Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

Smith nodded. “Yes, and he says that from what the plainclothes men who took him said, he gathers that Murray supplied the information which puts him away. Your concern about Murray seems to be justified.”

Kitty was looking serious. “I know it is,” she said with conviction. “I’ve got a feeling. You know how it is. A woman gets a thing into her head — without logic — but it’s right, all the same. I’ve got a feeling about Murray. He’s nearer than we imagine. And the fact that he can lift Trevelyan out of your lap, and you not know it, proves how dangerous be is becoming.”

She left Smith deep in thought. Murray, the unseen, the unknown, the scoffed at, had struck silently and swiftly and effectively. Smith wondered where the next blow might fall — and when.

Chapter X The Heart Rules

Kitty ever afterward admitted it as a mistake; but it was a mistake which she excused on all kinds of different grounds, excused, in fact, so cunningly that she almost justified it. She went down to Bordington to see Jim Lansdale.

She knew she was acting foolishly. There was a loud outcry within her against the journey; but she went. It was sufficient answer to the arguments of common sense and the outcry of instinct.

Bordington was very delightful in the afternoon sunshine — she traveled there straight from her meeting with Mr. William Smith — a winding street bordered by quaint cottages, with a gabled inn displaying a swinging sign, a glimpse of church spire above massed greenness, soft half-timbered houses, and mellow warmth over it all.

There was a dog asleep on the cobbled pavement, and a cat sat on a window ledge and surveyed him contemplatively. An old man was dozing on the bench outside the inn. Save for the low monotone of an English summer, there was no sound, and no other sign of life.

Kitty strolled slowly. After the Strand this was wonderfully refreshing and restful. She had once heard an Irish girl describe London as a great, gloomy old place which had forgotten how to be young and, having passed middle-aged restfulness, was drifting toward senile decay. She wondered if the description was justified, as she walked along the village street at Bordington.

She was in a mood for meadows and fields and the songs of birds. We all get like that sometimes — especially on a warm, sunny day, when the Strand and Piccadilly stink of wood blocks and burned petrol, and the clamor of London makes the heated head reel.

Kitty determined to think rurally. It was an escape from thinking of Bill Smith and his affairs and of Jim Lansdale. She looked through the bottle-glass windows of the little shop and watched bluebottles and flies vainly assaulting the impregnable sides of glass jars filled with sticky sweets. She inspected critically yards of tape, cheap stockings and all kinds of other things, displayed in the window on the other side of the door of the same shop.

She stroked the cat, and said: “Hello, old boy,” to the dog, as he opened one eye, cocked it at her, and then closed it. She smiled ravishingly on the old man as he touched his hat; and she stepped lightly into the cool, shadowed interior of the low-roofed, beamed inn.

They were pleased to see her. She had, she said, come back for at least one night. Her old bedroom was given her. It looked out across the garden, blazing with roses, and, beyond the garden, across fields and rolling woodland. Half right, above the trees, Kitty could see, in the heat hazed distance, the twisted chimneys of Bordington Manor. Jim Lansdale was there. She wondered what he was thinking — whether of her, or merely of his work. She sat on the edge of her bed and felt unhappy, which was very unusual for Kitty.

The evening was dreary. She wandered in the direction of the manor — of course, by chance — and did not see Jim Lansdale; which, also, of course, was extremely unimportant, and did not at all account for there being something suspiciously like tears in her eyes when she snuggled down between silk and dean linen soon after sunset.

She was up early, and ate a delicious breakfast, in which cream and fresh fruit predominated. Then she went for another stroll, and though there were many delightful walks in the neighborhood, her feet took her once more in the direction of the manor.

She met Jim Lansdale.

It was at a crossing in the path through the woods. The sunshine made leaf-shadow patterns on the path. There was a shimmering halo of white fire above the swaying treetops. There were birds’ songs on the quivering air, and butterflies drew trembling lines of color against the restfulness of the undershadows.

Jim walked round the corner — and so they met face to face.

Kitty’s heart leaped and dropped with a bang. She was suddenly trembling and felt afraid — for the first time in her life. She looked up at Jim, and tried to smile, but the smile was a pitiful failure.