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went to the window. The screen was studded and alive with insects beating against it. She could see the line of willows along the shore below and the glittering lake, reflecting the moon in silver waves; the end of the pier jutted out into the lake; she thought she could see the black sharp shadow of the bench where she’d sat with Richard. But Richard and Eve were gone.
    She could feel Ludmilla watching her. But there was a mistake somewhere, somehow. She turned, intending to beat down the proof of the doctor’s report.
    And Ludmilla said quietly: “Yes, that’s the way I felt. I didn’t believe it. Besides—why? I’ve—I’ve injured nobody; I have no money. There’s no reason …”
    Something tightened and began to ache in Search’s throat. She ran to Ludmilla and kneeled down in front of her and put her arms around the plump little body.
    “Don’t dear,” said Ludmilla. She pushed Search’s hair back from her temples with a gentle, loving gesture. “We’ll find a way. Let’s—let’s not talk any more now, dear. Later—we’ll see what we can do.”
    “We’ll do something,” said Search. “We’ll stop it—Diana—”
    “Yes. That’s it, you see. Diana, Calvin, Richard. None of them would poison me. Yet—yet I was poisoned. I don’t want it to happen again.”
    “It shan’t—I’ll get police—detectives—I want you to tell me everything. Who was here—exactly what circumstance—”
    “Not now,” said Ludmilla firmly. “Not tonight.”
    She meant it. Ludmilla had always had, under her soft and gentle manner, an indestructible firmness. She took the letter and put it in its envelope and made Search go.
    “We can’t talk now,” she said simply. “You’ll have to”—she smiled a little—“get used to the notion. Wait a day or two.”
    “No. If there’s really danger “
    “I’ve my own methods of protection,” said Ludmilla. “They’ll suffice for the time being. And—when you’ve had time to think of it—then I’ll do anything you want me to do about it. Even the police.”
    “Promise?”
    “I promise. Good night, dear.”
    The door closed behind Search and she heard Ludmilla lock it softly.
    Somewhere in the house a radio had been turned on and there was static as if a storm was brewing over the lake. But that was wrong, for it was still brilliantly moonlight. She had seen that from Ludmilla’s window. She didn’t know where Diana was; somewhere downstairs, she supposed. There was no sign either of Richard and Eve. She turned abruptly and went to her own room.
    She must think, she told herself. And sat down on the edge of the small white bed where she’d slept as a child and couldn’t think.
    Richard—and the path of the moon and the gurgle of water under the pier. And then Eve had returned, and Diana had come with her, tall and white in the moonlight.
    And now Ludmilla’s incredible story.
    The house was quiet—so quiet that later, as she lay trying to sleep, she could hear the little rock and wash of a boat anchored somewhere down near the pier. And then suddenly she went to sleep.
    It was long after midnight when she awoke; the moon was bright and still. She lay there listening sharply, for it was as if some sound had awakened her. The moonlight flooded her room by now and lay in bright white blocks on the floor and on her dressing table, so the objects upon it were thrown into sharp relief. Her jars of cold cream and powder, her flat black handbag. Something else ought to be there, she thought, fumbling into consciousness, still half asleep. And then she remembered the package of rum-butter toffee she had brought for Aunt Ludmilla. It was gone.
    It was still gone when, after she’d got up and turned on the light and searched the room thoroughly, she returned to bed, shivering a little in her thin white pajamas.
    She told herself after a while that Diana had seen it and had known it was intended for Ludmilla, for everyone knew it was Ludmilla’s