The World's End

Mr Satterthwaite had come to Corsica because of the Duchess. It was out of his beat. On the Riviera he was sure of his comforts, and to be comfortable meant a lot to Mr Satterthwaite. But though he liked his comfort, he also liked a Duchess. In his way, a harmless, gentlemanly, old-fashioned way, Mr Satterthwaite was a snob. He liked the best people. And the Duchess of Leith was a very authentic Duchess. She was the daughter of a duke as well as the wife of one.

For the rest, she was rather a shabby-looking old lady, a good deal given to black bead trimmings on her clothes. She had quantities of diamonds in old-fashioned settings, and she wore them as her mother before her had worn them: pinned all over her indiscriminately. Someone had suggested once that the Duchess stood in the middle of the room while her maid flung brooches at her haphazard. She subscribed generously to charities, and looked well after her tenants and dependents, but was extremely mean over small sums. She cadged lifts from her friends, and did her shopping in bargain basements.

The Duchess was seized with a whim for Corsica. Cannes bored her, and she had had a bitter argument with the hotel proprietor over the price of her rooms.

"And you shall go with me, Satterthwaite," she said firmly. "We needn't be afraid of scandal at our time of life."

Mr Satterthwaite was delicately flattered. No one had ever mentioned scandal in connection with him before. He was far too insignificant. Scandal—and a Duchess—delicious.

"Picturesque, you know," said the Duchess. "Brigands—all that sort of thing. And extremely cheap, so I've heard. Manuelli was positively impudent this morning. These hotel proprietors need putting in their place. They can't expect to get the best people if they go on like this. I told him so plainly."

"I believe," said Mr Satterthwaite, "that one can fly over quite comfortably. From Antibes."

"They probably charge you a pretty penny for it," said the Duchess sharply. "Find out, will you?"

"Certainly, Duchess."

Mr Satterthwaite was still in a flutter of gratification, despite the fact that his role was clearly to be that of a glorified courier.

When she learned the price of a passage by avion, the Duchess turned it down promptly. "They needn't think I'm going to pay a ridiculous sum like that to go in one of their nasty dangerous things."

So they went by boat, and Mr Satterthwaite endured ten hours of acute discomfort. To begin with, as the boat sailed at seven, he took it for granted that there would be dinner on board. But there was no dinner. The boat was small and the sea was rough. Mr Satterthwaite was decanted at Ajaccio in the early hours of the morning more dead than alive.

The Duchess, on the contrary, was perfectly fresh. She never minded discomfort, if she could feel she was saving money. She waxed enthusiastic over the scene on the quay, with the palm trees and the rising sun. The whole population seemed to have turned out to watch the arrival of the boat, and the launching of the gangway was attended with excited cries and directions.

"That maid of mine has been sick all night," said the Duchess. "The girl's a perfect fool."

Mr Satterthwaite smiled in a pallid fashion.

"A waste of good food, I call it," continued the Duchess robustly.

"Did she get any food?" asked Mr Satterthwaite enviously.

"I happened to bring some biscuits and a stick of chocolate on board with me," said the Duchess. "When I found there was no dinner to be got, I gave the lot to her. The lower classes always make such a fuss about going without their meals."

With a cry of triumph the launching of the gangway was accomplished. A musical comedy chorus of brigands rushed aboard and wrested hand luggage from the passengers by main force.

"Come on, Satterthwaite," said the Duchess. "I want a hot bath and some coffee."

So did Mr Satterthwaite. He was not wholly successful, however. They were received at the hotel by a bowing manager and were shown to their rooms. The Duchess's had a bathroom attached. Mr Satterthwaite, however, was directed to a bath that appeared to be situated in somebody else's bedroom. To expect the water to be hot at that hour in the morning was, perhaps, unreasonable. Later he drank intensely black coffee, served in a pot without a lid. The shutters and the window of his room had been flung open, and the crisp morning air came in fragrantly. A day of dazzling blue and green.

The waiter waved his hand with a flourish to call attention to the view. "Ajaccio," he said solemnly. "Le plus beau port du monde!"

