After that she had taken up private nursing. Goodness only knew where she was at this moment. Monk did not.

He was in Hastings Street. Number fourteen was only a few yards away, on the far side. He crossed over, climbed the steps, and rang the doorbell. It was a gracious house, neo-Georgian, and spoke of quiet respectability.

After a moment or two the door was opened by a maid in a blue stuff dress and white cap and apron.

"Yes sir?" she said inquiringly.

"Good afternoon." He held his hat in his hand courteously, but as if fully expecting to be admitted. "My name is William Monk." He produced a card which gave his name and address but not his occupation. "I am an acquaintance of Mr. Albert Finnister of Halifax, whom I believe to be a cousin of Mrs. Penrose and Miss Gillespie. Since I was in the area, I wondered if I might pay my respects?"

"Mr. Finnister, you said, sir?"

"That is correct, of Halifax in Yorkshire."

"If you'd like to wait in the morning room, Mr. Monk, I will see if Mrs. Penrose is at home."

The morning room where he waited was comfortably furnished but with a care which spoke of a well-managed economy. There was no unnecessary expense. Decoration was a home-stitched sampler modestly framed, a print of a romantic landscape, and a rather splendid mirror. The chair backs were protected by well-laundered antimacassars, and the armrests were worn where countless hands had rubbed them. Certainly there was something of a track across the carpet from door to fireplace. A nicely arranged vase of white daisies sat on the low central table, a pleasingly feminine touch. The bookcase had one brass doorknob which was not quite the same as the others. Altogether it was an agreeable, unexceptional room, designed for comfort rather than to impress.