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run.”
    â€œThis was a mischievous spirit indeed.”
    â€œShe says it can’t harm me, and that if we pay no attention to it, it will go away. Like a child, you know.”
    â€œShe is optimistic. You can discard that theory Florence; discard it for ever. Poe, John Ford, and Christopher Marlowe may have turned into troublesome ghosts, and they may have entered into a conspiracy to confuse and annoy authors of light fiction; I wouldn’t put it past them; but count George Herbert out of it. He wouldn’t spend eternity like that—he wouldn’t dream of it.”
    Mrs. Mason gave him a watery smile. “Oh, Henry, I’m so glad you’re here. You’re not very spiritual, you know, but you can make me laugh.”
    â€œOblige me by laughing, then.”
    She had begun to laugh, rather hysterically, when Timothy Mason emerged from the communicating bathroom. He was in his shirt sleeves. Two small griffons pranced behind him; at sight of Gamadge they exploded in a shrill chorus of barking.

CHAPTER FOUR
Mouse in the Attic
    Mason had been working on his thick, light hair with a military brush. As he crossed the room he transferred the brush to his left hand, and flung out the right in a buoyant gesture of welcome.
    â€œHello, there, Gamadge!” He almost shouted it. “Glad to see you. You’re evidently the doctor my wife needed.”
    Gamadge rose, smiled, and held out his own hand; but he stayed where he was. He had no sympathy with the race of griffons—it usually bit him. He allowed his fingers to be crushed again in Mason’s iron paw. “Hope I’ll be of use here,” he said.
    â€œYou’ve cheered Florence up—that’s all I ask. Excuse my appearance; I’m changing—had a ride.”
    â€œYou look fit.”
    Mason looked very fit; he was solid and muscular, with no sign of superfluous fat. His white-yellow hair, lashes and almost invisible eyebrows, his bulldog face—blunt nose and square jaw, sanguine skin and wide mouth—certainly forbade handsomeness, but there was something about him. Life, zest, physical power and durability, easy good humour—these had captivated Florence Mason. They captivated her still. When Mason bent to kiss her lightly on the cheek, and Gamadge saw the look in her eyes, he knew that while her husband troubled to placate her she would never get rid of him. She might scold him, punish him, even hate him, but she would not do without him. Gamadge was sure that her rage at her own weakness was what made her implacable towards Bill and Sally Deedes. They, at least, should part! I could shake her, he thought, and listened to Mason.
    â€œNow we’ll get the mystery solved. Until a couple of days ago I didn’t want you up here on the job, Gamadge—I’ll be frank with you. I always think the less fuss made about these private rows the better. But I didn’t like the tone of that last crack Florence found in her manuscript; the sooner we get rid of the joker now the better I’ll be pleased.”
    Gamadge had relaxed into an easy posture, one hand in a trouser pocket and one shoulder drooping, which took an inch off his height; it permitted Mason to look down on him. “Can’t promise results,” he said. “The problem may be insoluble.”
    â€œOh, don’t give up before you start, old man! I’d hand you a tip to set you going, but Florence doesn’t think much of it.”
    â€œI’ll be glad of it, if you think it’s worth something.” Gamadge avoided Mrs. Mason’s angry eye.
    â€œWell, I’m a dumb sort of feller, only see what’s in front of my nose; but it strikes me the joker is a neurotic. Not entirely responsible. Lots of young people are, and get over it. They write poison-pen letters, and a psychiatrist cures ’em.”
    â€œWe’ve been over that, Tim,” said Mrs. Mason coldly. “Mr. Gamadge