III

I met Symmington in the town later in the day.

“Is it quite all right for Megan to stay on with us for a bit?” I asked. “It’scompany for Joanna—she’s rather lonely sometimes with none of her ownfriends.”

“Oh—er— Megan? Oh yes, very good of you.”

I took a dislike to Symmington then which I never quite overcame. Hehad so obviously forgotten all about Megan. I wouldn’t have minded if hehad actively disliked the girl—a man may sometimes be jealous of a firsthusband’s child—but he didn’t dislike her, he just hardly noticed her. Hefelt towards her much as a man who doesn’t care much for dogs wouldfeel about a dog in the house. You notice it when you fall over it and swearat it, and you give it a vague pat sometimes when it presents itself to bepatted. Symmington’s complete indifference to his stepdaughter annoyedme very much.

I said, “What are you planning to do with her?”

“With Megan?” He seemed rather startled. “Well, she’ll go on living athome. I mean, naturally, it is her home.”

My grandmother, of whom I had been very fond, used to sing old-fash-ioned songs to her guitar. One of them, I remembered, ended thus:

“Oh maid, most dear, I am not here

I have no place, no part,

No dwelling more, by sea nor shore,

But only in your heart.”

I went home humming it.

IV

Emily Barton came just after tea had been cleared away.

She wanted to talk about the garden. We talked garden for about half anhour. Then we turned back towards the house.

It was then that lowering her voice, she murmured:

“I do hope that that child—that she hasn’t been too much upset by allthis dreadful business?”

“Her mother’s death, you mean?”

“That, of course. But I really meant, the—the unpleasantness behind it.”

I was curious. I wanted Miss Barton’s reaction.

“What do you think about that? Was it true?”

“Oh, no, no, surely not. I’m quite sure that Mrs. Symmington never—that he wasn’t”—little Emily Barton was pink and confused—“I mean it’squite untrue—although of course it may have been a judgment.”

“A judgment?” I said, staring.

Emily Barton was very pink, very Dresden china shepherdess-like.

“I cannot help feeling that all these dreadful letters, all the sorrow andpain they have caused, may have been sent for a purpose.”

“They were sent for a purpose, certainly,” I said grimly.

“No, no, Mr. Burton, you misunderstood me. I’m not talking of the mis-guided creature who wrote them—someone quite abandoned that mustbe. I mean that they have been permitted—by Providence! To awaken usto a sense of our shortcomings.”

“Surely,” I said, “the Almighty could choose a less unsavoury weapon.”

Miss Emily murmured that God moved in a mysterious way.

“No,” I said. “There’s too much tendency to attribute to God the evils thatman does of his own free will. I might concede you the Devil. God doesn’treally need to punish us, Miss Barton. We’re so very busy punishingourselves.”

“What I can’t make out is why should anyone want to do such a thing?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“A warped mentality.”

“It seems very sad.”

“It doesn’t seem to me sad. It seems to me just damnable. And I don’tapologize for the word. I mean just that.”

The pink had gone out of Miss Barton’s cheeks. They were very white.

“But why, Mr. Burton, why? What pleasure can anyone get out of it?”

“Nothing you and I can understand, thank goodness.”

Emily Barton lowered her voice.

“They say that Mrs. Cleat—but I really cannot believe it.”

I shook my head. She went on in an agitated manner:

“Nothing of this kind has ever happened before—never in my memory.

It has been such a happy little community. What would my dear motherhave said? Well, one must be thankful that she has been spared.”

I thought from all I had heard that old Mrs. Barton had been sufficientlytough to have taken anything, and would probably have enjoyed this sen-sation.

Emily went on:

“It distresses me deeply.”

“You’ve not—er—had anything yourself?”

She flushed crimson.

“Oh, no—oh, no, indeed. Oh! that would be dreadful.”

I apologized hastily, but she went away looking rather upset.

I went into the house. Joanna was standing by the drawing room firewhich she had just lit, for the evenings were still chilly.

She had an open letter in her hand.

She turned her head quickly as I entered.

“Jerry! I found this in the letter box—dropped in by hand. It begins,“You painted trollop….”

“What else does it say?”

Joanna gave a wide grimace.

“Same old muck.”

She dropped it on to the fire. With a quick gesture that hurt my back Ijerked it off again just before it caught.

“Don’t,” I said. “We may need it.”

“Need it?”

“For the police.”