“That’s interesting,” I said, exchanging a quick glance with Joanna.

“Still, she is a very well-bred woman. She was a Miss Farroway of Bellpath, very good family, but these old families sometimes are a little peculiar, I believe. But she is devoted to her husband who is a man of very fine intellect—wasted, I am sometimes afraid, in this country circle. A good man, and most sincere, but I always find his habit of quoting Latin a little confusing.”

“Hear, hear,” I said fervently.

“Jerry had an expensive public school education, so he doesn’t recognize Latin when he hears it,” said Joanna.

This led Miss Barton to a new topic.

“The schoolmistress here is a most unpleasant young woman,” she said. “Quite Red, I’m afraid.” She lowered her voice over the word “Red.”

Later, as we walked home up the hill, Joanna said to me:

“She’s rather sweet.”

V

At dinner that night, Joanna said to Partridge that she hoped her tea party had been a success.

Partridge got rather red in the face and held herself even more stiffly.

“Thank you, miss, but Agnes never turned up after all.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It didn’t matter to me,” said Partridge.

She was so swelling with grievance that she condescended to pour it out to us.

“It wasn’t me who thought of asking her! She rang up herself, said she’d something on her mind and could she come here, it being her day off. And I said, yes, subject to your permission which I obtained. And after that, not a sound or sign of her! And no word of apology either, though I should hope I’ll get a postcard tomorrow morning. These girls nowadays—don’t know their place—no idea of how to behave.”

Joanna attempted to soothe Partridge’s wounded feelings.

“She mayn’t have felt well. You didn’t ring up to find out?”

Partridge drew herself up again.

“No, I did not, Miss. No, indeed. If Agnes likes to behave rudely that’s her lookout, but I shall give her a piece of my mind when we meet.”

Partridge went out of the room still stiff with indignation and Joanna and I laughed.

“Probably a case of ‘Advice from Aunt Nancy’s Column,’” I said. “‘My boy is very cold in his manner to me, what shall I do about it?’ Failing Aunt Nancy, Partridge was to be applied to for advice, but instead there has been a reconciliation and I expect at this minute that Agnes and her boy are one of those speechless couples locked in each other’s arms that you come upon suddenly standing by a dark hedge. They embarrass you horribly, but you don’t embarrass them.”

Joanna laughed and said she expected that was it.

We began talking of the anonymous letters and wondered how Nash and the melancholy Graves were getting on.

“It’s a week today exactly,” said Joanna, “since Mrs. Symmington’s suicide. I should think they must have got on to something by now. Fingerprints, or handwriting, or something.”