He said, “Four two’s in a row and the same exchange as this. Would you like me to ring up for you?”

She was scrupulous.

“I mustn’t delay you.”

“It won’t take a minute. We’ll go back to Sally’s room.”

Margaret Moray was in. Her voice came pleasantly along the wire. David said,

“Miss Paine wants to speak to you. She’ll say what she wants to, and I’ll repeat your answers so that she can see them. Now, Miss Paine-”

Paulina took the receiver.

“Mrs. Moray, I wonder if you would be kind enough to give me the address of your friend Miss Maud Silver-”

Chapter 4

MISS SILVER was reading a letter from her niece Ethel Burkett, the wife of a bank manager in the Midlands. The subject of the letter was a distressing one, the foolish and frivolous conduct of Ethel’s sister Gladys Robinson, who had taken the unjustifiable step of leaving an excellent husband whom she complained of finding dull.

“As if anyone in their senses expects their husband to be exciting!” wrote Mrs. Burkett. “And she doesn’t say where she is, or what she is doing, so all we can hope and trust is that she is alone, and that she hasn’t done anything which Andrew would find it impossible to forgive. Because what is she going to live on!” There was a good deal more in this strain.

Laying Ethel’s letter down on the left-hand side of her writing-table, Miss Silver addressed herself to answering it in a neat legible hand.

The table stood out in the room by reason of its plainness, most of the other furniture being of the mid-Victorian period-chairs with curly arms and legs of yellow walnut and the wide spreading laps which had been made to accommodate the crinoline popularized by the Empress Eugenie; curtains and upholstery of the cheerful shade which used to be called peacock-blue; the carpet in the same tone with flowery wreaths; whilst looking down upon what might have been a contemporary scene were reproductions of the masterpieces of the same era-The Stag at Bay, the lovely nun of the St. Bartholomew massacre, and Hope with her bandaged eyes drooping gracefully over a darkened world.

Miss Silver suited her room. She had the old-fashioned and dated appearance of someone in the kind of family group which young people turn out to laugh at and exclaim over in the winter evenings. In any such picture she would unhesitatingly have been identified as the governess. She had, in fact, graduated into this branch of what she termed the scholastic profession when she left school, and for many years had no other expectation than that she would grow old in it and ultimately retire upon such a pittance as could be saved from her salary. The curious combination of circumstances always referred to by her as “providential” which led to her taking up instead the much more varied and lucrative occupation of a private enquiry agent now lay far behind her in the past. But though the profession had been thus left behind, the professional appearance remained and was an enduring asset. She could not only pass in a crowd, she could- which was much more useful-pass unregarded in a drawing-room. She could melt into the background, she was no check upon anybody’s tongue, she could be, and very often was, ignored. She had a good deal of soft mousy hair with only a little grey in it. This she wore piled in a fringe above her forehead and plaited at the back, the whole very neatly controlled by an invisible net. She wore a dress of olive-green cashmere, black woollen stockings, and black glacé shoes. Her features were neat, her skin pale and clear, and her eyes of some indeterminate shade. She held her pen poised for a moment, and then wrote:

“Dearest Ethel

I am indeed sorry that you have had this anxiety about Gladys, but let me hasten to relieve your mind. She has acted with inconsiderate folly, but she certainly has not eloped with anyone. She has merely quarrelled with Andrew and gone off to Southend with her friend Mrs. Farmer. You will remember that Andrew did not like her influence. Gladys has written to me and asked me for money to pay her hotel bill, which I am prepared to do provided she returns home before the end of the week. She is fortunate in having so long-suffering a husband.”

Miss Silver had turned to the pleasanter topic of Ethel’s three boys and of her little Josephine, now nearly eight years old and everybody’s darling-a pretty, fair child, though at the moment going through a plainer stage owing to changing teeth.

She had written, “I really do not think the alteration in her looks should trouble you. Once the new teeth have settled down, her expression will, I am sure, be just as sweet as it was before,” when she caught the sound of the front-door bell. Since she was expecting it, she laid a sheet of blotting paper over her letter and turned towards the door. It was opened by her faithful Emma, and Paulina Paine came into the room.

She was, as Margaret Moray had described her, good, solid and dependable in appearance. She was also uneasy and nervous. Most of the people who came into this room were that. In many cases the impulse which brought them there had expended itself and they desired nothing so much as to be somewhere else. Paulina did not go quite as far as this. She sat down in a chair with its back to the window, glad to be off her feet again.

Miss Silver took the chair on the other side of the hearth and reached for the flowered knitting-bag which lay on a small table beside her. She drew from it a partly completed baby shawl in a delicate shade of blue, but she did not immediately begin to knit. She was remembering that Miss Paine was stone-deaf, and she was much interested in the prospect of receiving a practical demonstration of the art of lip-reading. She said,

“We did meet at Mrs. Moray’s a little while ago, did we not? I do not believe I heard your name then, but as soon as you came into the room I remembered meeting you. But on that occasion I had no idea that you were deaf. We conversed quite easily. What a wonderful thing lip-reading must be.”

Paulina said gravely, “Yes, it is wonderful. You are very easy to read from. After I had talked to you Mrs. Moray told me about your work. She said you were a detective.”

Miss Silver smiled.

“I prefer to call myself a private enquiry agent.”

As she spoke she picked up the needles and began to knit in an easy, effortless manner. Paulina said,

“Mrs. Moray told me that you have helped a great many people.”

“And do you feel that you are in need of help, Miss Paine?”

Paulina gave a short, quick nod.

“I think I may be. I think I’ve got to talk to someone-I don’t think I can cope with it alone. So I thought if I came round straight away without losing any time-”

“There is something that has just occurred -something which troubles you?”

“Yes.”

“And you would like to tell me about it?”

“Yes. I’m going to.”

There was a pause. The room was quiet. Miss Silver knitted. The old-fashioned pictures looked down. Everything was very safe and peaceful and ordinary. Paulina Paine recalled a line which she could not place- “The world shut out, and peace shut in.” It seemed a pity to break in upon it. Everything in her quieted. She said,

“I was in a picture gallery-one of those places where they have shows. It is run by Masters, the art dealers. I have let my top floor to a cousin of the Morays who is an artist. Well, he painted a picture of me and he called it The Listener. It is in this gallery, and it has been sold. A young cousin of mine, Wilfrid Gaunt, has two pictures there too. I thought I ought to go and see them, so this afternoon I did.”

Miss Silver, looking across the cloud of pale blue wool in her lap, saw the hand in the grey kid glove tighten upon the arm of the chair. The knuckles strained for a moment and then relaxed again. She said,