Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. THE MIDDLE OF THINGS BY J.S. FLETCHER 1922 CONTENTS CHAPTER I FACED WITH REALITY II NUMBER SEVEN IN THE SQUARE III WHO WAS ASHTON? IV THE RING AND THE KNIFE V LOOK FOR THAT MAN! VI SPECULATIONS VII WHAT WAS THE SECRET? VIII NEWS FROM ARCADIA IX LOOKING BACKWARD X THE PARISH REGISTER XI WHAT HAPPENED IN PARIS XII THE GREY MARE INN XIII THE JAPANESE CABINET XIV THE ELLINGHAM MOTTO XV THE PRESENT HOLDER XVI THE OUTHOUSE XVII THE CLAIMANT XVIII LET HIM APPEAR! XIX UNDER EXAMINATION XX SURPRISING READINESS XXI THE MARSEILLES MEETING XXII ON REMAND XXIII IS THIS MAN RIGHT? XXIV THE BROKEN LETTER XXV THROUGH THE TELEPHONE XXVI THE DISMAL STREET XXVII THE BACK WAY XXVIII THE TRUTH XXIX WHO IS TO TELL HER? CHAPTER I FACED WITH REALITY On that particular November evening, Viner, a young gentleman of means and leisure, who lived in a comfortable old house in Markendale Square, Bayswater, in company with his maiden aunt Miss Bethia Penkridge, had spent his after-dinner hours in a fashion which had become a habit. Miss Penkridge, a model housekeeper and an essentially worthy woman, whose whole day was given to supervising somebody or something, had an insatiable appetite for fiction, and loved nothing so much as that her nephew should read a novel to her after the two glasses of port which she allowed herself every night had been thoughtfully consumed and he and she had adjourned from the dining-room to the hearthrug in the library. Her tastes, however, in Viner's opinion were somewhat, if not decidedly, limited. Brought up in her youth on Miss Braddon, Wilkie Collins and Mrs. Henry Wood, Miss Penkridge had become a confirmed slave to the sensational. She had no taste for the psychological, and nothing but scorn for the erotic. What she loved was a story which began with crime and ended with a detection--a story which kept you wondering who did it, how it was done, and when the doing was going to be laid bare to the light of day. Nothing pleased her better than to go to bed with a brain titivated with the mysteries of the last three chapters; nothing gave her such infinite delight as to find, when the final pages were turned, that all her own theories were wrong, and that the real criminal was somebody quite other than the person she had fancied. For a novelist who was so little master of his trade as to let you see when and how things were going, Miss Penkridge had little but good-natured pity; for one who led you by all sorts of devious tracks to a startling and surprising sensation she cherished a whole-souled love; but for the creator of a plot who could keep his secret alive and burning to his last few