VWhere do one’s fears come from? Where do they shape themselves?

Where do they hide before coming out into the open?

Just one short phrase. Heard and noted and never quite put aside:

“Take me away—it’s so awful being here—feeling so wicked….”

Why had Megan said that? What had she to feel wicked about?

There could be nothing in Mrs. Symmington’s death to make Megan feelwicked.

Why had the child felt wicked? Why? Why?

Could it be because she felt responsible in anyway?

Megan? Impossible! Megan couldn’t have had anything to do with thoseletters—those foul obscene letters.

Owen Griffith had known a case up North—a schoolgirl….

What had Inspector Graves said?

Something about an adolescent mind….

Innocent middle-aged ladies on operating tables babbling words theyhardly knew. Little boys chalking up things on walls.

No, no, not Megan.

Heredity? Bad blood? An unconscious inheritance of something abnor-mal? Her misfortune, not her fault, a curse laid upon her by a past genera-tion?

“I’m not the wife for you. I’m better at hating than loving.”

Oh, my Megan, my little child. Not that! Anything but that. And that oldTabby is after you, she suspects. She says you have courage. Courage to dowhat?

It was only a brainstorm. It passed. But I wanted to see Megan — Iwanted to see her badly.

At half past nine that night I left the house and went down to the townand along to the Symmingtons.’

It was then that an entirely new idea came into my mind. The idea of awoman whom nobody had considered for a moment.

(Or had Nash considered her?)

Wildly unlikely, wildly improbable, and I would have said up to todayimpossible, too. But that was not so. No, not impossible.

I redoubled my pace. Because it was now even more imperative that Ishould see Megan straightaway.

I passed through the Symmingtons’ gate and up to the house. It was adark overcast night. A little rain was beginning to fall. The visibility wasbad.

I saw a line of light from one of the windows. The little morning room?

I hesitated a moment or two, then instead of going up to the front door, Iswerved and crept very quietly up to the window, skirting a big bush andkeeping low.

The light came from a chink in the curtains which were not quitedrawn. It was easy to look through and see.

It was a strangely peaceful and domestic scene. Symmington in a bigarmchair, and Elsie Holland, her head bent, busily patching a boy’s tornshirt.

I could hear as well as see for the window was open at the top.

Elsie Holland was speaking.

“But I do think, really, Mr. Symmington, that the boys are quite oldenough to go to boarding school. Not that I shan’t hate leaving them be-cause I shall. I’m ever so fond of them both.”

Symmington said: “I think perhaps you’re right about Brian, Miss Hol-land. I’ve decided that he shall start next term at Winhays—my old prepschool. But Colin is a little young yet. I’d prefer him to wait another year.”

“Well of course I see what you mean. And Colin is perhaps a little youngfor his age—”

Quiet domestic talk—quiet domestic scene—and a golden head bentover needlework.

Then the door opened and Megan came in.

She stood very straight in the doorway, and I was aware at once ofsomething tense and strung up about her. The skin of her face was tightand drawn and her eyes were bright and resolute. There was no diffid-ence about her tonight and no childishness.

She said, addressing Symmington, but giving him no title (and I sud-denly reflected that I never heard her call him anything. Did she addresshim as father or as Dick or what?)

“I would like to speak to you, please. Alone.”

Symmington looked surprised and, I fancied, not best pleased. Hefrowned, but Megan carried her point with a determination unusual inher.

She turned to Elsie Holland and said:

“Do you mind, Elsie?”

“Oh, of course not,” Elsie Holland jumped up. She looked startled and alittle flurried.

She went to the door and Megan came farther in so that Elsie passedher.

Just for a moment Elsie stood motionless in the doorway looking overher shoulder.

Her lips were closed, she stood quite still, one hand stretched out, theother clasping her needlework to her.

I caught my breath, overwhelmed by her beauty. When I think of hernow, I always think of her like that—in arrested motion, with that match-less deathless perfection that belonged to ancient Greece.

Then she went out shutting the door.

Symmington said rather fretfully:

“Well, Megan, what is it? What do you want?”

Megan had come right up to the table. She stood there looking down atSymmington. I was struck anew by the resolute determination of her faceand by something else—a hardness new to me.

Then she opened her lips and said something that startled me to thecore.

“I want some money,” she said.

The request didn’t improve Symmington’s temper. He said sharply:

“Couldn’t you have waited until tomorrow morning? What’s the matter,do you think your allowance is inadequate?”

A fair man, I thought even then, open to reason, though not to emotionalappeal.

Megan said: “I want a good deal of money.”

Symmington sat up straight in his chair. He said coldly:

“You will come of age in a few months’ time. Then the money left you byyour grandmother will be turned over to you by the public trustee.”

Megan said:

“You don’t understand. I want money from you.” She went on, speakingfaster. “Nobody’s ever talked much to me about my father. They’ve notwanted me to know about him. But I do know that he went to prison and Iknow why. It was for blackmail!”

She paused.

“Well, I’m his daughter. And perhaps I take after him. Anyway, I’m ask-ing you to give me money because—if you don’t”—she stopped and thenwent on very slowly and evenly—“if you don’t—I shall say what I saw youdoing to the cachet that day in my mother’s room.”

There was a pause. Then Symmington said in a completely emotionlessvoice:

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Megan said: “I think you do.”

And she smiled. It was not a nice smile.

Symmington got up. He went over to the writing desk. He took a cheque-book from his pocket and wrote out a cheque. He blotted it carefully andthen came back. He held it out to Megan.

“You’re grown up now,” he said. “I can understand that you may feelyou want to buy something rather special in the way of clothes and allthat. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t pay attention. Buthere’s a cheque.”

Megan looked at it, then she said:

“Thank you. That will do to go on with.”

She turned and went out of the room. Symmington stared after her andat the closed door, then he turned round and as I saw his face I made aquick uncontrolled movement forward.

It was checked in the most extraordinary fashion. The big bush that Ihad noticed by the wall stopped being a bush. Superintendent Nash’s armswent round me and Superintendent Nash’s voice just breathed in my ear:

“Quiet, Burton. For God’s sake.”

Then, with infinite caution he beat a retreat, his arm impelling me to ac-company him.

Round the side of the house he straightened himself and wiped his fore-head.

“Of course,” he said, “you would have to butt in!”

“That girl isn’t safe,” I said urgently. “You saw his face? We’ve got to gether out of here.”

Nash took a firm grip of my arm.

“Now, look here, Mr. Burton, you’ve got to listen.”

VI

Well, I listened.

I didn’t like it—but I gave in.

But I insisted on being on the spot and I swore to obey orders implicitly.

So that is how I came with Nash and Parkins into the house by the backdoor which was already unlocked.

And I waited with Nash on the upstairs landing behind the velvet cur-tain masking the window alcove until the clocks in the house struck two,and Symmington’s door opened and he went across the landing and intoMegan’s room.

I did not stir or make a move for I knew that Sergeant Parkins was in-side masked by the opening door, and I knew that Parkins was a good manand knew his job, and I knew that I couldn’t have trusted myself to keepquiet and not break out.

And waiting there, with my heart thudding, I saw Symmington come outwith Megan in his arms and carry her downstairs, with Nash and myself adiscreet distance behind him.

He carried her through to the kitchen and he had just arranged her com-fortably with her head in the gas oven and had turned on the gas whenNash and I came through the kitchen door and switched on the light.

And that was the end of Richard Symmington. He collapsed. Even whileI was hauling Megan out and turning off the gas I saw the collapse. Hedidn’t even try to fight. He knew he’d played and lost.