And he departed abruptly.

Looking out over the deep blue of the bay, with the snow mountains beyond, Mr Satterthwaite was almost inclined to agree with him. He finished his coffee, and lying down on the bed, fell fast asleep.

At déjeuner the Duchess was in great spirits.

"This is just what will be good for you, Satterthwaite," she said. "Get you out of all those fussy little old-maidish ways of yours." She swept a lorgnette around the room. "Upon my word, there's Naomi Carlton-Smith."

She indicated a girl sitting by herself at a table in the window, a round-shouldered girl who slouched as she sat. Her dress appeared to be made of some kind of brown sacking. She had black hair, untidily bobbed.

"An artist?" asked Mr Satterthwaite.

He was always good at placing people.

"Quite right," said the Duchess. "Calls herself one, anyway. I knew she was mooching around in some queer quarter of the globe. Poor as a church mouse, proud as Lucifer, and a bee in her bonnet like all the Carlton-Smiths. Her mother was my first cousin."

"She's one of the Knowlton lot then?"

The Duchess nodded.

"Been her own worst enemy," she volunteered. "Clever girl too. Mixed herself up with a most undesirable young man. One of that Chelsea crowd. Wrote plays or poems or something unhealthy. Nobody took 'em, of course. Then he stole somebody's jewels and got caught out. I forget what they gave him. Five years, I think. But you must remember? It was last winter."

"Last winter I was in Egypt," explained Mr Satterthwaite. "I had flu very badly the end of January, and the doctors insisted on Egypt afterward. I missed a lot."

His voice rang with a note of real regret.

"That girl seems to me to be moping," said the Duchess, raising her lorgnette once more. "I can't allow that."

On her way out, she stopped by Miss Carlton-Smith's table and tapped the girl on the shoulder. "Well, Naomi, you don't seem to remember me?"

Naomi rose rather unwillingly to her feet. "Yes, I do, Duchess. I saw you come in. I thought it quite likely you mightn't recognize me."

She drawled the words lazily, with a complete indifference of manner.

"When you've finished your lunch, come and talk to me on the terrace," ordered the Duchess.

"Very well."

Naomi yawned.

"Shocking manners," said the Duchess to Mr Satterthwaite, as she resumed her progress. "All the Carlton-Smiths have."

They had their coffee outside in the sunshine. They had been there about six minutes when Naomi Carlton-Smith lounged out from the hotel and joined them. She let herself fall slackly onto a chair with her legs stretched out ungracefully in front of her.

An odd face, with its jutting chin and deep-set gray eyes. A clever, unhappy face—a face that only just missed being beautiful.

"Well, Naomi," said the Duchess briskly. "And what are you doing with yourself?"

"Oh! I dunno. Just marking time."

"Been painting?"

"A bit."

"Show me your things."

Naomi grinned. She was not cowed by the autocrat. She was amused. She went into the hotel and came out again with a portfolio.

"You won't like 'em, Duchess," she said warningly. "Say what you like. You won't hurt my feelings."

Mr Satterthwaite moved his chair a little nearer. He was interested. In another minute he was more interested still. The Duchess was frankly unsympathetic.

"I can't even see which way up the things ought to be," she complained. "Good gracious, child, there was never a sky that color—or a sea either."

"That's the way I see 'em," said Naomi placidly.

"Ugh!" said the Duchess, inspecting another. "This gives me the creeps."

"It's meant to," said Naomi. "You're paying me a compliment without knowing it."

It was a queer vorticist study of prickly pear—just recognizable as such. Gray-green with splodges of violent color where the fruit glittered like jewels. A swirling mass of evil, fleshy—festering. Mr Satterthwaite shuddered and turned his head aside.

He found Naomi looking at him and nodding her head in comprehension.

"I know," she said. "But it is beastly."

The Duchess cleared her throat. "It seems quite easy to be an artist nowadays," she observed witheringly. "There's no attempt to copy things. You just shovel on some paint—I don't know what with, not a brush, I'm sure—"

"Palette knife," interposed Naomi, smiling broadly once more.

