Miss Greenshaw’s head, in its battered straw hat, fell forward on her breast. She called up to Lou in a failing voice: “. . . shot . . . he shot me . . . with an arrow . . . get help. . . .”

Lou rushed to the door. She turned the handle, but the door would not open. It took her a moment or two of futile endeavour to realize that she was locked in. She rushed back to the window.

“I’m locked in.”

Miss Greenshaw, her back towards Lou, and swaying a little on her feet was calling up to the housekeeper at a window farther along.

“Ring police . . . telephone. . . .”

Then, lurching from side to side like a drunkard she disappeared from Lou’s view through the window below into the drawing room. A moment later Lou heard a crash of broken china, a heavy fall, and then silence. Her imagination reconstructed the scene. Miss Greenshaw must have staggered blindly into a small table with a Sèvres tea set on it.

Desperately Lou pounded on the door, calling and shouting. There was no creeper or drainpipe outside the window that could help her to get out that way.

Tired at last of beating on the door, she returned to the window. From the window of her sitting room farther along, the housekeeper’s head appeared.

“Come and let me out, Mrs. Oxley. I’m locked in.”

“So am I.”

“Oh dear, isn’t it awful? I’ve telephoned the police. There’s an extension in this room, but what I can’t understand, Mrs. Oxley, is our being locked in. I never heard a key turn, did you?”

“No. I didn’t hear anything at all. Oh dear, what shall we do? Perhaps Alfred might hear us.” Lou shouted at the top of her voice, “Alfred, Alfred.”

“Gone to his dinner as likely as not. What time is it?”

Lou glanced at her watch.

“Twenty-five past twelve.”

“He’s not supposed to go until half past, but he sneaks off earlier whenever he can.”

“Do you think—do you think—”

Lou meant to ask “Do you think she’s dead?” but the words stuck in her throat.

There was nothing to do but wait. She sat down on the windowsill. It seemed an eternity before the stolid helmeted figure of a police constable came round the corner of the house. She leant out of the window and he looked up at her, shading his eyes with his hand. When he spoke his voice held reproof.

“What’s going on here?” he asked disapprovingly.

From their respective windows, Lou and Mrs. Cresswell poured a flood of excited information down on him.

The constable produced a notebook and pencil. “You ladies ran upstairs and locked yourselves in? Can I have your names, please?”

“No. Somebody else locked us in. Come and let us out.”

The constable said reprovingly, “All in good time,” and disappeared through the window below.