Mrs. Underwood had certainly found her tongue. Miss Silver recalled Charles Moray’s “A gushing gasbag!” and Margaret’s “Charles, darling-gas doesn’t gush!” She gave a slight cough and said,

“Naturally. But you say it is not your niece who walks in her sleep.”

Mrs. Underwood dabbed at her lips.

“Well, I don’t know-I didn’t think about it being Meade-I thought it might be Ivy.”

“Ivy?”

“The maid, you know-Ivy Lord. I wouldn’t keep her, but they’re so scarce and difficult to get, you have to put up with anything.”

The needles clicked. Miss Silver said,

“What makes you think this girl is walking in her sleep?”

Mrs. Underwood gulped.

“There was a letter on my floor.”

Miss Silver said, “Yes?” and saw the mauvish colour run up into the plump, pale cheeks.

“How could it have got there? I keep on trying to think of ways, but there aren’t any. I mean it wasn’t there when I went to bed and that’s flat. And if it wasn’t there then, who put it there-that’s what I want to know. The flat was all locked up for the night, and there was just me and Meade and Ivy inside, and the very first thing I saw when I woke up in the morning was that bit of paper lying right under the window.”

“A bit of paper, or a letter?”

Mrs. Underwood dabbed her forehead.

“It was a bit torn off my own letter, and it was lying there right under the window. And someone must have come into my room in the night and dropped it, for it wasn’t there when I went to bed-I can swear to that.” The dabbing hand was shaking. She dropped it into her lap and it lay there, clutching the handkerchief.

Miss Silver leaned forward.

“Why does this frighten you so much? Is it because of something in the letter?”