"A good deal at a time," continued the Duchess. "In lumps. And there you are! Everyone says, 'How clever.' Well, I've no patience with that sort of thing. Give me—"

"A nice picture of a dog and a horse, by Edward Landseer."

"And why not?" demanded the Duchess. "What's wrong with Landseer?"

"Nothing," said Naomi. "He's all right. And you're all right. The tops of things are always nice and shiny and smooth. I respect you, Duchess; you've got force; you've met life fair and square and you've come out on top. But the people who are underneath see the under side of things. And that's interesting in a way."

The Duchess stared at her. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," she declared.

Mr Satterthwaite was still examining the sketches. He realized, as the Duchess could not, the perfection of technique behind them. He was startled and delighted. He looked up at the girl.

"Will you sell me one of these, Miss Carlton-Smith?" he asked.

"You can have any one you like for five guineas," said the girl indifferently.

Mr Satterthwaite hesitated a minute or two and then he selected a study of prickly pear and aloe. In the foreground was a vivid blur of yellow mimosa; the scarlet of the aloe flower danced in and out of the picture, and inexorable, mathematically underlying the whole, was the oblong pattern of the prickly pear and the sword motif of the aloe.

He made a little bow to the girl.

"I am very happy to have secured this, and I think I have made a bargain. Some day, Miss Carlton-Smith, I shall be able to sell this sketch at a very good profit—if I want to!"

The girl leaned forward to see which one he had taken. He saw a new look come into her eyes. For the first time she was really aware of his existence, and there was respect in the quick glance she gave him.

"You have chosen the best," she said. "I—I am glad."

"Well, I suppose you know what you're doing," said the Duchess. "And I daresay you're right. I've heard that you're quite a connoisseur. But you can't tell me that all this new stuff is art, because it isn't. Still, we needn't go into that. Now I'm only going to be here a few days and I want to see something of the island. You've got a car, I suppose, Naomi?"

The girl nodded.

"Excellent," said the Duchess. "We'll make a trip somewhere tomorrow."

"It's only a two-seater."

"Nonsense, there's a dickey, I suppose, that will do for Mr Satterthwaite?"

A shuddering sigh went through Mr Satterthwaite. He had observed the Corsican roads that morning. Naomi was regarding him thoughtfully.

"I'm afraid my car will be no good to you," she said. "It's a terribly battered old bus. I bought it second-hand for a mere song. It will just get me up the hills—with coaxing. But I can't take passengers. There's quite a good garage, though, in the town. You can hire a car there."

"Hire a car," said the Duchess, scandalized. "What an idea. Who's that nice-looking man, rather yellow, who drove up in a four-seater just before lunch?"

"I expect you mean Mr Tomlinson. He's a retired Indian judge."

"That accounts for the yellowness," said the Duchess. "I was afraid it might be jaundice. He seems quite a decent sort of man. I shall talk to him."

That evening, on coming down to dinner, Mr Satterthwaite found the Duchess, resplendent in black beads and diamonds, talking earnestly to the owner of the four-seater car. She beckoned authoritatively.

"Come here, Mr Satterthwaite. Mr Tomlinson is telling me the most interesting things, and what do you think? He is actually going to take us on an expedition tomorrow in his car."

Mr Satterthwaite regarded her with admiration.

"We must go in to dinner," said the Duchess. "Do come and sit at our table, Mr Tomlinson, and then you can go on with what you were telling me."

"Quite a decent sort of man," the Duchess pronounced later.

"With quite a decent sort of car," retorted Mr Satterthwaite.

"Naughty," said the Duchess, and gave him a resounding blow on the knuckles with the dingy black fan she always carried. Mr Satterthwaite winced with pain.

"Naomi is coming too," said the Duchess. "In her car. That girl wants taking out of herself. She's very selfish. Not exactly self-centered, but totally indifferent to everyone and everything. Don't you agree?"

"I don't think that's possible," said Mr Satterthwaite slowly. "I mean, everyone's interest must go somewhere. There are, of course, the people who revolve round themselves—but I agree with you, she's not one of that kind. She's totally uninterested in herself. And yet she's got a strong character—there must be something. I thought at first it was her art—but it isn't. I've never met anyone so detached from life. That's—dangerous."

