odious mind. But it is really too absurd. A charge of immorality against Miss Asprey—of all people. And at her age."
"Age has nothing to do with it," shouted Miss Corner. "I'm fifty-five, and I'd do anything for the sake of literary experience."
Joan saw the swift, involuntary glance which flashed between Mrs. Scudamore and Vivian.
'I wish you hadn't said that,' she thought.
Unaware of any need of caution, Miss Corner went from bad to worse.
"I simply can't understand all this silly worship of Miss Asprey," she said. "You see, I went to school with her. Of course, I was much younger, for she's sixty-four. But, even then, I was a little novelist, only my books were more mature than The Young Visitoe. Decima was one of the big girls, with long, fair pigtails—but I took her measure, all right."
"Fair plaits. She must have looked like Marguerite," murmured Vivian.
"Marguerite, without the guts to go to hell. And I don't see she's made a success of her life. She chucked her job when she was still a young woman. After all, I've stuck to mine."
Annoyed by the lack of response from her guests—for even Joan looked thoughtful—Miss Corner began to brag.
"Perhaps I'm too proud about my work, but I've given—and I still give—a lot of happiness. All she did was to drag miserable girls into her Hostels, cram them with thick bread-and-butter, and set them to scrub floors and sing hymns."
She flashed her glasses aggressively at her guests.
"I don't suppose anyone has any notion of my huge fan-mail," she boasted. "Little boys—I love boys—write to me, begging for another of Joey's adventures. 'Dearest Miss Corner, I can hardly bear to wait for the next instalment. You don't know how thrilled I am by naughty Sam.' Or, 'Please, please, dear Miss Corner, tell me some more about Jimmy. I just adore him.' That's my reward, and please Heaven, I'll die in harness."
Joan thought that the letters sounded more like the effusions of little girls, and felt guilty of disloyalty, when—at the hoot of a motor-horn—Miss Corner gave her a conspiratorial wink. Unabashed by Mrs. Scudamore's surprised expression, she crossed to the window and removed the signal.
Two minutes later, when Dr. Perry entered the room, his hostess received him with a brimming cup.
"Here's your rotten weak China," she said. "Never mind. If I'm spared, I'll yet turn you into a strong Indian."
The doctor looked intently at Miss Corner, before he seated himself beside Joan, to the girl's secret satisfaction. Although she had chosen the Rector for her own, she considered Dr. Perry the most interesting man in the village. While there seemed nothing special in him to understand, she was aware that she did not understand him.
"We've been talking about it," she whispered.
"It?" He laughed slightly. "Oh, you mean the famous, or rather—infamous—letter...Who told you about it?"
"The padre."
"The padre, of course. The professional custodian of secrets. Ridiculous, isn't it?"
Joan noticed that he was only giving her a corner of his attention, for his eyes still lingered on Miss Corner. It was plain, from her understanding smile, that he was on terms of intimacy with the novelist. While Joan was sufficiently experienced to know that the laws of attraction are inexplicable, Miss Corner's grinning red face reminded her so strongly of the Leg of Mutton, in Alice Through the Looking-Glass, that she discarded the possibility of a romantic attachment for an uglier motive.
'Miss Corner's a rich spinster,' she thought. 'Suppose he is ingratiating himself with her, to get her to leave him her money. Mercy. I'm as bad as old Purley.'
But she knew that her friend would carry her lurid speculations a stage further, and she shuddered as her imagination suddenly shied at a gruesome reflection.
'A gentle smiling poisoner.'
She wrenched the idea from her mind.
'I'm a horror,' she thought contritely. 'It's Purley's fault. She started it, and now suspicion seems in the air.'
Restored to commonsense, she listened to Mrs. Scudamore, whose large, mild eyes were like searchlights, picking out the faces of her social disciples in order to secure their attention.
"Of course," she hinted gently, "I shall not allude to the letter when I next meet Miss Asprey. My silence will assure her of my entire sympathy. But I should only insult her if I let her think that I'd given even a minute's thought to such a wicked and ridiculous slander."
Her reassuring smile was the unspoken rider to her little speech. 'Now, you all know how to behave.'
"Yes." Vivian's fair face flushed, and she spoke too quickly. "Shall we all promise, that, whatever we may hear about each other, we won't believe it?"
At the unguarded request, everyone stared at her, aghast, for her words seemed to hint at the actual existence of secret swamps. In the silence that followed a dark flicker shook through the room.
It was the first warning of the approach of Fear.
CHAPTER VI — A COUNTRY WALK
The next day was sultry, with blazing sunshine and a cloudless sky. Hot weather always filled Joan with extra energy, so that after she had safely settled Lady d'Arcy for the afternoon, she determined to walk to the top of the Downs, to get a breeze.
When she came out of the tenebrous Quakers' Walk, the thatched cottages of the village looked like golden bee-hives, and the old pump seemed to nod in the drowsy heat. Everyone seemed to be under the spell of the Sleeping Beauty, for Joan met no one in the cobbled street.
When she passed the picturesque water-fed garden of Spout Manor, however, she saw Miss Mack looking through the gate. Her placid face and smiling lips gave her an appearance of complete happiness; but there was a suggestion of bars about the ironwork through which she peered, which made the little woman seem vaguely pathetic.
"Hulloa," called Joan. "Glorious, isn't it?"
"Yes," smiled Miss Mack. "Are you going for a walk?"
"Rather. Right to the top of the Downs."
"How nice. I'd like to be a hiker—too."
"You mean—wear shorts and carry a rucksack?"
Joan glanced at the squat little figure and stilled her heartless grin.
"Where's Miss Asprey?" she asked, as she thought of the anonymous letter.
"Gardening, over there."
Miss Mack looked rather furtively to where a tall, thin form in a grey, knitted suit, stooped over a flower-border, in the distance. Then, as though eager to keep the girl a little longer, she touched Joan's safety-pin brooch.
"That's pretty," she said. "But it's not properly fastened. You'll lose it."
As her podgy fingers busied themselves with the pin, Joan—although not more tolerant of middle-aged society than the average girl—suddenly felt called upon to make a sacrifice.
"Why don't you come with me?" she asked.
"I'd like to," cried Miss Mack. "I've nothing to do for Miss Asprey."
"Fine. Now, I've got to drop some mags at St. James's House. Get ready—strong shoes and a stick—and never mind about shorts. I'll come back in a few minutes and collect you."
As the little woman pattered eagerly up the drive, Joan felt almost rewarded, even while she grumbled inwardly.
"What a fool. Dished my whole afternoon."
She carried a pile