She hurried from store to store with her orders, and then, after a moment's hesitation, went across to the post office and bought some stamps.

    "What did you say that man was?"

    With an effort she kept her voice steady.

    "A detective, miss," said the old postmaster with relish. "You could have knocked me down with a feather duster when he showed me his card. I don't know what he's after."

    "Where has he gone?" she asked, dreading the reply.

    "He's gone up to Beverley Green, Miss, according to what he told me."

    The postmaster's memory was not of the brightest, or he would have recalled the fact that Andy had expressed no such intention.

    "To Beverley Green?" she said slowly.

    "That's it, miss—Macleod!" he said suddenly. "That's the name. I couldn't remember it. Macleod." He pronounced it "Mac-lo-ed."

    "Macleod," she corrected him. "Is he staying here?"

    "No, miss, he's just passing through. Banks, the butcher, wouldn't believe that we had a detective in the town—a real man from headquarters. He's the fellow who gave evidence in that Marchmont poisoning murder. Do you remember it, miss? A wonderful murder it was, too. A man poisoned his wife, being anxious to marry another lady, and this Macleod's evidence got him hanged. Banks told me that, but I remembered it the moment he spoke. I've got a wonderful memory for murder cases."

    She went back at a more leisurely pace to the station and took a ticket. She was undecided, tormented by doubt and fear. She hated the idea of going away from the place, even for a few hours, whilst that man was prying into heaven knows what, she told herself fretfully.

    Again she walked back towards the village, and then she heard the scream of the train whistle. No, she would carry out her original idea. One danger at any rate was definite. She hated Macleod. He was an enemy. She hated him, but she feared him too. She shivered at the recollection of that inquiring stare of his, which said so plainly: "You have something to fear." She tried hard to read, but her mind was never upon the newspaper, and, though her eyes followed the lines, she saw nothing, read nothing.

    Nearing her destination, she wondered that she had ever dreamt of going back. She had only a week to settle this ghastly business of hers—exactly a week—and every day counted. She might be successful. She might be returning that afternoon, her heart singing with happiness, passing by these very fields and bridges, her mind at peace.

    Mechanically she noticed the objects of the landscape as the train flashed through. She must remember to register her emotions when they came to that white farmhouse on the return journey. By the time she saw it again she might not have a care in the world.

    Dreams and journey ended simultaneously. She hurried out through the big terminus, crowded with jostling, horrible people, who would not so much as turn their heads if she died that moment. A taxi-cab came to her signal.

    "Ashlar Building?" he pondered, and then: "I know where you mean, miss."

    The Ashlar Building was a great block of offices; she had never seen it before, and had no idea as to how she was to find the man on whom she was calling. Inside the hall, however, and covering both walls, was an indicator, and her eyes went down column after column of names until they stopped.

    309, Abraham Selim.

    The office was on the fifth floor.

    It was some time before she found it, for it stood in a corner of a long wing—two office doors, one marked private, the other abr. selim.

    She knocked at the door, and a voice said:

    "Come in."

    A small rail separated the office from the narrow gangway in which callers were permitted to stand.

    "Yes, miss?"

    The man who advanced to her was brusque and a little hostile.

    "I want to see Mr Selim," she said, and the young man shook his well-pomaded head.

    "You can't see him, miss, without an appointment," he said, "and even then he won't talk to you." He stopped suddenly and stared at her.