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pleasure to meet some broader minds, if you understand me. Someone with an appreciation of Art. Really you know, these dear good people down here, if you mention the Ballet, it conveys to them pirouetting toes, and tulle skirts and old gentlemen with opera glasses in the Naughty Nineties. It does indeed. Fifty years behind the times—that’s what I put them down, as. A wonderful country, England. It has pockets. Lymstock is one of them. Interesting from a collector’s point of view—I always feel I have voluntarily put myself under a glass shade when I am here. The peaceful backwater where nothing ever happens.”
    Shaking hands with us twice over, he helped me with exaggerated care into the car. Joanna took the wheel, she negotiated with some care the circular sweep round a plot of unblemished grass, then with a straight drive ahead, she raised a hand to wave goodbyeto our host where he stood on the steps of the house. I leaned forward to do the same.
    But our gesture of farewell went unheeded. Mr. Pye had opened his mail.
    He was standing staring down at the open sheet in his hand.
    Joanna had described him once as a plump pink cherub. He was still plump, but he was not looking like a cherub now. His face was a dark congested purple, contorted with rage and surprise.
    And at that moment I realized that there had been something familiar about the look of that envelope. I had not realized it at the time—indeed it had been one of those things that you note unconsciously without knowing that you do note them.
    â€œGoodness,” said Joanna. “What’s bitten the poor pet?”
    â€œI rather fancy,” I said, “that it’s the Hidden Hand again.”
    She turned an astonished face towards me and the car swerved.
    â€œCareful, wench,” I said.
    Joanna refixed her attention on the road. She was frowning.
    â€œYou mean a letter like the one you got?”
    â€œThat’s my guess.”
    â€œWhat is this place?” asked Joanna. “It looks the most innocent sleepy harmless little bit of England you can imagine—”
    â€œWhere to quote Mr. Pye, nothing ever happens,” I cut in. “He chose the wrong minute to say that. Something has happened.”
    â€œBut who writes these things, Jerry?”
    I shrugged my shoulders.
    â€œMy dear girl, how should I know? Some local nitwit with a screw loose, I suppose.”
    â€œBut why? It seems so idiotic.”
    â€œYou must read Freud and Jung and that lot to find out. Or ask our Dr. Owen.”
    Joanna tossed her head.
    â€œDr. Owen doesn’t like me.”
    â€œHe’s hardly seen you.”
    â€œHe’s seen quite enough, apparently, to make him cross over if he sees me coming along the High Street.”
    â€œA most unusual reaction,” I said sympathetically. “And one you’re not used to.”
    Joanna was frowning again.
    â€œNo, but seriously, Jerry, why do people write anonymous letters?”
    â€œAs I say, they’ve got a screw loose. It satisfies some urge, I suppose. If you’ve been snubbed, or ignored, or frustrated, and your life’s pretty drab and empty, I suppose you get a sense of power from stabbing in the dark at people who are happy and enjoying themselves.”
    Joanna shivered. “Not nice.”
    â€œNo, not nice. I should imagine the people in these country places tend to be inbred—and so you would get a fair amount of queers.”
    â€œSomebody, I suppose, quite uneducated and inarticulate? With better education—”
    Joanna did not finish her sentence, and I said nothing. I have never been able to accept the easy belief that education is a panacea for every ill.
    As we drove through the town before climbing up the hill road, I looked curiously at the few figures abroad in the High Street. Wasone of those sturdy countrywomen going about with a load of spite and malice behind her placid brow, planning perhaps even