THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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which filled a tall jar on the window-seat. But the saint possessed the business virtue of punctuality, for she glanced rather pointedly at the grandfather's clock in the corner.
Taking the hint, Ignatius drew out an envelope from his note-case.
"I understand your letter was enclosed in this," he said. "Now, are you certain you cannot detect the slightest sign of a familiar handwriting? So many people use Roman capitals."
Miss Asprey shook her head, after a perfunctory glance. "No," she replied. "And, please, burn that envelope. The episode is best forgotten."
Without undue haste, Ignatius tactfully relieved her of it.
"You are beginning to convert me to your views," he said. "The letters seem harmless, since there is no suggestion of blackmail. But that may follow. That is why we want to find out who wrote them."
Miss Asprey opened her lips, as though to speak, and then closed them again. She was obviously impatient when Ignatius asked an irrelevant question.
"What pious initials, you have," he remarked. "'D.V.' I know your name is Decima' because it is my favourite name. What does 'V.' stand for?"
"A ridiculous name, which I discarded a long time ago," snapped Miss Asprey.
She rose, to end the interview, and then, after a slight hesitation, spoke to Ignatius.
"As you are a stranger here, you cannot understand the attitude of the village. But I assure you that to meddle is no kindness. I think most of us would prefer to pay some small sum—which we could well afford—rather than ventilate our grievance. Privacy means everything to us. And everything that's worth having must be paid for."
"I understand," said Ignatius. "You would rather bleed inwardly than expose your wound. But doesn't it depend on where you're shot?"
"I don't understand you."
"A soldier running from the battle-field might be reluctant to show his wound; but he couldn't disguise the fact if he'd been peppered in the face."
"Then you mean to go on until you find someone who is lost to all sense of dignity?" asked Miss Asprey coldly.
"For the sake of the general good, I must find someone who will talk," translated Ignatius. "Good afternoon, and thank you for seeing me."
Miss Asprey stood like a statue as she waited for Rose to answer the bell. Her parting bow was stiff as he was shown from her presence.
It was a relief to exchange the chill of the house for the sunshine of the drive, so Ignatius lingered to admire the water-fed garden. Ada—looking her best in her blue sweeping overall—shook her duster ostentatiously from a window overhead, but he did not glance in her direction.
He did his best to dim the intelligence of his eyes as a little dumpy woman pattered out of the house. It was Miss Mack.
With a memory of Ada's criticism, he studied her keenly, for signs of illness or unhappiness. But her face, though pale, was firm and tranquil, her smile was serene, and her blue eyes clear as those of a china doll.
"Lovely day," he observed. "I suppose you're going for a walk?"
"No," replied Miss Mack, "I'm going to weed the garden."
"And do you prefer that?"
"Oh, I don't mind."
Ignatius glanced up at the floating fluff from Ada's duster, and then lowered his voice.
"Can we talk somewhere without being overheard."
Miss Mack's face seemed incapable of showing surprise, but she displayed her grip of the situation.
"Would you like to see our new water-irises?" she asked, leading the way across the lawn, to the pool. Her eyes were smiling blue crescents as she looked up at him.
"Do you want me to insure?" she asked.
"No, not in your sense," replied Ignatius. "Indeed, it is rather difficult to explain my impulse. But I'm an idle chap myself, so I'm rather sorry for workers—or rather, those who cannot choose their work...Will you make me a promise?"
"What kind of promise?" asked Miss Mack.
"Nothing alarming. But, if you should be in trouble, at any time, will you let me know? Here's my card. I may be able to help you."
Miss Mack did not lose her smile, but she accepted the card.
"Thank you," she said. "But if I was in trouble, of course, I should go to Miss Asprey for help."
"That means one of two things," remarked Ignatius. "Either you will not be in trouble, or that you are very loyal. Good-bye."
As he walked down the drive, he had the feeling that Miss Asprey was looking at him from the window of the library, and that she had been a spectator of the scene.
'Good work,' he chuckled as he shut the gates.
During tea, the Rector tried to pump him about his visit to Miss Asprey.
"Did you find out anything new?" he asked.
"I didn't expect to," replied Ignatius. "I merely called on her, to check up on the facts."
"In that case, I don't know why you bothered her at all. She couldn't tell you what she doesn't know herself."
"No, but she could tell me something she does know. And that's her second name."
"She hasn't one." The Rector spoke with authority. "She has shown me the testimonial and presentation plate she received when she gave up her Rescue work. I distinctly remember the name in the inscription was 'Decima', only."
"In that case, she has been known by the one initial for at least thirty years, and before she came here to live. So no local person could possibly have known she possessed a second."
"No," agreed the Rector.
He looked rather surprised when Ignatius showed him a creased envelope.
"Where are your eyes, Tigger? Didn't you notice the address on the envelope you've been treasuring as a proof?" The Rector shook his head.
"At the time, I was too staggered to be observant," he explained. "Afterwards, I just chucked it inside a drawer and locked it up. But, anyway, it's complete vindication of the village. The letters come from Outside."
Ignatius did not confirm his comforting theory. He rose to his feet and threw his cake to Charles.
"I'm off to see the doctor," he said.
"These mysterious comings and goings seem hopeful," remarked the Rector. "Have you some definite theory?"
"I have a definite theory and an indefinite one. I prefer the second, which suggests a daisy of a problem. This may prove merely a dislocation, or it may be a complicated compound fracture. I shall have to follow up the commonplace solution, for want of an adequate finger-post...Oh, curse the woman."
"Who?"
"I mean the one person who could clear up a small, but vital point, always supposing she told the truth."
"And won't she speak?"
"No."
The Rector was properly shocked at such lack of public spirit.
"But cannot she be induced to be open?" he asked. "Can't you appeal to her sense of fair play?"
"She hasn't any. That line of talk gets you no further with the dead. My missing witness is Julia Corner."
CHAPTER XVII — POSTMAN'S KNOCK
The beautiful old rose brick walls hid all but the roof of St. James' House. As Ignatius crossed the lawn, he noticed the plentiful crop of daisies, and a large canvas