Edward himself could not have explained what had caused the change. It was simple, but like many simple things it was profound. If you are cold and you come into a warm room, you are presently not cold any more. You cannot say just how, or why, or even when the warmth invades you. He was not at all aware that he was sharing the experience of many other people whose troubles, difficulties, and danger had brought them into contact with Miss Maud Silver. As she sat there knitting she diffused a quiet atmosphere of security and order. For a parallel you had to go back a long way-to the nursery and the schoolroom, to the pleasant fixed routine and ordered ways of childhood. He did not think of these things consciously. They had been in his life. They had been horribly wrenched away. In Miss Silver’s presence they returned. The string of his tongue was loosed. He went on speaking.

“You see, if I had sent that note, it would have been because I really did think that it would be better to see Clarice and find out what she wanted to say. She kept on hinting things about my uncle, and I thought she just wanted to pour the whole thing over. Everyone seems to want to do that, and I wasn’t going to have it. My uncle had a right to do what he liked with his property, and he thought I was dead. Arnold had a right to keep what was legally his. It wasn’t anyone’s business but mine. And I wasn’t going to talk about it-why should I? But if I had got to the point where I thought it would be better to hear what Clarice had to say and be done with it, and had written her that note and met her at the water-splash, don’t you see, the first thing she would do would be to come out with this yarn about my uncle making a second will. After that I don’t see how anyone is going to believe I could possibly want to kill her.”

Miss Silver inclined her head.

“That is a very lucid statement. The points you have mentioned will certainly have occurred to the police.”

He had been leaning towards her. Now he straightened up.

“Did you think she was telling the truth about my uncle having that dream and changing his will?”

“Certainly I did. She had no possible motive for lying to me. She was under the impression that she had disguised the names, and she could have had no idea that I was in a position to identify them. She spoke to me because she was aware that she was playing a dangerous game. William Jackson’s death had frightened her. She was the only person left who knew that there had been a second will. She could have put herself in a position of safety by taking her evidence to your uncle’s solicitor, but she wanted to make sure of securing some advantage for herself. She wished, in fact, to drive a bargain with you. I warned her very seriously that the kind of blackmail she was contemplating was not only criminal but dangerous. Unfortunately she did not take my warning.”

He leaned towards her again.

“You don’t think I killed her!”

Her ball of pale pink wool had rolled a little way upon the sofa. She reached for it and dropped it into her knitting-bag before she answered him.

“No, Mr. Edward-I have never thought so.”

“Then who did?”

She replied with another question.

“Who would benefit by the death of a surviving witness to the missing will, and of the only other person who knew that this will had ever existed?”

An extraordinary look passed over his face. Anger, surprise, incredulity, sardonic amusement-there was a fleeting impression of all these things, culminating in a laugh.

“ Arnold? Not on your life! He’s a stuffed shirt-all window-dressing and nothing behind it. He’s a dull, pompous version of all the family portraits-a kind of composite Random type minus the good points-and the bad. He’s a set of features- and a tedious, intolerable bore. But he wouldn’t do murder- it would be against the rules. He’s not one of your bold independent thinkers, you know. He has his small inherited code, and I assure you he would rather die than depart from it. I don’t like him-I never have. You have probably gathered as much. But he wouldn’t murder anyone. And I don’t think he would destroy a will. No, I really don’t think so. His code wouldn’t allow it.”

She was watching him closely.

“You interest me very much.”

He went on as if she had not spoken.

“No, I don’t believe it would. Let’s do a bit of supposing. Uncle James makes that will, and dies-did you say a week later?”

“Yes.”

“He probably wouldn’t say anything about the will to Arnold. That dream of his-he wouldn’t want to talk about it. He believed in it, and he wouldn’t want to have anyone bothering him and telling him it was all nonsense. No, I’m sure he wouldn’t tell Arnold. Probably left a letter for him with the will. Well, Arnold finds the will, with or without a letter explaining that Uncle James has had a dream and thinks I am still alive. It would be a nasty shock, you know. Consider the legal position. Officially, I’m not dead, I’m just missing. They would have to wait-how long is it-five years-seven?-and then go to the Courts for leave to presume my death. I can’t think of anything that would irritate Arnold more. He has one of those inveterately tidy minds. Imagine having to make up that sort of mind to years of delay, with all sorts of untidy ends lying about. And I was dead-quite certainly and positively I was dead. I can imagine Arnold ’s code allowing him just to put that upsetting will away and say nothing about it-I can even imagine that it might enjoin this course. If by any chance I ever did turn up, there would be no harm done-the will could be made to turn up too.”

Miss Silver gave her gentle cough.

“But it has not turned up, Mr. Random.”

“Not yet. He wouldn’t want to rush things, you know. It wouldn’t look well if the will turned up too soon. No use stretching a coincidence farther than you need. And then there are these murders-a really nasty complication. No wonder Arnold goes about looking like death-” He broke off. “I suppose you think this is all nonsense?”

“On the contrary I find it extremely interesting. There is one thing that supports your belief in Mr. Arnold Random’s innocence-at the least of William Jackson’s death. As you know, the unfortunate man left the Lamb just before closing time and was seen going in the direction of the splash, which he was obliged to cross in order to reach his home. Mr. Arnold Random was in the church playing the organ, and Miss Blake states that she went over from the Vicarage work-party to speak to him at about ten o’clock. He afterwards accompanied her as far as her home, by which time William Jackson must certainly have reached the splash, and may already have been struck down there, or have slipped or been pushed into the pool which drowned him. If Miss Mildred’s statement is to be believed, it gives Mr. Arnold Random a very good alibi.”

Edward laughed.

“Rather a case of any port in a storm, I should say!” Then, with a return to his frowning look, “Do you mind if we go back to the beginning? You sent for me partly because of what you had to tell me about Clarice and my uncle’s will, and partly because Susan had been talking to you. I want to know what she said.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Had you not better ask her?”

He nodded.

“All right, I will. We seem to have got a bit beyond the conventions anyhow.” The frown came to rest on Susan. “Well, what about it?”

She had never felt more defenceless in her life. She had done what he was bound to resent, and she had to give an account of it under the eyes of a stranger. She knew how cold and enduring his resentment could be, and she had always known that there was no surer way to arouse it than to interfere in his private affairs. She sat up straight and told him just what she had done and how it had come about-the envelope dropped in Mrs. Alexander’s shop; her offer to take it up to the Vicarage; and Ray Fortescue’s story coming back with a rush when she read Miss Maud Silver’s name and address. She kept her eyes on his face all the time-clear, serious grey eyes, darkened by the effort she was making.