What he did _not_ like was the interpretation offered by his family and his friends, who at once decided that the work was the autobiography of John Antony. You see, the scene was laid in London, and John lived in London; the murdered girl was a typist, and there were two typists in John’s office; and, to crown all, the villian in the book had a boar-hound, and John himself had a Skye terrier. The thing was as plain as could be. Men he met in the City said, “How’s that boar-hound of yours?” or “I like that bit where you hit the policeman. When did you do that?” “_You_,” mark you. Old friends took him aside and whispered, “Very sorry to hear you don’t hit it off with Mrs. Grunch; I always thought you were such a happy couple.” His wife’s family said, “Poor Gladys! what a life she must have had!” His own family said, “Poor John! what a life she must have led him to make him go off with that adventuress!” Several people identified the adventuress as Miss Crook, the Secretary of the local Mother’s Welfare League, of which John was a vice-president. The fog of suspicion swelled and spread and penetrated into every cranny and level of society. No servants would come near the house, of if they did they soon stumbled on a copy of the shocker while doing the drawing-room, read it voraciously and rushed screaming out of the front door. When he took a parcel of washing to the post-office the officials refused to accept it until he had opened it and shown that there were no bodies in it. The animal kingdom is very sensitive to the suspicion of guilt. John noticed that dogs avoided him, horses neighed at him, earwigs fled from him in horror, caterpillars madly spun themselves into cocoons as he approached, owls hooted, snakes hissed. Only Mrs. Grunch remained faithful. But one morning at breakfast Mrs. Grunch said, “Pass the salt, please, John.” John didn’t hear. He was reading a letter. Mrs. Grunch said again, “Pass the salt, please, John.” John was still engrossed. Mrs. Grunch wanted the salt pretty badly, so she got up and fetched it. As she did so she noticed that the handwriting of the letter was the handwriting of A Woman. Worse, it was written on the embossed paper of the Mother’s Welfare League. It must be from Miss Crook. _And it was._ It was about the annual outing. “Ah, ha!” said Mrs. Grunch. (I am afraid that “Ah, ha!” doesn’t really convey to you the sort of sound she made, but you must just imagine.) “Ah, ha! So _that_’s why you couldn’t pass the salt!”