“Splendid!” said Harriet. “I’ve ear-marked my winnings already. By the way, Miss Hillyard, how is our young friend Cattermole?”

It seemed to her that the room waited breathlessly for the answer. Miss Hillyard replied, rather shortly, that Miss Cattermole seemed to have recovered such form as she had ever possessed, thanks, as she understood, from the young woman herself, to Miss Vane’s good advice. She added that it was very kind of Harriet, amid her many preoccupations, to interest herself in the History students. Harriet made some vague reply and the room, as it seemed to her, breathed again.

Later in the day, Harriet took an outrigger on the river with the Dean, and, rather to her surprise, observed Miss Cattermole and Mr. Pomfret sharing a punt. She had received the “penitent letter” from Mr. Pomfret, and waved a cheerful hand as the boats passed, in token of peace restored. If she had known that Mr. Pomfret and Miss Cattermole had found a bond of sympathy in devotion to herself, she might have speculated on what may happen to rejected lovers who confide their troubles to willing ears; but this did not occur to her, because she was wondering what, exactly, had happened that morning at the Mitre; and her thoughts had strayed away into the Botanical Gardens before the Dean pointed out, rather sharply, that she was setting a very irregular and leisurely stroke.

It was Miss Shaw who innocently precipitated a flare-up.

“That’s a very handsome scarf,” she said to Miss Hillyard. The dons were assembling, as usual, for Hall, outside the S.C.R.; but the evening was dull and chilly and a thick silk scarf was a grateful addition to evening dress. “Yes,” said Miss Hillyard. “Unfortunately it isn’t mine. Some careless person left it in the Fellows’ Garden last night and I rescued it. I brought it along to be identified-but I’m ready to admit that I can do with it this evening.”

“I don’t know whose it can be,” said Miss Lydgate. She fingered it admiringly. “It looks more like a man’s scarf,” she added. Harriet, who had not been paying much attention, turned round, conscience-stricken.

“Good lord!” she said, “that’s mine. At least, it’s Peter’s. I couldn’t think where I’d left it.” It was, in fact, the very scarf that had been used for a strangling demonstration on the Friday, and been brought back to Shrewsbury by accident together with the chessmen and the dog-collar. Miss Hillyard turned brick red and snatched it off as though it were choking her.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Vane,” she said, holding it out.

“It’s all right. I don’t want it now. But I’m glad to know where it is. I’d have got into trouble if I’d lost it.”

“Will you kindly take your property,” said Miss Hillyard.

Harriet, who was already wearing a scarf of her own, said:

“Thank you. But are you sure you won’t-”

“I will not,” said Miss Hillyard, dropping the scarf angrily on the steps.

“Dear me!” said the Dean, picking it up. “Nobody seems to want this nice scarf. I shall borrow it. I call it a nasty, chilly evening, and I don’t know why we can’t all go inside.”

She twisted the scarf comfortably round her neck and, the Warden mercifully arriving at that moment, they went in to dinner.

At a quarter to ten, Harriet, after an hour or so spent with Miss Lydgate on her proofs-now actually nearing the stage when they might really be sent to the printer-crossed the Old Quad to Tudor Building. On the steps, just coming out, she met Miss Hillyard.

“Were you looking for me?” asked Harriet, a little aggressively.

“No,” said Miss Hillyard, “I wasn’t. Certainly not.” She spoke hurriedly, and Harriet fancied that there was something in her eyes both furtive and malicious; but the evening was dark for the middle of May, and she could not be sure.

“Oh!” said Harriet. “I thought you might be.”

“Well, I wasn’t,” said Miss Hillyard again. And as Harriet passed her she turned back and said, almost as though the words were forced out of her: “Going to work-under the inspiration of your beautiful chessmen?”

“More or less,” said Harriet, laughing.

“I hope you will have a pleasant evening,” said Miss Hillyard.

Harriet went on upstairs and opened the door of her room.

The glass case had been shattered, and the floor was strewn with broken glass and with smashed and trampled fragments of red and white ivory.

For about five minutes, Harriet was the prey of that kind of speechless rage which is beyond expression or control. If she had thought of it, she was at that moment in a mood to sympathize with the Poltergeist and all her works. If she could have beaten or strangled anybody, she would have done it and felt the better for it. Happily, after the first devastating fury, she found the relief of bad language. When she found she could keep her voice steady, she locked her bedroom door behind her and went down to the telephone.

Even so, she was at first so incoherent that Peter could hardly understand what she said. When he did understand, he was maddeningly cool about it, merely asking whether she had touched anything or told anybody. When assured that she had not, he replied cheerfully that he would be along in a few minutes.

Harriet went out and raged distractedly about the New Quad till she heard him ring-for the gates were just shut-and only a last lingering vestige of self-restraint prevented her from rushing at him and pouring out her indignation in the presence of Padgett. But she waited for him in the middle of the quad.

“Peter-oh Peter!”

“Well,” said he, “this is rather encouraging. I was afraid we might have choked off these demonstrations for good and all.”

“But my chessmen! I could kill her for that.”

“My dear, it’s sickening that it should be your chessmen. But don’t let’s lose all sense of proportion. It might have been you.”

“I wish it had been. I could have hit back.”

“Termagant. Let’s go and look at the damage.”

“It’s horrible, Peter. It’s like a massacre. It’s-it’s rather frightening, somehow-they’ve been hit so hard.”

When he saw the room, Wimsey looked grave enough.

“Yes,” he said, kneeling amid the wreckage. “Blind, bestial malignity. Not only broken but ground to powder. There’s been a heel at work here, as well as the poker; you can see the marks on the carpet. She hates you, Harriet. I didn’t realize that. I thought she was only afraid of you… Is there yet any that is left of the house of Saul?… Look, one poor warrior hiding behind the coal-scuttle-remnant of a mighty army.”

He held up the solitary red pawn, smiling; and then scrambled hurriedly to his feet.

“My dear girl, don’t cry about it. What the hell does it matter?”

“I loved them,” said Harriet, “and you gave them to me.”

He shook his head. “It’s a pity it’s that way round. ‘You gave them to me, and I loved them’ is all right, but ‘I loved them and you gave them to me’ is irreparable. Fifty thousand rocs’ eggs won’t supply their place. ‘The Virgin’s gone and I am gone; she’s gone, she’s gone and what shall I do?’ But you needn’t weep over the chest of drawers while I have a shoulder at your disposal, need you?”

“I’m sorry. I’m being a perfect idiot.”

“I told you love was the devil and all. Two-and-thirty chessmen, baked in a pie. ‘And all the powerful kings and all the beautiful queens of this world were but as a bed of flowers’…”

“I might have had the decency to take care of them.”

“That’s foolish,” said he, with his mouth muffled in her hair. “Don’t talk so soft, or I shall get foolish too. Listen. When did all this happen?”

“Between Hall and a quarter to ten.”

“Was anybody absent from Hall? Because this must have made a bit of a noise. After Hall, there’d be students about, who might hear the glass smash or notice if anybody unusual was wandering about.”