LITMIR.BIZ

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dagger with an enamelled handle down among the painted wood and the stucco. “Needless to say, it isn’t for sale. What’s the price of this?” he added, picking up an article.

      “Give that to a gentleman like you for one-and-ninepence,” said Mullins, without hesitation.

      As the passer-by went beyond hearing, Grant continued cheerfully as if there had been no parenthesis. “When you’ve disposed of the woman in Brightling Crescent—and keep your eyes open generally—go to 54 Lemonora Road and see if any one there recognizes it. Report as soon as you have finished.”

      When the pedlar of Italian goods reached the back door of 54 Lemonora Road about teatime, a pretty but sapless maid said, “Goodness, here’s another!”

      “Another wot?” said the pedlar.

      “Another man selling things.”

      “Oh? Bin a lot? Bet they hadn’t anything like mine,” he said, and opened the tray.

      “Oh!” she said, obviously enraptured. “Are they dear?”

      “Not them. ’Sides, a girl with wages like yours can easy afford something nice.”

      “What do you know about my wages, mister?”

      “Well, I don’t know anything. I’m just dedoocing. Pretty girl, nice house, good wages.”

      “Oh, the wages are good enough,” she said in a tone that indicated other shortcomings.

      “Wouldn’t the lady of the house like to have a look at them?” he said.

      “There’s no lady,” she said. “I’m the lady of the house just now. The missus is at Eastbourne. You been in the Army?”

      “I was in the Army during the War. That’s the only time bin in the Army counts. France? I was four years in France, miss.”

      “Well, you can come in and have some tea, and let me see the things properly. We’re just in the middle of it.”

      She led him into the kitchen, where the table was spread with butter, bread, several kinds of jam, and cake. At the table, with an enormous cup of tea halfway to his mouth, was a freckled fair man with a blue muffler and a discharged soldier’s silver badge on his lapel. Beside him on the table was a pile of cheap writing-pads.

      “This is another ex-serviceman,” the maid said. “He’s selling writing-paper. I shouldn’t think there’s much sale for it now. It’s ages since I seen some one round selling pads.”

      “How do, mate?” said the freckled one, meeting the quizzical regard of the pedlar with complete equanimity. “How’s trade?”

      “Fair. Just fair. You seem to be very comfortable.”

      “Well, I needed it. Haven’t sold a pad today. This country’s going to the dogs. It’s something to come across some one now and again who has a heart.”

      “Have some jam,” said the maid, pushing his cup of tea across to the pedlar, and he helped himself liberally.

      “Well, I’m glad the missus isn’t at home in one way, but I’m sorry in another. I thought as how she might buy something, too.”

      “Well, I’m not sorry,” she said. “It’s a blessed relief. What with her airs and her tantrums, life isn’t worth living.”

      “Got a temper, has she?”

      “Well, I call it temper, but she calls it nerves. And ever since this murder affair—she was in the queue that night the man was murdered, you know. Yes, stood right up against him. And oh, what a to-do! And then she had to go to the inquest and give evidence. If she’d done the murder herself she couldn’t have kicked up a bigger fuss about going. The night before she was screaming and howling and saying she couldn’t stand it. And when the poor master tried to quiet her down she wouldn’t let him go near her. Hurling names at him you wouldn’t use to a dog. I tell you it wasn’t half a relief when she went off to Eastbourne with Miss Lethbridge—that’s her sister.”

      “Yes, the best thing they can do when they’re like that is to go away for a bit,” said the freckled man. “Does she go often?”

      “Not so often as I’d like, believe me. She was going to Yorkshire the day after the murder, and then was so upset that she couldn’t go. Now she’s gone to Eastbourne instead, and long may she stay there, say I. Let’s see your stuff,” she said to the pedlar.

      He jerked his head at the tray. “Have a look for yourself. Anything you fancy you can have cheap. It’s a long time since I had a tea like this. Wot say, Bill?”

      “Ar,” agreed his fellow-itinerant through a large mouthful of cake. “It isn’t often people has a heart.”

      She gloated over the bright-coloured collection awhile. “Well, the missus is missing something,” she said. “She’s mad on curios and such-like things that hold the dust. Artistic, she is. What’s this for?” she said, holding up the dagger. “Murdering people with?”

      “An’t you ever seen one like that before?” the pedlar said in astonishment. “That’s a paper-knife. Same as the wooden ones.”

      She tried the point absently on a fingertip, and with a queer little shudder of disgust that was quite involuntary she put it down again. In the end she chose a little painted bowl, quite useless but very gay to look upon. The pedlar let her have it for sixpence, and in her gratitude she produced cigarettes of Mr. Ratcliffe’s, and while they smoked enlivened them with talk of what was obviously uppermost in her mind—the murder.

      “We had an inspector of police here, if you’d believe it. Quite nice-looking he was. You’d never say he was a policeman. Not coarse like a bobby. But it wasn’t nice, all the same, having him round. Of course he was suspicious, with her carrying on like that and not wanting to see him. I heard Miss Lethbridge say to her, ‘Don’t be a fool, Meg. The only way to stop him is to see him and convince him. You’ve got to do it.’ ”

      “Well, Eastbourne’s a nice place,” said the freckled man. “She’ll have company there to forget her troubles.”

      “Ah, she’s not one for company much. Always having crazes for some one or other, and then she runs them to death and has some one new. Boys, as often as not. She’s queer, she is.”

      When her talk began to be repetitive instead of informative the freckled man stood up and said, “Well, miss, I an’t had such a tea, not in years, and I’m real grateful to you.”

      “You’re welcome,” she said. “If you take my advice, you’ll give up the writing-pad business. There’s nothing in it nowadays. It’s old-fashioned. Try stuff like him there—novelty stuff like they sell in the shops at Christmas-time.”

      The freckled man’s glance fell sardonically on the dagger among the “Christmas goods.” “You going up the road or down?” he said to the pedlar.

      “Up,” said the pedlar.

      “Well, cheerio, I’ll be going. Many thanks again for the tea, miss.” And the door closed behind him. Five minutes later the pedlar took his leave.

      “If I was you, miss, I wouldn’t be so free with my teas,” he said. “There’s lots of decent chaps on the road, but there’s lots of the other kind, too. You can’t be too careful when you’re alone in the house.”

      “Are you jealous of the freckly man?” she asked coquettishly and quite unimpressed. “You needn’t be. I didn’t buy a pad, you know.”

      “Well, well,” said the pedlar, frustrated in his good intentions, and went laggingly down the path to the gate.

      By sheer chance he found the freckled man occupying the front outside seat of the bus he boarded.

      “Well?” said that worthy cheerily. “Had a good day, mate?”

      “Rotten,”

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