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reassuringly in both of her own as she sat down
on the edge of the bed. Rose, who had brought Mrs. Meade the
message from her mother, closed the bedroom door and came to stand
by the foot with her arm linked around the bedpost.
    “Letitia, what on earth is going on ?”
implored Mrs. Grey. “There was a sheriff up here a little while
ago, and he was asking us all sorts of questions about the
fire—where we were when it started, and who we saw, and—everything.
What does he mean by it?”
    “It isn’t anything to do with you, really,”
said Mrs. Meade; “he is only questioning anyone who happened to be
in the house.”
    “But why? What is it all about?”
    Mrs. Meade hesitated just a little, choosing
her words carefully in her desire to be truthful without
distressing Mrs. Grey any further. Evasion was worth nothing, but
she wished to make the affair sound as insignificant as possible.
“He is only trying to discover just how the fire started. Some of
the men who helped to fight it were puzzled by the way things
looked downstairs, so the sheriff wants to clear the matter up
directly.”
    She was looking at the other woman’s face as
she spoke, and saw that Mrs. Grey, in spite of her nerves, could
still understand what this meant. A look of amazement momentarily
overcame the fearfulness in her eyes. “Do you mean—they think the
fire was not an accident?”
    “From what I understand, yes.”
    “But—why would anyone want to start a
fire?” said Rose.
    “I don’t know, dear. Let us just hope the
sheriff will be able to find that out soon. At any rate, I don’t
think he will be troubling you again.” Mrs. Meade gave her friend’s
hand another comforting pat before she released it and stood up.
“If there is anything else you need, be sure to call me. I won’t be
far away.”
    “Yes—yes, of course,” said Mrs. Grey, who
seemed to be thinking of something else, her troubled eyes
wandering about the room. “I will. Thank you very much, Letitia.”
She looked back up at Mrs. Meade and managed a tired smile.
    Rose accompanied Mrs. Meade to the door and
opened it for her. Mrs. Meade paused in the doorway, and looked
back toward the bed.
    “She’s very upset.”
    “Yes,” said Rose.
    Mrs. Meade looked at her. Rose’s answer had
been simple agreement. The very slight inflection of questioning in
Mrs. Meade’s remark must have passed her unnoticed. Or perhaps it
was a natural circumstance for Mrs. Grey to be very upset.
    Mrs. Meade added in the same low tone, laying
a hand on Rose’s arm, “Don’t you forget either, dear. I’ll be on
hand if you need me for anything.”
    Rose nodded, with a little bit of a smile,
and closed the door.
    Mrs. Meade went downstairs to the empty
drawing-room and sat down. She thought back again over the events
of the previous day and night. And the one thing that kept
returning to her mind was the memory of Mark Lansbury’s voice
saying, “The essence of a man’s character—the trial by fire, so to
speak.”
     
    She sat still, while the breeze stirred the
curtains and light gray clouds dimmed the afternoon outside. The
drawing-room was shadowy by the time she heard a ring at the
doorbell, and a moment later familiar clumping footsteps in the
hall.
    Royal came into the room in a way that
indicated he had expected to find her here, for he made no initial
remark or greeting as he looked at her. He scratched the back of
his neck, and then sat down heavily in a chair opposite her.
    “Well,” he said, “I’ve got something. It’s
just a hint, but it’s something. Might surprise you. And I don’t
think you’ll like it any too well.”
    Mrs. Meade said quietly, “Is it something to
do with Mark Lansbury?”
    Royal’s jaw actually dropped—he stared at her
for a few seconds and blinked. Then he pulled himself together.
    “You’re right, as usual. Though I don’t see
how you can know it, unless you’ve already talked to the girl
yourself?”
    “Which girl?”