“Yes, Mr. Pond. Good night.”
“Good night.”
His steps pattered through the entrance, sounded again loudly as he passed the window, and died away in the direction of Brownlow Street. Miss Murchison continued typing till she calculated that he was safely on the tube at Chancery Lane. Then she rose, with a quick glance round her and approached a higher tier of shelves, stacked with black deed boxes, each of which bore the name of a client in bold white letters.
Wrayburn was there, all right, but had mysteriously shifted its place. This in itself was unaccountable. She clearly remembered having replaced it, just before Christmas, on top of the pile Mortimer—Scroggins—Lord Coote—Dolby Bros. and Wingfield; and here it was, on the day after Boxing Day, at the bottom of a pile, heaped over and kept down by Bodgers—Sir J. Penkridge—Flatsby & Coaten—Trubody Ltd. and Universal Bone Trust. Somebody had been spring cleaning, apparently, over the holidays, and Miss Murchison thought it improbable that it was Mrs. Hodges.
It was tiresome, because all the shelves were full, and it would be necessary to lift down all the boxes and stand them somewhere before she could get out Wrayburn. And Mrs. Hodges would be in soon, and though Mrs. Hodges didn’t really matter, it might look odd …
Miss Murchison pulled the chair from her desk (for the shelf was rather high) and, standing on it, lifted down Universal Bone Trust. It was heavyish, and the chair (which was of the revolving kind, and not the modern type with one spindly leg and a stiffly sprung back, which butts you in the lower spine and keeps you up to your job) wobbled unsteadily, as she carefully lowered the box and balanced it on the narrow top of the cupboard. She reached up again and took down Trubody Ltd., and placed it on Bone Trust. She reached up for the third time and seized Flatsby & Coaten. As she stooped with it a step sounded in the doorway and an astonished voice said behind her:
“Are you looking for something, Miss Murchison?”
Miss Murchison started so violently that the treacherous chair swung through a quarter turn, nearly shooting her into Mr. Pond’s arms. She came down awkwardly, still clasping the black deed box.
“How you startled me, Mr. Pond! I thought you had gone.”
“So I had,” said Mr. Pond, “but when I got to the Underground I found I had left a little parcel behind me. So tiresome—I had to come back for it. Have you seen it anywhere? A little round jar, done in brown paper.”
Miss Murchison set Flatsby & Coaten on the seat of the chair and gazed about her.
“It doesn’t seem to be in my desk,” said Mr. Pond. “Dear, dear, I shall be so late. And I can’t go without it, because it’s wanted for dinner—in fact, it’s a little jar of caviar. We have guests tonight. Now, where can I have put it?”
“Perhaps you put it down when you washed your hands,” suggested Miss Murchison, helpfully.
“Well now, perhaps I did.” Mr. Pond fussed out and she heard the door of the little lavabo in the passage open with a loud creak. It suddenly occurred to her that she had left her handbag open on her desk. Suppose the skeleton keys were visible. She darted towards the bag, just as Mr. Pond returned in triumph.
“Much obliged to you for your suggestion, Miss Murchison. It was there all the time. Mrs. Pond would have been so much upset. Well, good night again.” He turned towards the door. “Oh, by the way, were you looking for something?”
“I was looking for a mouse,” replied Miss Murchison with a nervous giggle. “I was just sitting working when I saw it run along the top of the cupboard and—er—up the wall behind those boxes.”
“Dirty little beasts,” said Mr. Pond, “the place is overrun with them. I have often said we ought to have a cat here. No hope of catching it now, though. You’re not afraid of mice apparently?”
“No,” said Miss Murchison, holding her eyes, by a strenuous physical effort, on Mr. Pond’s face. If the skeleton keys were—as it seemed to her they must be—indecently exposing their spidery anatomy on her desk, it would be madness to look in that direction. “No—in your days I suppose all women were afraid of mice.”
“Yes, they were,” admitted Mr. Pond, “but then, of course, their garments were longer.”
“Rotten for them,” said Miss Murchison.
“They were very graceful in appearance,” said Mr. Pond. “Allow me to assist you in replacing those boxes.”
“You will miss your train,” said Miss Murchison.
“I have missed it already,” replied Mr. Pond, glancing at his watch. “I shall have to take the 5:30.” He politely picked up Flatsby & Coaten and climbed perilously with it in his hands to the unsteady seat of the rotatory chair.
“It’s extremely kind of you,” said Miss Murchison, watching him as he restored it to its place.
“Not at all. If you would kindly hand me up the others—”
Miss Murchison handed him Trubody Ltd., and Universal Bone Trust.
“There!” said Mr. Pond, completing the pile and dusting his hands. “Now let us hope the mouse has gone for good. I will speak to Mrs. Hodges about procuring a suitable kitten.”
“That would be a very good idea,” said Miss Murchison. “Good night, Mr. Pond.”
“Good night, Miss Murchison.”
His footsteps pattered down the passage, sounded again more loudly beneath the window and for the second time died away in the direction of Brownlow Street.
“Whew!” said Miss Murchison. She darted to her desk. Her fears had deceived her. The bag was shut and the keys invisible.
She pulled her chair back to its place and sat down as a clash of brooms and pails outside announced the arrival of Mrs. Hodges.
“Ho!” said Mrs. Hodges, arrested on the threshold at sight of the lady clerk industriously typing away, “beg your pardon, miss, but I didn’t know as how anybody was here.”
“Sorry,
