag is not obtainable now. I think it very unlikely indeed that the mirror was unbroken.”