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open; and from the inside (characteristically, it had been hung to open outwards). The damage was seemingly not recent (although it is not easy to date such a thing); but the shattered door still hung dejectedly outward from its weighty lower hinge only, and, in fact, made it almost impossible to enter the room at all. Gingerly I forced it a little more forward. The ripped woodwork of the heavy door shrieked piercingly as I dragged at it. I looked in. The room, such as it had ever been, had been finally wrecked by the introduction of the batten partition which separated it from the bathroom and was covered with blistered dark-brown varnish. The only contents were a few decaying toys. The nursery; as I remembered from the exterior prospect. Through the gap between the sloping door and its frame I looked at the barred windows. Like everything else in the house, the bars seemed very heavy. I looked again at the toys. I observed that all of them seemed to be woolly animals. They were rotted with moth and mould; but not so much so as to conceal the fact that at least someof them appeared also to have been mutilated. There were the decomposing leg of a teddy bear, inches away from the main torso; the severed head of a fanciful stuffed bird. It was as unpleasant a scene as every other in the house.
    What had Sally been doing all day? As I had suspected, clearly not cleaning the house. There remained the kitchen quarters; and, of course, the late Doctor’s library.
    There were odd scraps of food about the basement, and signs of recent though sketchy cooking. I was almost surprised to discover that Sally had not lived on air. In general, however, the basement suggested nothing more unusual than the familiar feeling of wonder at the combined magnitude and cumbrousness of cooking operations in the homes of our middle-class great-grandfathers.
    I looked round for a candle with which to illumine the library. I even opened various drawers, bins, and cupboards. It seemed that there were no candles. In any case, I thought, shivering slightly in the descending dusk, the library was probably a job for more than a single candle. Next time I would provide myself with my father’s imposing flashlamp.
    There seemed nothing more to be done. I had not even taken off my coat. I had discovered little which was calculated to solve the mystery. Could Sally be doping herself? It really seemed a theory. I turned off the kitchen light, ascended to the ground floor, and, shutting the front door, descended again to the garden. I eyed the collapsed front gate with new suspicion. Some time later I realised that I had re-locked none of the inside doors.
     
    Next morning I called at the Cottage Hospital.
    ‘In a way,’ said Miss Garvice, ‘she’s much better. Quite surprisingly so.’
    ‘Can I see her?’
    ‘I’m afraid not. She’s unfortunately had a very restless night.’ Miss Garvice was sitting at her desk with a large yellow cat in her lap. As she spoke, the cat gazed up into her face with a look of complacent interrogation.
    ‘Not pain?’
    ‘Not exactly, I think.’ Miss Garvice turned the cat’s head downward towards her knee. She paused before saying: ‘She’s been weeping all night. And talking too. More hysterical than delirious. In the end we had to move her out of the big ward.’
    ‘What does she say?’
    ‘It wouldn’t be fair to our patients if we repeated what they say when they’re not themselves.’
    ‘I suppose not. Still—’
    ‘I admit that I cannot at all understand what’s the matter with her. With her mind, I mean, of course.’
    ‘She’s suffering from shock.’
    ‘Yes . . . But when I said “mind”, I should perhaps have said “emotions”.’ The cat jumped from Miss Garvice’s lap to the floor. It began to rub itself against my stockings. Miss Garvice followed it with her eyes. ‘Were you able to getto her house?’
    ‘I looked in for a few minutes.’
    Miss Garvice wanted to question me; but she