"Dangerous? What do you mean?"

"Well, you see—it must be an obsession of some kind, and obsessions are always dangerous."

"Satterthwaite," said the Duchess, "don't be a fool. And listen to me. About tomorrow—"

Mr Satterthwaite listened. It was very much his role in life.

They started early the following morning, taking their lunch with them. Naomi, who had been six months in the island, was to be the pioneer. Mr Satterthwaite went over to her as she sat waiting to start.

"You are sure that—I can't come with you," he said wistfully.

She shook her head. "You'll be much more comfortable in the back of the other car. Nicely padded seats and all that. This is a regular old rattletrap. You'd leap in the air going over the bumps."

"And then of course the hills."

Naomi laughed. "Oh! I only said that to rescue you from the dickey. The Duchess could perfectly well afford to have hired a car. She's the meanest woman in England. All the same, the old thing is rather a sport, and I can't help liking her."

"Then I could come with you after all," said Mr Satterthwaite, eagerly.

She looked at him curiously. "Why are you so anxious to come with me?"

"Can you ask?" Mr Satterthwaite made his funny old-fashioned bow.

She smiled, but shook her head. "That isn't the reason," she said thoughtfully. "It's odd. But you can't come with me—not today."

"Another day, perhaps," suggested Mr Satterthwaite politely.

"Oh! Another day!" She laughed suddenly, a very queer laugh, Mr Satterthwaite thought. "Another day! Well, we'll see."

They started. They drove through the town, and then round the long curve of the bay, winding inland to cross a river and then back to the coast with its hundreds of little sandy coves. And then they began to climb. In and out, round nerve-shattering curves, upward, ever upward on the tortuous winding road. The blue bay was far below them and, on the other side of it, Ajaccio sparkled in the sun, white like a fairy city.

In and out, in and out, with a precipice first one side of them, then the other. Mr Satterthwaite felt slightly giddy, he also felt slightly sick. The road was not very wide. And still they climbed.

It was cold now. The wind came to them straight off the snow peaks. Mr Satterthwaite turned up his coat collar and buttoned it tightly under his chin.

It was very cold. Across the water Ajaccio was still bathed in sunlight, but up here thick gray clouds came drifting across the face of the sun. Mr Satterthwaite ceased to admire the view. He yearned for a steam-heated hotel and a comfortable armchair.

Ahead of them Naomi's little two-seater drove steadily forward. Up, still up. They were on top of the world now. On either side of them were lower hills, hills sloping down to valleys. They looked straight across to the snow peaks. And the wind came tearing over them, sharp, like a knife.

Suddenly Naomi's car stopped, and she looked back.

"We've arrived," she said. "At the world's end. And I don't think it's an awfully good day for it."

They all got out. They had arrived in a tiny village, half a dozen stone cottages. An imposing name was printed in letters a foot high: Coti Chiaveeri.

Naomi shrugged her shoulders. "That's its official name, but I prefer to call it the world's end."

She walked on a few steps, and Mr Satterthwaite joined her. They were beyond the houses now. The road stopped. As Naomi had said, this was the end, the back of beyond, the beginning of nowhere. Behind them the white ribbon of the road, in front of them—nothing. Only far, far below, the sea.

Mr Satterthwaite drew a deep breath. "It's an extraordinary place. One feels that anything might happen here, that one might meet—anyone—"

He stopped, for just in front of them a man was sitting on a boulder, his face turned to the sea. They had not seen him till this moment, and his appearance had the suddenness of a conjuring trick. He might have sprung from the surrounding landscape.

"I wonder—" began Mr Satterthwaite.

But at that minute the stranger turned, and Mr Satterthwaite saw his face.

"Why, Mr Quin! How extraordinary. Miss Carlton-Smith, I want to introduce my friend Mr Quin to you. He's the most amazing fellow. You are, you know. You always turn up in the nick of time—"

He stopped, with the feeling that he had said something awkwardly significant, and yet for the life of him he could not think what it was.

