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F. S. Maple.

Virgil fell upon the telephone.

After a maddening delay—

“Is that Mr. Maple?” he said.

“Speaking,” said a brusque voice.

“I’m Virgil Pardoner.”

“Yes?”

“The name isn’t Jane. It’s June.”

“Ah. I thought Mr. Forsyth said ‘June,’ but I wanted to see what you said. That’s splendid. She’s altered your letter, of course—changed the ‘u’ into ‘a.’ That was easy. And now we have got her—tight. All you’ve got to do is to trot out Miss June Townshend and, if she has any letters of yours—she probably has—to see that she brings them with her. There’s a train at——”

“She hasn’t,” yelled Virgil. “She hasn’t. I know she hasn’t.”

“Oh, but she may. Lots of women promise to destroy——”

“She can’t. I never wrote any. There’s—there’s no such woman.”

“No such what?” cried Maple.

“Woman,” said Virgil, calmly. Now that the murder was out, he felt much better. “You know. Female of man. June Townshend is a creation of my lightning brain. I also invented Stoughbridge, or whatever the rotten place is, complete with Rectory. I pictured an old-world garden, with a hammock and croquet-nets. Oh, and a bamboo cake-stand. June was there, feeding the aspodestras with crumbs of rock-cake. The letter, I may say, was written to substantiate the fantasy. It was a beautiful piece of prose....”

There was a long silence.

Presently—

“Are you serious?” said Maple. “I mean, d’you mean what you say?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, this is a facer,” said Maple. “Of course, I’ll do what I can, but you’ve disarmed me. If the thing’s to be kept quiet it looks as if that beautiful piece of prose——”

“Will prove extremely expensive?” said Virgil, cheerfully.

“Exactly.”

“An action for breach of promise couldn’t succeed?”

“Good heavens, no. But she’ll be a nuisance.”

“Let her,” said Virgil. “I won’t pay a blinkin’ cent.”

“But what will Miss Vulliamy say?”

“That,” said Virgil sweetly, “remains to be seen. I may tell you I wrote the letter under duress. She made me do it. Of course, if she likes to buy my literature back, she’s at liberty to do so. She’s plenty of money—or can have. Besides, it’ld be a pretty compliment. So please do nothing for me. And just acknowledge these instructions, will you? Before you lunch. I’ld like her to know the worst this afternoon.”

“Very good,” said Maple, laughing. “I’ll dictate a letter at once.”

Private.

Dear Mr. Pardoner,

I have carefully considered the conversation, which we had upon the telephone this morning, and I have come to the conclusion that, in the circumstances, your wisest course is, as you suggest, to take no further action.

Since the Miss June Townshend, to whom you addressed your letter, has never in fact existed outside your imagination, and there is, therefore, no one with whom we can confront the woman, into whose hands that letter has fallen, the only possible move we could make would be to offer to buy the document back.

As, however, your hands are perfectly clean, I agree that to make such a move would be beneath your dignity and that you can well afford to ignore such petty molestation as that to which this person may resort.

An action for breach of promise could not possibly succeed.

As I have already pointed out, her alteration of “June” to “Jane” has, in the absence of “the original,” no bearing upon the case.

Yours faithfully,

F. S. Maple.

This note and its predecessor reached Sarah Vulliamy while she was dressing to dine tête-à-tête with George Fulke.

Beyond that Sarah was unusually pensive, the dinner calls for no remark.

Exactly a month had slipped by.

There had been rain in the night, and Luchon was looking her best.

So was Mrs. Pardoner. She had just had a cold shower.

Seated upon the edge of the breakfast table, one bare leg dangling from the folds of an apricot kimono, her curls in a disorder more lovely than any array, she periodically frowned upon a letter, regarded her new wedding-ring, and gazed at the sunlight upon the mountain-side.

Presently she raised her voice.

“Virgil.”

A lapping noise in the bathroom was suspended.

“Yes, darling.”

“George Fulke says I’ve blighted his life.”

“So you have,” said Virgil.

“By not going to Dinard,” added Sarah.

“Serve him right,” said Virgil.

“He says he quite understood that ours was a marriage of convenience.”

“So it was,” said Virgil. “Great convenience.”

“But what shall I do?” said Sarah. “He says that his heart is ‘aching for a vivid, stimulating personality to fill the emptiness of life.’ ”

Her husband appeared, swathed in a bath dressing-gown.

“My dear,” he said, “it’s too easy. Take a fresh envelope and pass the letter on.”

“Who to?” said his wife.

Virgil fingered his chin.

“The trouble is,” he murmured, “I’m not quite sure of her address. I think it was Bloughbridge.”