THE MIDDLE OF THINGS

CONTENTS

CHAPTER


I FACED WITH REALITY

II NUMBER SEVEN IN THE SQUARE

III WHO WAS ASHTON?

IV THE RING AND THE KNIFE

V LOOK FOR THAT MAN!

VI SPECULATIONS

VII WHAT WAS THE SECRET?

VIII NEWS FROM ARCADIA

IX LOOKING BACKWARD

X THE PARISH REGISTER

XI WHAT HAPPENED IN PARIS

XII THE GREY MARE INN

XIII THE JAPANESE CABINET

XIV THE ELLINGHAM MOTTO

XV THE PRESENT HOLDER

XVI THE OUTHOUSE

XVII THE CLAIMANT

XVIII LET HIM APPEAR!

XIX UNDER EXAMINATION

XX SURPRISING READINESS

XXI THE MARSEILLES MEETING

XXII ON REMAND

XXIII IS THIS MAN RIGHT?

XXIV THE BROKEN LETTER

XXV THROUGH THE TELEPHONE

XXVI THE DISMAL STREET

XXVII THE BACK WAY

XXVIII THE TRUTH

XXIX WHO IS TO TELL HER?




CHAPTER I

FACED WITH REALITY


On that particular November evening, Viner, a young gentleman of means
and leisure, who lived in a comfortable old house in Markendale Square,
Bayswater, in company with his maiden aunt Miss Bethia Penkridge, had
spent his after-dinner hours in a fashion which had become a habit. Miss
Penkridge, a model housekeeper and an essentially worthy woman, whose
whole day was given to supervising somebody or something, had an
insatiable appetite for fiction, and loved nothing so much as that her
nephew should read a novel to her after the two glasses of port which she
allowed herself every night had been thoughtfully consumed and he and she
had adjourned from the dining-room to the hearthrug in the library. Her
tastes, however, in Viner's opinion were somewhat, if not decidedly,
limited. Brought up in her youth on Miss Braddon, Wilkie Collins and Mrs.
Henry Wood, Miss Penkridge had become a confirmed slave to the
sensational. She had no taste for the psychological, and nothing but
scorn for the erotic. What she loved was a story which began with crime
and ended with a detection--a story which kept you wondering who did it,
how it was done, and when the doing was going to be laid bare to the
light of day. Nothing pleased her better than to go to bed with a brain
titivated with the mysteries of the last three chapters; nothing gave her
such infinite delight as to find, when the final pages were turned, that
all her own theories were wrong, and that the real criminal was somebody
quite other than the person she had fancied. For a novelist who was so
little master of his trade as to let you see when and how things were
going, Miss Penkridge had little but good-natured pity; for one who led
you by all sorts of devious tracks to a startling and surprising
sensation she cherished a whole-souled love; but for the creator of a
plot who could keep his secret alive and burning to his last few
sentences she felt the deepest thing that she could give to any human
being--respect. Such a master was entered permanently on her mental
library list.