things happen abroad...You may be murdered.'
'And I may be murdered in England, if that's what you plan for me.'
'Not if I'm there to open the door to strangers and send them away.'
'But why should any one want to murder me? I don't go about in sables and diamonds. And nobody's got a grudge against me.'
'There are criminal lunatics. They aren't particular.'
'But you have to encourage them first. They are usually invited home by the wretched women they murder.'
'Not in lonely places.'
'I'm not going into the woods by myself. The problem will be to find a spot in Grindelwald that's not crawling with tourists...Don't be silly, Elsie. Snap out of it.'
Miss Loveapple spoke in her briskest tone to hide the fact that she was touched by Elsie's devotion. As she looked at the pale face and flat figure, she felt a sudden pang at the thought of separation.
'If I didn't keep up three houses,' she reflected, 'I could afford a good holiday for all three of us.'
Even while she was weakening, she heard the ringing of the telephone bell inside the house. London had come through, to tell her that Major Brand would meet her about noon on the following day at her London address.
It was such convincing testimony to her powers of organisation that she closed her heart against sentiment. She decided to leave Pond House and travel up to No. 19, Madeira Crescent, London, N.W.
CHAPTER THREE. The Invisible Player
Whether she worked in the house or garden, Miss Loveapple's official wear was shorts. These were ready-made and possessed the discretion of the Boy Scout pattern, rather than the frankness of a bathing belle model. All the same, she paid tribute to local susceptibilities by buttoning a grey flannel skirt over them before she went into the village.
She had grown too used to its old-world charm to see it through the eyes of enthusiastic tourists who arrived in their cars and motor coaches. The raised pavements—darkly arcaded with trees—the numerous flights of steps, the Tudor houses on the green, the stocks and the ancient church were accepted by her merely as environment.
That afternoon, everything looked much as usual as she clumped over the little cobbled square to reach the shade of the lime avenue. It was unusually hot and most people were at home, sleeping in darkened rooms or sitting in the privacy of quiet walled gardens.
Yet, in spite of the dusty golden haze which powdered the air—as though the heat had become visible—there must have been active forces quivering behind the thick blue atmosphere. That intangible quantity—Miss Loveapple's Luck—had been threatened by a blind dive into a telephone directory.
It was on its guard against a malignant intelligence which had taken it unawares. Therefore, although Miss Loveapple met only three persons that afternoon, and in each case the conversation was of a casual nature, every contact was a move in a game played by invisible players and had its repercussion on the future.
She was accompanied by Scottie, who was delighted to take her for a walk. He showed off by covering every stretch of distance three times to her once, but he always returned to assure himself of her safety. In spite of this proof of fidelity, whenever he met another dog he ignored her completely and pretended he was out alone on his legitimate business.
Reluctantly Miss Loveapple left the shade of the leafy tunnel. She crossed the shrunken river by the hump-backed bridge and reached the green which was ringed with white chains swung between posts. It was here she met the masculine spinster of the All Hallows E'en party.
Unaffected by the heat, Miss Agatha Pitt was exercising her dogs. A felt hat was jammed down over her eyes and she wore a tailored suit of green knitwear which reproached Miss Loveapple's home-made jumper and skirt. As she raised her hand in greeting, Miss Loveapple could not keep back her news, in spite of a previous resolution to affect nonchalance.
'My luck again,' she cried triumphantly. 'I'm going to Switzerland.'
Agatha Pitt showed no sign of shock.
'I'm going to Beer,' she said. 'South Devon.'
'Nice name.'
'Isn't it? I could do with some now. But I'd swap it for—wherever it is you're going.'
'Grindelwald.'
Agatha Pitt wrinkled her nose in doubt.
'It used to be very nice, even in the summer,' she said. 'My aunts went there regularly. But they run so many popular trips now. You'll meet people.'
'I don't mind about them, as long as the mountains are the same shape. I'm going to meet them. But I haven't been there since I was a child. Can you give me any tips?'
Miss Pitt brightened at the opening.
'To begin with, you must travel light,' she advised. 'One suitcase only and a small bag for the night in the train. Have you a passport?'
'Yes, I got one when I went to Brussels, four years ago. What about clothes?'
'Your oldest.' True to type, Miss Pitt was faithful to a tradition which still lingers in select country circles. 'If you have any old rag you want to wear out, or something that's not suitable for home, now's your chance.'
'Suits me,' declared Miss Loveapple. 'The Pond House is wearing my new dress. Have you noticed the white satin curtains?'
'I have. Positively bridal.'
Agatha Pitt's sun-flushed face grew redder as she fought her natural disinclination to offer advice. To her, there was a crazy element in a scheme when the house wore a wedding garment instead of the mistress.
'I wish you'd meet someone nice in Switzerland,' she said, 'and come back engaged.'
'Why? You haven't.'
'Leave me out of it. I've missed it—but it doesn't amuse me particularly to see the other foxes running about without tails. Have you never thought of getting married?'
'Sometimes. It means a hopeful young man will expect me to live in his house and spend my money on a new car, every Olympia, and public schools for the boys. No, thanks.'
'But is it worth it?' persisted Agatha Pitt. 'Keeping up three houses, I mean. What do you get out of it?'
'A lot,' confessed Miss Loveapple. 'It's difficult to explain, but it makes me feel up in the sky. Different from other people. Tomorrow when I'm in the train I can say to myself, "I may be shabby, but I'm the only person here with three houses.'"
'Are you travelling up early, as usual?' hinted Miss Pitt.
'Yes, by the workman's train.' Miss Loveapple laughed with perfect good temper. 'Don't try to be subtle. Leave that to George Arliss. I admit there won't be much competition—but if I were travelling in a Pullman with rich people, I wouldn't
