Dear Peter,

No. I can’t see my way to it. But thank you all the same. About the Oxford business-I would have told you all about it long ago, only that it is not my secret. I wouldn’t have told your nephew, only that he had stumbled on part of it and I had to trust him with the rest to keep him from making unintentional mischief. I wish I could tell you; I should be very glad of your help; if ever I get leave to, I will. It is rather disagreeable but not dangerous, I hope. Thank you for not telling me to run away and play-that’s the best compliment you ever paid me.

I hope your case, or whatever it is, is getting on all right. It must be a tough one to take so long.

HARRIET

Lord Peter Wimsey read this letter while seated upon the terrace of an hotel overlooking the Pincian Gardens, which were bathed in brilliant sunshine. It astonished him so much that he was reading it for the fourth time, when he became aware that the person standing beside him was not the waiter.

“My dear Count! I beg your pardon. What manners! My head was in the clouds. Do me the favour to sit down and join me. Servitore!”

“I beg you will not apologize. It is my fault for interrupting you. But fearing that last night might have somewhat entangled the situation-”

“It is foolish to talk so long and so late. Grown men behave like tired children who are allowed to sit up till midnight. I admit that we were all very fractious, myself not least.”

“You are always the soul of amiability. That is why I thought that a word with you alone-We are both reasonable men.”

“Count, Count, I hope you have not come to persuade me to anything. I should find it too difficult to refuse you.” Wimsey folded the letter away in his pocket-book. “The sun is shining, and I am in the mood to make mistakes through overconfidence.”

“Then, I must take advantage of the good moment.” The Count set his elbows on the table and leaned forward, thumb-tip to thumb-tip and little-finger-tip to little-finger-tip, smiling irresistible. Forty minutes later, he took his leave, still smiling, having ceded, without noticing it, rather more than he had gained, and told in ten words more than he had learned in a thousand.

But of this interlude Harriet naturally knew nothing. On the evening of the same day, she was dining alone, a little depressed, at Romano’s. She had nearly finished, when she saw a man, just leaving the restaurant, who was sketching a vague gesture of recognition. He was in the forties, going a little bald, with a smooth, vacant face and a dark moustache. For a moment she could not place him; then something about his languid walk and impeccable tailoring brought back an afternoon at Lord’s. She smiled at him, and he came up to her table.

“Hullo-ullo! Hope I’m not bargin’ in. How’s all the doings and all that?”

“Very well, thanks.”

“That’s grand. Thought I must just ooze over and pass the time of day. Or night. Only I was afraid you wouldn’t remember me, and might think I was bein’ a nuisance.”

“Of course I remember you. You’re Mr. Arbuthnot-the Honourable Frederick Arbuthnot-and you’re a friend of Peter Wimsey’s, and I met you at the Eton and Harrow match two years ago, and you’re married and have two children. How are they?”

“Fair to middlin’, thanks. What a brain you’ve got! Yes, ghastly hot afternoon that was, too. Can’t think why harmless women should be dragged along to be bored while a lot of little boys play off their Old School Ties. (That’s meant for a joke.) You were frightfully well-behaved, I remember.” Harriet said sedately that she always enjoyed a good cricket match. “Do you? I thought it was politeness. It’s pretty slow work, if you ask me. But I was never any good at it myself. It’s all right for old Peter. He can always work himself into a stew thinking how much better he’d have done it himself.”

Harriet offered him coffee.

“I didn’t know anybody ever got into a stew at Lord’s. I thought it wasn’t done.”

“Well, the atmosphere doesn’t exactly remind one of the Cup Final; but mild old gentlemen do sometimes break out into a spot of tut-tuttery. How about a brandy? Waiter, two liqueur brandies. Are you writing any more books?”

Suppressing the rage that this question always rouses in a professional writer, Harriet admitted that she was.

“It must be splendid to be able to write,” said Mr. Arbuthnot. “I often think I could spin a good yarn myself if I had the brains. About the odd things that happen, you know. Queer deals, and that kind of thing.”

A dim recollection of something Wimsey had once said lit up the labyrinth of Harriet’s mind. Money. That was the connection between the two men. Mr. Arbuthnot, moron as he might be in other respects, had a flair for money. He knew what that mysterious commodity was going to do; it was the one thing he did know, and he only knew that by instinct. When things were preparing to go up or down, they rang a little warning bell in what Freddy Arbuthnot called his mind, and he acted on the warning without being able to explain why. Peter had money, and Freddy understood money; that must be the common interest and bond of mutual confidence that explained an otherwise inexplicable friendship. She admired the strange nexus of interests that unites the male half of mankind into a close honeycomb of cells, each touching the other on one side only, and yet constituting a tough and closely adhering fabric.

“Funny kind of story popped up the other day,” went on Mr. Arbuthnot. “Mysterious business. Couldn’t make head or tail of it. It would have amused old Peter. How is old Peter, by the way?”

“I haven’t seen him for some time. He’s in Rome. I don’t know what he’s doing there, but I suppose he’s on a case of some kind.”

“No. I expect he’s left his country for his country’s good. It’s usually that. I hope they manage to keep things quiet. The exchanges are a bit nervy.” Mr. Arbuthnot looked almost intelligent.

“What’s Peter got to do with the exchange?”

“Nothing. But if anything blows up, it’s bound to affect the exchange.”

“This is Greek to me. What is Peter’s job out there?”

“Foreign Office. Didn’t you know?”

“I hadn’t the slightest idea. He’s not permanently attached there, is he?”

“In Rome, do you mean?”

“To the Foreign Office.”

“No; but they sometimes push him out when they think he’s wanted. He gets on with people.”

“I see. I wonder why he never mentioned it.”

“Oh, everybody knows; it’s not a secret. He probably thought it wouldn’t interest you.” Mr. Arbuthnot balanced his spoon across his coffee-cup in an abstracted way. “I’m damned fond of old Peter,” was his next, rather irrelevant, contribution. “He’s a dashed good sort. Last time I saw him, I thought he seemed a bit under the weather… Well, I’d better be toddling.” He got up, a little abruptly, and said goodnight.

Harriet thought how humiliating it was to have one’s ignorance exposed.

Ten days before the beginning of term, Harriet could bear London no longer. The final touch was put to her disgust by the sight of an advance notice of Death ‘twixt Wind and Water, embodying an exceptionally fulsome blurb. She developed an acute homesickness for Oxford and for the Study of Le Fanu-a book which would never have any advertising value, but of which some scholar might some day moderately observe, “Miss Vane has handled her subject with insight and accuracy.” She rang up the Bursar, discovered that she could be accommodated at Shrewsbury, and fled back to Academe. College was empty, but for herself, the Bursar and Treasurer, and Miss Barton, who vanished daily into the Radcliffe Camera and was only seen at meals. The Warden was up, but remained in her own house.

April was running out, chilly and fickle, but with the promise of good things to come; and the city wore the withdrawn and secretive beauty that wraps her about in vacation. No clamour of young voices echoed along her ancient stones; the tumult of flying bicycles was stilled in the narrow strait of the Turf; in Radcliffe Square the Camera slept like a cat in the sunshine, disturbed only by the occasional visit of a slow-footed don; even in the High, the roar of car and charabanc seemed diminished and brought low, for the holiday season was not yet; punts and canoes, new-fettled for the summer term, began to put forth upon the Cherwell like the varnished buds upon the horse-chestnut tree, but as yet there was no press of traffic upon the shining reaches; the mellow bells, soaring and singing in tower and steeple, told of time’s flight through an eternity of peace; and Great Tom, tolling his nightly hundred-and-one, called home only the rooks from off Christ Church Meadow.