While She Sleeps (British Murder Mystery). Ethel Lina White

gone off fishing in Wales. But he wants a place to park his family, so I offered to O.K. one and fix things up.'

      Offended by the casual tone, Miss Loveapple looked at him, making no secret of the fact that he was under inspection. She noticed that his suit was well-cut, though shabby, and that his expensive boots were beginning to crack.

      She also noticed that he wore washable doeskin gloves.

      Elsie's warning floated into her mind as she shook her head in doubt.

      'I'm not sure that I can arrange anything with a second party,' she said. 'My house is newly decorated and furnished. So I'm naturally particular about whom I let it to. I'm sorry, but I must have a personal interview.'

      'Why?'

      'To form my own impression.'

      A smile flitted across the stranger's face.

      'Do you claim to do that?' he asked. 'Suppose I am a prospective client, instead of my brother-in-law. Just by looking at me, can you decide whether I chuck lighted cigarettes on the carpets or scribble on the wallpaper?'

      'I'm not concerned about that part of it,' she told him. 'All damage will have to be made good and every missing article replaced. I've brought a copy of the inventory for Major Brand to check.'

      'You are business-like. You see, I can sum up people, too. May I tell you something else about yourself? You have a suspicious nature. You keep me outside on the doorstep.'

      Forgetful of her resolution not to admit him, Miss Loveapple flushed.

      'Please come in,' she said hastily.

      She reproached herself for her lapse from courtesy, as she led the way to the morning-room. This gloved visitor, at least, was above suspicion, because he was Major Brand's representative. The fact that he knew all about the agent's proposition stamped his visit as an authentic mission.

      She had made a bad start which was impolitic, if she wished to benefit by the lesson of Browning's 'Twins.' She must make amends before she led him gently to the discussion of terms.

      Apart from the financial consideration, she was glad of a rare opportunity to exhibit the splendour of her London house. There was no white paint here, but sombre mahogany and rich dark colours, suggestive of stained glass, to harmonise with massive furniture. To her delight, the effect was not wasted on the young man who praised her taste with unforced enthusiasm.

      'I'll hand it to you,' he said. 'All this is vastly different from the ordinary furnished house. That's my favourite colour.' He touched a fuchsia damask curtain. 'And I adore your carpets. It must be the Persian in me.'

      'Do you really like it?' beamed Miss Loveapple.

      At that moment, she actually resembled an overgrown schoolgirl whose work had been praised by her form mistress.

      'I do. Unreservedly.'

      'I'm so glad. Do sit down. I wish I had something to offer you, but there's nothing in the house. I'm only just in.'

      'Don't you live here?'

      'Sometimes. I've just come from the country.'

      It cost Miss Loveapple a real effort to restrain herself from giving particulars of the Pond House.

      'Mean to boast,' she thought. 'Especially as he doesn't look too lucky...I wonder if it is too soon to mention the terms.'

      As she sat in silence, her deep blue eyes dreamy, the man studied her, noticing the excellent bone-structure of her face, and the amber gleams in her hair. He remarked, too, the stubbed toes of her shoes and the old-fashioned cut of her suit.

      Then he looked around him, at the luxury of the room, with its thick carpets and deep, softly-padded chairs. It was very warm and the windows were darkened by closely-drawn fuchsia net curtains, which screened a view of the opposite 'backs.' In the dim light and linked by their mutual silence they seemed to be stranded in an oasis miles distant from the roar of London traffic.

      'It is very quiet here,' he said.

      'It is,' she agreed briskly. 'It's a very great advantage.'

      'That's according to taste...Are you alone?'

      'Yes.'

      'Aren't you nervous?'

      She burst out laughing.

      'What of? I keep nothing of value here. No plate, no jewellery, no money. Burglars always get to know...Shall we talk business?'

      'That's what I am here for...What's your name?'

      'I've told you. Miss Loveapple.'

      'I mean—your Christian name.'

      As Miss Loveapple remained pointedly silent, he went on talking.

      'Is it "Flora"? It ought to be. By the way, my name is "Buckingham." I'm Mrs Brand's brother. Just connect me with a palace, if you forget.'

      'Then, Mr Buckingham, what about the terms?'

      'I'm leaving those to the agent. In my brother-in-law's interest, I must tell him to screw them down as low as possible. But if I were discussing them directly with you, it would be the other way around.'

      Miss Loveapple bit her lip with disappointment. She began to wonder whether she had bungled the interview. Instead of snubbing the young man, she should have encouraged him.

      'Do you know the date Major Brand wants to come in?' she asked.

      'Yes. He wants to move his family in on September the fourteenth. That's the date of his return to India, but he won't go until the evening.'

      'But I must see him before I go to Switzerland. I'm going to Grindelwald for a fortnight.'

      'Then you've time to work it in all right.'

      She shook her head miserably. All her schemes were constructed after the fashion of an Oriental craftsman who carves a nest of boxes, each enclosed within the other. The postponement of the date was upsetting her original plan to meet the Major and, consequently receive his cheque. This was essential to her own holiday; but, as matters now stood, she was not sure whether he would consider payment so long in advance.

      'It's customary,' she said diffidently, 'to pay rent in advance. Do you—could you arrange that with your brother-in-law?'

      'Leave it to me.' His voice was confident. 'Now we've settled the business end, might I smoke?'

      Opening his case, he offered it to her. When she refused, he took a cigarette and lit it, without removing his gloves.

      In spite of the slight flutter of her heart, she refused to feel nervous.

      'Have you hurt your hand?' she asked.

      'In a way. My fingers look rather repulsive at present. I've been doing some experimental work. Inventing some sweet little gadget for slaying my fellow men.'

      Miss Loveapple accepted his explanation with outward calm. If, for a moment, she thought wistfully of Elsie, she assured herself that it was not for moral support, or protection, but rather that she might ring for the maid to show Mr Buckingham the front door.

      At that moment, she was conscious of two desires at conflict. One was disturbing, because it was treachery to her own standard of independence. She admitted to herself that she was definitely conscious of this young man and responsive to his personality. She wanted to remain with him in this dim warmth and let their mutual attraction develop into intimacy.

      The other desire was partly subconscious, but it swayed her will with the force of a deep-sea current.

      She must get rid of this young man at once.

      'When may I expect the cheque?' she asked in a level voice.

      'I can't tell you that off-hand,' replied Buckingham. 'I shall have to wait until I get an address from Brand, before I can write to him about it. Of course, it must be made out to the agent.'

      Miss