“It fell out of one of the books I’m using,” said Miss de Vine, blinking behind her glasses at the questions, “just now.”

“When did you use the book last?”

“That,” said Miss de Vine, blinking again, “is the odd thing about it. I didn’t. Miss Hillyard borrowed it last night, and Mrs. Goodwin brought it back to me this morning.”

Considering the things Miss Hillyard had said about Mrs. Goodwin, Harriet was faintly surprised that she should have chosen her to run her errands. But in certain circumstances the choice might, of course, be a wise one.

“Are you sure the paper wasn’t there yesterday?”

“I don’t think it could have been. I was referring to various pages, and I think I should have seen it.”

“Did you give it directly into Miss Hillyard’s own hands?”

“No; I put it in her pigeon-hole before Hall.”

“So that anybody might have got hold of it.”

“Oh, yes.”

Exasperating. Harriet took possession of the paper and passed on. It was now not even clear against whom the threat was directed, much less from whom it came. She fetched Peter’s letter, and discovered that in the interval she had made up her mind. She had said she would ring up the head of the firm; and so she would. If he was not technically the head, he was certainly the brains of it. She put the call through. She did not know how long it would take, but left instructions at the Lodge that when it came she was to be searched for and found without fail. She felt abominably restless.

The next piece of news was that a violent quarrel had taken place between Miss Shaw and Miss Stevens, who were normally the closest of friends. Miss Shaw, having heard the full story of the previous night’s adventure, had accused Miss Stevens of frightening Miss Newland into the river; Miss Stevens had in her turn accused Miss Shaw of deliberately playing on the girl’s feelings, so as to work her up into a state of nerves.

The next disturber of the peace was Miss Allison. As Harriet had discovered the previous term. Miss Allison had a way of passing on to people the things other people had said of them. In a spirit of candour she had now chosen to pass on to Mrs. Goodwin the hints thrown out by Miss Hillyard. Mrs. Goodwin had tackled Miss Hillyard about it; and there had been a most unpleasant scene, in which Miss Allison, the Dean and poor little Miss Chilperic, who had been drawn into the discussion by malignant chance, took sides with Mrs. Goodwin against Miss Pyke and Miss Burrows, who, though they thought Miss Hillyard had spoken ill-advisedly, resented any aspersions cast against the unmarried state as such. This unpleasantness took place in the Fellows’ Garden.

Finally, Miss Allison had further inflamed the situation by passing on a vivid account of the matter to Miss Barton, who had gone away indignantly to tell Miss Lydgate and Miss de Vine exactly what she thought of the psychology both of Miss Hillyard and Miss Allison.

It was not an agreeable morning.

Between the married (or about-to-be-married) and the unmarried, Harriet felt herself to be like Aesop’s bat between the birds and beasts; an odd result, she felt, of having sown her wild oats in public. Lunch was a strained meal. She came into Hall rather late, to find that the High Table had sorted itself out into opposing camps, with Miss Hillyard at one end and Mrs. Goodwin at the other. She found an empty chair between Miss de Vine and Miss Stevens, and amused herself by drawing them and Miss Allison, who was next to Miss de Vine on the other side, into a discussion of currency and inflation. She knew nothing of the subject, but they, naturally, knew a great deal, and her tact was rewarded. Conversation spread; the table presented a less sullen front to the assembled students, and Miss Lydgate beamed approval. Things were moving nicely when a scout, leaning between Miss Allison and Miss de Vine, murmured a message.

“From Rome?” said Miss de Vine. “Who can that be, I wonder?”

“Telephoning from Rome?” said Miss Allison, in piercing accents. “Oh, one of your correspondents, I suppose. He must be better off than most historians.”

“I think it’s for me,” said Harriet, and turned to the scout. “Are you sure they said de Vine and not Vane?”

The scout was not very sure.

“If you’re expecting it, it must be for you,” said Miss de Vine. Miss Allison made some rather sharp observation about writers of international celebrity and Harriet loft the table, flushing uncomfortably and angry with herself for doing so.

As she went down to the public call-box in Queen Elizabeth, to which the call had been put through, she tried to arrange in her own mind what to say. A brief sentence of apology; another brief sentence of explanation; and a request for advice; into whose hands should the case be put? There was, surely, nothing difficult about that.

The voice from Rome spoke English very well. It did not think Lord Peter Wimsey was in the hotel, but would inquire. A pause, during which she could hear feet passing to and fro on the other side of the continent. Then the voice again, suave and apologetic.

“His lordship left Rome three days ago.”

Oh! Did they know for what destination?

They would inquire. Another pause, and voices speaking Italian. Then the same voice again.

“His lordship left for Warsaw.”

“Oh! Thank you very much.”

And that was that.

At the thought of ringing up the British Embassy at Warsaw, her heart failed her. She replaced the receiver and went upstairs again. She did not seem to have gained very much by taking a firm line.

Friday afternoon. Crises always, thought Harriet, occurred at the weekend, when there were no posts. If she wrote now to London and they replied by return, she would still, in all probability, be able to take no action till Monday. If she wrote to Peter, there might be an Air-Mail-but suppose he wasn’t at Warsaw after all. He might by now have gone on to Bucharest or Berlin. Could she possibly ring up the Foreign Office and demand to know his whereabouts? Because, if the letter got to him over the week-end and he wired a reply, she would not be losing so very much time. She was not sure if she would be very good at dealing with the Foreign Office. Was there anybody who could? How about the Hon. Freddy?

It took a little time to locate Freddy Arbuthnot, but eventually she ran him down, by ’phone, at an office in Throgmorton Street. He was definitely helpful. He had no idea where old Peter was, but he would take steps to find out, and if she liked to send a letter care of him (Freddy) he would see that it was forwarded on at the earliest possible moment. No trouble at all. Charmed to be of use.

So the letter was written, and despatched so as to reach Town first post on the Saturday morning. It contained a brief outline of the case, and finished up:

“Can you tell me whether you think Miss Climpson’s people could handle it? And who, in her absence, is the most competent person there? Or, if not, can you suggest anybody else I could ask? Perhaps it should be a psychologist and not a detective. I know that anybody you recommend will be trustworthy. Would you mind wiring as soon as you get this? I should be immensely grateful. We are all getting rather worked up, and I’m afraid something drastic may happen if we don’t cope with it quickly.”

She hoped that last sentence did not sound as panicky as she felt.

“I rang up your hotel in Rome and they said you had gone on to Warsaw. As I don’t know where you may be by this time, I’m getting Mr. Arbuthnot to forward this through the Foreign Office.”

That sounded faintly reproachful, but it couldn’t be helped. What she really wanted to say was, ‘ I wish to God you were here and could tell me what to do’; but she felt that that might make him feel uncomfortable, since he obviously couldn’t be there. Still, it could do no harm to ask, “How soon do you think you will be back in England?” And with this addition, the letter was finished and posted.