Naomi had shaken hands with Mr Quin in her usual abrupt style. "We're here for a picnic," she said. "And it seems to me we shall be pretty well frozen to the bone."

Mr Satterthwaite shivered. "Perhaps," he said uncertainly. "We shall find a sheltered spot?"

"Which this isn't," agreed Naomi. "Still, it's worth seeing, isn't it?"

"Yes, indeed." Mr Satterthwaite turned to Mr Quin. "Miss Carlton-Smith calls this place the world's end. Rather a good name, eh?"

Mr Quin nodded his head slowly several times. "Yes—a very suggestive name. I suppose one only comes once in one's life to a place like that—a place where one can't go on any longer."

"What do you mean?" asked Naomi sharply.

He turned to her. "Well, usually there's a choice, isn't there? To the right or to the left. Forward or back. Here—there's the road behind you, and in front of you—nothing."

Naomi stared at him. Suddenly she shivered and began to retrace her steps toward the others. The two men fell in beside her. Mr Quin continued to talk, but his tone was now easily conversational.

"Is the small car yours, Miss Carlton-Smith?"

"Yes."

"You drive yourself? One needs, I think, a good deal of nerve to do that round here. The turns are rather appalling. A moment of inattention, a brake that failed to hold, and—over the edge—down—down—down. It would be—very easily done."

They had joined the others. Mr Satterthwaite introduced his friend. He felt a tug at his arm. It was Naomi. She drew him apart from the others.

"Who is he?" she demanded fiercely.

Mr Satterthwaite gazed at her in astonishment. "Well, I hardly know. I mean, I have known him for some years now—we have run across each other from time to time, but in the sense of knowing actually—"

He stopped. These were futilities that he was uttering, and the girl by his side was not listening. She was standing with her head bent down, her hands clenched by her sides.

"He knows things," she said. "He knows things. How does he know?"

Mr Satterthwaite had no answer. He could only look at her dumbly, unable to comprehend the storm that shook her.

"I'm afraid," she muttered.

"Afraid of Mr Quin?"

"I'm afraid of his eyes. He sees things."

Something cold and wet fell on Mr Satterthwaite's cheek. He looked up.

"Why, it's snowing," he exclaimed in great surprise.

"A nice day to have chosen for a picnic," said Naomi.

She had regained control of herself with an effort.

What was to be done? A babel of suggestions broke out. The snow came down fast and thick. Mr Quin made a suggestion and everyone welcomed it. There was a little stone Cassecroute at the end of the row of houses. There was a stampede toward it.

"You have your provisions," said Mr Quin, "and they will probably be able to make you some coffee."

It was a tiny place, rather dark, for the one little window did little toward lighting it, but from one end came a grateful glow of warmth. An old Corsican woman was just throwing a handful of branches on the fire. It blazed up and by its light the newcomers realized that others were before them.

Three people were sitting at the end of a bare wooden table. There was something unreal about the scene to Mr Satterthwaite's eye; there was something even more unreal about the people.

The woman who sat at the end of the table looked like a duchess—that is, she looked like the popular conception of a duchess. She was the ideal stage grande dame. Her aristocratic head was held high, her exquisitely dressed hair was of a snowy white. She was dressed in gray—soft draperies that fell about her in artistic folds. One long white hand supported her chin, the other was holding a roll spread with pâté de foie gras. On her right was a man with a very white face, very black hair, and horn-rimmed spectacles. He was marvelously and beautifully dressed. At the moment his head was thrown back, and his left arm was thrown out, as though he were about to declaim something.

On the left of the white-haired lady was a jolly-looking little man with a bald head. After the first glance, nobody looked at him.

There was just a moment of uncertainty, and then the Duchess (the authentic Duchess) took charge.

"Isn't this storm too dreadful," she said pleasantly, coming forward, and smiling a purposeful and efficient smile that she had found very useful when serving on welfare and other committees. "I suppose you've been caught in it just like we have? But Corsica is a marvelous place. I only arrived this morning."

The man with the black hair got up, and the Duchess with a gracious smile slipped into his seat.

