I answered her absently. Somewhere behind my conscious mind, a queer uneasiness was growing. It was connected in some way with the phrase that Joanna had used, “a week exactly.”

I ought, I dare say, to have put two and two together earlier. Perhaps, unconsciously, my mind was already suspicious.

Anyway the leaven was working now. The uneasiness was growing—coming to a head.

Joanna noticed suddenly that I wasn’t listening to her spirited account of a village encounter.

“What’s the matter, Jerry?”

I did not answer because my mind was busy piecing things together.

Mrs. Symmington’s suicide… She was alone in the house that afternoon… Alone in the house because the maids were having their day out… A week ago exactly….

“Jerry, what—”

I interrupted.

“Joanna, maids have days out once a week, don’t they?”

“And alternate Sundays,” said Joanna. “What on—”

“Never mind Sundays. They go out the same day every week?”

“Yes. That’s the usual thing.”

Joanna was staring at me curiously. Her mind had not taken the track mine had done.

I crossed the room and rang the bell. Partridge came.

“Tell me,” I said, “this Agnes Woddell. She’s in service?”

“Yes, sir. At Mrs. Symmington’s. At Mr. Symmington’s, I should say now.”

I drew a deep breath. I glanced at the clock. It was halfpast ten.

“Would she be back now, do you think?”

Partridge was looking disapproving.

“Yes, sir. The maids have to be in by ten there. They’re old-fashioned.”

I said: “I’m going to ring up.”

I went out to the hall. Joanna and Partridge followed me. Partridge was clearly furious. Joanna was puzzled. She said, as I was trying to get the number:

“What are you going to do, Jerry?”

“I’d like to be sure that the girl has come in all right.”

Partridge sniffed. Just sniffed, nothing more. But I did not care twopence about Partridge’s sniffs.

Elsie Holland answered the telephone the other end.

“Sorry to ring you up,” I said. “This is Jerry Burton speaking. Is—has—your maid Agnes come in?”

It was not until after I had said it that I suddenly felt a bit of a fool. For if the girl had come in and it was all right, how on earth was I going to explain my ringing up and asking. It would have been better if I had let Joanna ask the question, though even that would need a bit of explaining. I foresaw a new trail of gossip started in Lymstock, with myself and the unknown Agnes Woddell at its centre.

Elsie Holland sounded, not unnaturally, very much surprised.

“Agnes? Oh, she’s sure to be in by now.”

I felt a fool, but I went on with it.

“Do you mind just seeing if she has come in, Miss Holland?”

There is one thing to be said for a nursery governess; she is used to doing things when told. Hers not to reason why! Elsie Holland put down the receiver and went off obediently.

Two minutes later I heard her voice.