Jim. These were to be illustrations for a story in a woman’s magazine—a story with a superfine hero and a double-dyed villain—and she couldn’t make a face look heroic or villainous; only like Jim.

The light was dull and that didn’t help but if the light were perfect she wouldn’t be able to do much better. She’d fought against admitting it but, since Jim had disappeared, something of her had gone. It was chiefly her power of concentration. She didn’t think she would get it back until she knew what had happened; even if it proved to be the worst and he was dead.

She dropped her pencil and stood up. Jim’s framed photograph, with the back towards her, stood on one side of her desk. She picked it up and he smiled at her. That smile had done something to her from the first time she had seen it. It had gaiety, vitality—life. Zest for life had been the common bond between her and Jim from the beginning of their friendship. The friendship had grown swiftly, become much deeper and swept them away till they were wildly in love.

There had been five glorious months of planning and preparation, of learning each other’s foibles, deciding when to marry, where to live and how. They’d been so crazy that they had decided how many children to have, what sex and what they should be called. They’d even made up a silly doggerel about them, each last line ending:

. .. with Charles, Peter and Anne!

and they’d sung it to the catchy tune of Peggy O’Neil, one or the other of them strumming on the old piano which was out of tune and had two broken wires. On the piano, in its rosewood case, was another picture of Jim— like the picture which the police had taken away.