The white-haired lady spoke. "We have been here a week," she said.

Mr Satterthwaite started. Could anyone who had once heard that voice ever forget it? It echoed round the stone room, charged with emotion—with exquisite melancholy. It seemed to him that she had said something wonderful, memorable, full of meaning. She had spoken from her heart.

He spoke in a hurried aside to Mr Tomlinson. "The man in spectacles is Mr Vyse—the producer, you know."

The retired Indian judge was looking at Mr Vyse with a good deal of dislike.

"What does he produce?" he asked. "Children?"

"Oh! dear me, no," said Mr Satterthwaite, shocked by the mere mention of anything so crude in connection with Mr Vyse. "Plays."

"I think," said Naomi, "I'll go out again. It's too hot in here."

Her voice, strong and harsh, made Mr Satterthwaite jump. She made, almost blindly, as it seemed, for the door, brushing Mr Tomlinson aside. But in the doorway itself she came face to face with Mr Quin, and he barred her way.

"Go back and sit down," he said.

His voice was authoritative. To Mr Satterthwaite's surprise, the girl hesitated a minute and then obeyed. She sat down at the foot of the table as far from the others as possible.

Mr Satterthwaite bustled forward and buttonholed the producer. "You may not remember me," he began. "My name is Satterthwaite."

"Of course!" A long bony hand shot out and enveloped the other's in a painful grip. "My dear man. Fancy meeting you here. You know Miss Nunn, of course?"

Mr Satterthwaite jumped. No wonder that voice had been familiar. Thousands, all over England, had thrilled to those wonderful, emotion-laden tones. Rosina Nunn! England's greatest emotional actress. Mr Satterthwaite too had lain under her spell. No one like her for interpreting a part—for bringing out the finer shades of meaning. He had thought of her always as an intellectual actress, one who comprehended and got inside the soul of her part.

He might be excused for not recognizing her. Rosina Nunn was volatile in her tastes. For twenty-five years of her life she had been a blonde. After a tour in the States, she had returned with the locks of the raven, and she had taken up tragedy in earnest. This "French Marquise" effect was her latest whim.

"Oh! by the way, Mr Judd—Miss Nunn's husband," said Vyse, carelessly introducing the man with the bald head.

Rosina Nunn had had several husbands, Mr Satterthwaite knew. Mr Judd was evidently the latest.

Mr Judd was busily unwrapping packages from a hamper at his side. He addressed his wife. "Some more pâté, dearest. That last wasn't as thick as you like it."

Rosina Nunn surrendered her roll to him, as she murmured simply, "Henry thinks of the most enchanting meals. I always leave the commissariat to him."

"Feed the brute," said Mr Judd, and laughed. He patted his wife on the shoulder.

"Treats her just as though she were a dog," murmured the melancholy voice of Mr Vyse in Mr Satterthwaite's ear. "Cuts up her food for her. Odd creatures, women."

Mr Satterthwaite and Mr Quin between them unpacked lunch. Hard-boiled eggs, cold ham, and Gruyère cheese were distributed round the table. The Duchess and Miss Nunn appeared to be deep in murmured confidences. Fragments came along in the actress's deep contralto.

"The bread must be very lightly toasted, you understand? Then just a very thin layer of marmalade. Rolled up and put in the oven for one minute—not more. Simply delicious."

"That woman lives for food," murmured Mr Vyse. "Simply lives for it. She can't think of anything else. I remember in Riders to the Sea—you know 'and it's the fine, quiet time I'll be having.' I could not get the effect I wanted. At last I told her to think of peppermint creams—she's very fond of peppermint creams. I got the effect at once—a sort of far-away look that went to your very soul."

Mr Satterthwaite was silent. He was remembering.

Mr Tomlinson opposite cleared his throat preparatory to entering into conversation.

"You produce plays, I hear, eh? I'm fond of a good play myself. Jim the Penman, now; that was a play."

"My God," said Mr Vyse, and shivered down all the long length of him.

"A tiny clove of garlic," said Miss Nunn to the Duchess. "You tell your cook. It's wonderful."

