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back again. “Well, he certainly didn’t appear frightened or embarrassed. On the way up, he was confident he could do something for us in regard to the Dower. I think Cruikshank considered himself master of the situation. But then, he seems the type of person who always does.”
    â€œThat was definitely the last you saw of Cruikshank, Maggie?” John’s voice was serious.
    â€œYou’re not doubting my word, I hope,” I said indignantly. “I’d like to get my hands on the person who dragged me into this.”
    â€œThat should be easy. It was Miss Maud Cruikshank.”
    II
    The oddest part of Mr Cruikshank’s disappearance was the tardy way in which his sister went to the police. She maintained over and over again that Arthur was in the habit of going away for a coupleof days at a time without any notice; although, as a rule, a note came in the mail explaining his absence and announcing his probable return. But as a letter did not come, and a quick search revealed that none of his clothes were missing, she became concerned.
    I am repeating her statement word for word. Personally I didn’t believe a word of it, and still don’t. I think she guessed what was afoot even then and that continuous inquiries for Mr Cruikshank from customers at the shop goaded her into going to the police.
    If Miss Cruikshank could describe my appearance so accurately, surely she must have recognized me that day I called into the shop. If she was so concerned about her brother, she would have commenced her own inquiries then and there. To this Miss Cruikshank replied that working had taken her mind off the subject. It was a feeble excuse. I was able to push my point by recalling a conversation between her and a customer wandering about the bookshelves in search of a light romance.
    â€œ Desert Love! ” exclaimed this discriminating reader. “Have I read it, Miss Cruikshank?”
    â€œI’ll check up with your card, Mrs Bellamy.”
    â€œPlease do. I seem to remember the name. About sheiks and slaves. Where is Mr Cruikshank? He would know whether I have had it.”
    Miss Cruikshank left me to run through a tray of index cards.
    â€œHe was called away for a few days. I expect him home any time now,” she said, without looking up.
    The Bellamy woman, whom I had been regarding with an absent-minded interest—I had seen her somewhere before—made a sound of impatience and reached down Love in the Starlight .
    â€œSo hard to find something I haven’t read,” she murmured.
    I agreed amiably, and pointed out a scarcely marked copy of The Good Companions tucked away in a corner.
    â€œIt’s fairly old, but it bears reading several times.”
    â€œOh, The Good Companions . Yes, I saw the picture years ago. I got the book afterwards, of course, but it seemed so long that I—why, Maggie Byrnes! Fancy running into you after all this time.”
    A swift, all-enveloping glance took in my hair-do, clothes and figure.
    â€œYou remember me, of course. It must be four years—no, five. What are you doing in this part of the world? Our sweet little Middleburn. You are married, of course.”
    Another rapid look was shot over me.
    â€œVery much so,” I replied, recalling Mrs Bellamy’s face. The use of superfluous phrases had placed her. She had worked in the Trunk Exchange for a while, as dunderhead a telephonist as anyone could hope to hear. In those days her name was Connie Rowe.
    â€œJust wait a minute until Miss Cruikshank stamps this book, Maggie. We’ll have a nice long chat while we shop. I’ve got Peter outside.”
    â€œAnd I’ve got Tony,” I said, not to be outdone.
    â€œYour son? How delightful! I am just dying to—yes, this one, please, Miss Cruikshank. No return. When will Mr Cruikshank be back? I want to see him most urgently; or rather my husband does.”
    â€œI expect him home tomorrow, Mrs