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jewel. And air mail to be sure of top speed. Then—then Madame Borini had been murdered, same as Boyd Harkness.... It gave me cold shudders to think of it. I began to get an insight upon the hellish, supernatural thing I was living with. More! Married to it!
    And the law too showed signs that it might catch up. Inspector Hilton was nobody’s fool. The postman was already a nosey kind of individual, and had noted the parcels arriving. If he told the police—
    Something happened to me at this point in my thoughts. Don’t ask me what it was because I can’t tell you. I simply became aware that my skin was pricking and that the road and the car were both swaying unnaturally. It was like being on the edge of a faint— Only it wasn’t a faint because I started the car up, reversed, and went back to the house.
    I picked up the jewel in its box, let myself in by the front door and went right through to the lounge. Beryl was there, as though waiting for me. She was smiling imperturbably. I put the box down on the table beside her without a word, went out again, drove away again in my car....
    The dreamlike sensation left me suddenly, left me limp and breathless. I was drawn up on the side of the road where I had stopped before. Had I been asleep, or what— Had I really been back home? I searched around the car frantically but the jewel and its box had gone as though it had never been.
    What in thunder? Had it been a delusion...?
    â€œNo,” I whispered, taking myself in hand. “No, that was no delusion. Get it through your head that you’ve got to work on this before it’s too late. You are not fighting just your wife but something diabolical that can do just as it likes with you—and her probably. You’re dealing with the unknown—a vast, overpowering unknown!”
    Yes, that was right! While I gathered my thoughts I drove on again slowly, towards the village. I was passing the local police headquarters when Hilton came suddenly into view in the doorway. He had evidently seen my approach through the window. He hailed me, came to the side of the car as I stopped.
    â€œGlad you dropped past—save me the trouble of runnin’ up to your place yet awhile, but I’ll go up later anyway an’ have a word or two with your wife.... Just routine, you know.”
    â€œYes, of course,” I nodded, searching his face. Then casually, “Something wrong? Something new, I mean?”
    â€œIn a way,” he said. “Still the Harkness job, of course. The Yard are on to it now, but I’m still nosin’ around a bit. Y’see, it seems one of Harkness’ last acts was to send off a parcel. His servant mailed it—accordin’ to later questionin’—and he says it was sent to your wife....” Hilton rubbed his whiskery jaw. “An’ that’s sort of queer,” he mused. “She said she’d never seen Harkness when I asked her about him. Remember?”
    â€œI remember,” I said shortly. “And so far as I know it is true. Anyway, what has this to do with Harkness’ death?”
    â€œNever can tell.... You say you never met Harkness neither?”
    I shook my head impatiently. “Of course not! And if he sent a parcel to my wife there was probably a very good reason for it. A—a neighborly act, perhaps....”
    â€œOh, very neighborly.” Hilton studied me impersonally for a moment, then he said, “Even by itself it would be queer—no denyin’ it: but when the postal authorities in the village tell us yet another parcel was received today for your wife, from Italy by air mail—a rare thing in these parts—it begins to look more ’n just queer. It’s none of our business, of course, but we do know that an Italian singer died in the same way as Harkness. Seems odd that both folks died after sendin’ parcels to your wife, doesn’t it?”
    â€œWhat the devil