She sighed happily and turned to her husband. "Henry," she said plaintively, "I've never even seen the caviar."

"You're as near as nothing to sitting on it," returned Mr Judd cheerfully. "You put it behind you on the chair."

Rosina Nunn retrieved it hurriedly, and beamed round the table.

"Henry is too wonderful. I'm so terribly absent-minded. I never know where I've put anything."

"Like the day you packed your pearls in your sponge bag," said Henry jocosely. "And then left it behind at the hotel. My word, I did a bit of wiring and phoning that day."

"They were insured," said Miss Nunn dreamily. "Not like my opal." A spasm of exquisite heart-rending grief flitted across her face.

Several times, when in the company of Mr Quin, Mr Satterthwaite had had the feeling of taking part in a play. This illusion was with him very strongly now. This was a dream. Everyone had his part. The words "my opal" were his own cue. He leaned forward.

"Your opal, Miss Nunn?"

"Have you got the butter, Henry? Thank you. Yes, my opal. It was stolen, you know. And I never got it back."

"Do tell us," said Mr Satterthwaite.

"Well—I was born in October—so it's lucky for me to wear opals, and because of that I wanted a real beauty. I waited a long time for it. They said it was one of the most perfect ones known. Not very large—about the size of a two-shilling piece—but oh! the color and the fire."

She sighed. Mr Satterthwaite observed that the Duchess was fidgeting and seemed uncomfortable, but nothing could stop Miss Nunn now. She went on, and the exquisite inflections of her voice made the story sound like some mournful saga of old.

"It was stolen by a young man called Alec Gerard. He wrote plays."

"Very good plays," put in Mr Vyse professionally. "Why, I once kept one of his plays six months."

"Did you produce it?" asked Mr Tomlinson.

"Oh! no," said Mr Vyse, shocked at the idea. "But do you know, at one time I actually thought of doing so?"

"It had a wonderful part in it for me," said Miss Nunn. "Rachel's Children, it was called—though there wasn't anyone called Rachel in the play. He came to talk to me about it—at the theater. I liked him. He was nice-looking—and very shy, poor boy. I remember"—a beautiful far-away look stole over her face—"he brought me some peppermint creams. The opal was lying on the dressing-table. He'd been out in Australia, and he knew something about opals. He took it over to the light to look at it. I suppose he must have slipped it into his pocket then. I missed it as soon as he'd gone. There was a to-do. You remember?"

She turned to Mr Vyse.

"Oh! I remember," said Mr Vyse with a groan.

"They found the empty case in his rooms," continued the actress. "He'd been terribly hard up, but the very next day he was able to pay a large sum into his bank. He pretended to account for it by saying that a friend of his had put some money on a horse for him, but he couldn't produce the friend. He said he must have put the case in his pocket by mistake. I think that was a terribly weak thing to say, don't you? He might have thought of something better than that. I had to go and give evidence. There were pictures of me in all the papers. My press agent said it was very good publicity—but I'd much rather have had my opal back."

She shook her head sadly.

"Have some preserved pineapple?" said Mr Judd.

Miss Nunn brightened up. "Where is it?"

"I gave it to you just now."

Miss Nunn looked behind her and in front of her, eyed her gray silk pochette, and then slowly drew up a large purple silk bag that was reposing on the ground beside her. She began to turn the contents out slowly on the table, much to Mr Satterthwaite's interest.

There was a powder puff, a lipstick, a small jewel case, a skein of wool, another powder puff, two handkerchiefs, a box of chocolate creams, an enameled paper knife, a mirror, a little dark brown wooden box, five letters, a walnut, a small square of mauve crepe de Chine, a piece of ribbon, and the end of a croissant. Last of all came the preserved pineapple.

"Eureka," murmured Mr Satterthwaite softly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing," said Mr Satterthwaite hastily. "What a charming paper knife."

"Yes, isn't it? Somebody gave it to me. I can't remember who."

"That's an Indian box," remarked Mr Tomlinson. "Ingenious little things, aren't they?"

