Twenty-five
I found it hard to shake off the impression left by the anonymous¹ letter. Pitch soils.
However, I gathered up the other three letters, glanced at my watch, and started out.
I wondered very much what this might be that had “come to the knowledge” of three ladies simultaneously². I tookit to be the same piece of news. In this, I was to realize that my psychology³ was at fault.
I cannot pretend that my calls took me past the police station. My feet gravitated there of their own accord. I wasanxious to know whether Inspector⁴ Slack had returned from Old Hall.
I found that he had, and further, that Miss Cram⁵ had returned with him. The fair Gladys was seated in the policestation carrying off matters with a high hand. She denied absolutely having taken the suitcase to the woods.
“Just because one of these gossiping old cats had nothing better to do than look out of her window all night you goand pitch upon me. She’s been mistaken once, remember, when she said she saw me at the end of the lane on theafternoon of the murder, and if she was mistaken then, in daylight, how can she possibly have recognized me bymoonlight?
“Wicked it is, the way these old ladies go on down here. Say anything, they will. And me asleep in my bed asinnocent as can be. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, the lot of you.”
“And supposing the landlady⁶ of the Blue Boar identifies the suitcase as yours, Miss Cram?”
“If she says anything of the kind, she’s wrong. There’s no name on it. Nearly everybody’s got a suitcase like that.
As for poor Dr. Stone, accusing him of being a common burglar! And he has a lot of letters after his name.”
“You refuse to give us any explanation, then, Miss Cram?”
“No refusing about it. You’ve made a mistake, that’s all. You and your meddlesome⁷ Marples. I won’t say a wordmore—not without my

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