y a one looking backwards upon some terrible and unexpected tragedy
will have noticed with what care the great dramaturgist so wove his play
that every little unheeded event in the days before helped directly to
create the final catastrophe. It happened on this evening that Stella
went downstairs earlier than the other guests, and in going into the
library in search of an evening paper, found Sir Chichester standing by
the telephone instrument.

"Am I in your way?" she asked.

"Not a bit, Stella," he answered. "In fact, you might help me by looking
up the number I want." He raised the instrument, and playing with the
receiver as he stood erect, remarked, "Although I am happy to think that
I shall not be called upon to deliver any observations on the occasion
of the Chichester flower show next Thursday, I may as well ask one of
the newspapers if their local correspondent would give the ceremony some
little attention."

Stella Croyle took up the telephone book.

"Which newspaper is it to be, Sir Chichester?"

"The _Harpoon_, I think. Yes, I am sure. The _Harpoon_."

Stella Croyle looked up the number and read out:

"Gerrard, one, six, two, double three."

Sir Chichester accordingly called upon the trunk line and gave the
number.

"You will ring me up? Thank you," he said, and replacing the receiver,
stood in anxious expectancy.

"I thought that your favourite paper was the _Daily Flashlight_?" Stella
observed.

"That's quite true, Stella. It was," Sir Chichester explained naively.
"But I have noticed lately a regrettable tendency to indifference on the
part of the _Flashlight_. The management is usually too occupied to
converse with me when I ring it up. On the other hand, I am new to the
_Harpoon_. Hallo! Hallo! This is Sir Christopher Splay speaking," and he
delivered his message. "Thank you very much," said Sir Chichester as he
hung up the receiver. "Really most courteous people. Yes, most
courteous. What is their number, Stella? I must remember it."

Stella read it out again.

"Gerrard, one, six, two, double three," and thus she, too, committed the
number to memory.

CHAPTER XXIII

PLANS FOR THE EVENING

The library at Rackham Park was a small, oblong room, with a big window
upon the garden. It opened into the hall on the one side and into the
dining-room on the other, and in one corner the telephone was installed.
At half-past eight on the night of the dance at Harrel, this room was
empt