"Somebody gave me that too," said Miss Nunn. "I've had it a long time. It used always to stand on my dressing-table at the theater. I don't think it's very pretty, though, do you?"

The box was of plain dark brown wood. It pushed open from the side. On the top of it were two plain flaps of wood that could be turned round and round.

"Not pretty perhaps," said Mr Tomlinson with a chuckle. "But I'll bet you've never seen one like it."

Mr Satterthwaite leaned forward. He had an excited feeling. "Why did you say it was ingenious?" he demanded.

"Well, isn't it?"

The judge appealed to Miss Nunn. She looked at him blankly.

"I suppose I mustn't show them the trick of it—eh?"

Miss Nunn still looked blank.

"What trick?" asked Mr Judd.

"God bless my soul, don't you know?"

He looked round the inquiring faces.

"Fancy that now. May I have the box a minute? Thank you."

He pushed it open.

"Now then, can anyone give me something to put in it—not too big. Here's a small piece of Gruyère cheese. That will do capitally. I place it inside, shut the box."

He fumbled for a minute or two with his hands.

"Now see—"

He opened the box again. It was empty.

"Well, I never," said Mr Judd. "How do you do it?"

"It's quite simple. Turn the box upside down, and move the left-hand flap halfway round, then shut the right-hand flap. Now to bring our piece of cheese back again we must reverse that. The right-hand flap halfway round, and the left one closed, still keeping the box upside down. And now—Hey, presto!"

The box slid open. A gasp went round the table. The cheese was there—but so was something else. A round thing that blinked forth every color of the rainbow.

"My opal!"

It was a clarion note. Rosina Nunn stood upright, her hands clasped to her breast.

"My opal! But how did it get there?"

Henry Judd cleared his throat. "I—er—I rather think, Rosy, my girl, you must have put it there yourself."

Someone got up from the table and blundered out into the air. It was Naomi Carlton-Smith. Mr Quin followed her.

"But when? Do you mean—"

Mr Satterthwaite watched her while the truth dawned on her. It took over two minutes before she got it.

"You mean last year—at the theater."

"You know," said Henry apologetically. "You do fiddle with things, Rosy. Look at you with the caviar today."

Miss Nunn was painfully following out her mental processes. "I just slipped it in without thinking, and then I suppose I turned the box about and did the thing by accident, but then—but then—" At last it came. "But then Alec Gerard didn't steal it after all. Oh!"—a full-throated cry, poignant, moving—"how dreadful!"

"Well," said Mr Vyse, "that can be put right now."

"Yes, but he's been in prison a year." And then she startled them. She turned sharply on the Duchess. "Who is that girl—that girl who has just gone out?"

"Miss Carlton-Smith," said the Duchess, "was engaged to Mr Gerard. She—took the thing very hard."

Mr Satterthwaite stole softly away. The snow had stopped. Naomi was sitting on the stone wall. She had a sketchbook in her hand, and some colored crayons were scattered round. Mr Quin was standing beside her.

She held out the sketchbook to Mr Satterthwaite. It was a very rough affair—but it had genius. A kaleidoscopic whirl of snowflakes with a figure in the center.

"Very good," said Mr Satterthwaite.

Mr Quin looked up at the sky. "The storm is over," he said. "The roads will be slippery, but I do not think there will be any accident—now."

"There will be no accident," said Naomi. Her voice was charged with some meaning that Mr Satterthwaite did not understand. She turned and smiled at him—a sudden dazzling smile. "Mr Satterthwaite can drive back with me if he likes."

He knew then to what length desperation had driven her.

"Well," said Mr Quin, "I must bid you good-by."

He moved away.

"Where is he going?" said Mr Satterthwaite, staring after him.

"Back where he came from, I suppose," said Naomi in an odd voice.

"But—but there isn't anything there," said Mr Satterthwaite, for Mr Quin was making for that spot on the edge of the cliff where they had first seen him. "You know you said yourself it was the world's end."

He handed back the sketchbook.

"It's very good," he said. "A very good likeness. But why—er—why did you put him in fancy dress?"

Her eyes met his for a brief second.

"I see him like that," said Naomi Carlton-Smith.