Taken at the Flood by Agatha Christie Page A

way. Then I can find out where we stand. Go on - there's a good girl, don't argue.”
    She turned and went out of the room.
    David frowned down at the letter in his hand.
    Very non-committal - polite - well phrased - might mean anything. It might be genuine solicitude in an awkward situation. Might be a veiled threat. He conned its phrases over and over - “I have news of Captain Robert Underhay...” “Best to approach you...” “I shall be pleased to go into the matter with you...” “Mrs Cloade.” Damn it all, he didn't like those inverted commas - “Mrs Cloade”. He looked at the signature. Enoch Arden. Something stirred in his mind - some poetical memory... a line of verse.
    When David strode into the hall of the Stag that evening, there was, as was usual, no one about. A door at the left was marked Coffee Room, a door on the right was marked Lounge. A door farther along was marked repressively “For Resident Guests Only.” A passage on the right led along to the Bar, from whence a faint hum of voices could be heard. A small glass-encased box was labelled Office and had a push-bell placed conveniently on the side of its sliding window.
    Sometimes, as David knew by experience, you had to ring four or five times before any one condescended to come and attend to you. Except for the short period of meal times, the hall of the Stag was as deserted as Robinson Crusoe's island
    This time, David's third ring of the bell brought Miss Beatrice Lippencott along the passage from the bar, her hand patting her golden pompadour of hair into place. She slipped into the glass box and greeted him with a gracious smile.
    “Good evening, Mr Hunter. Rather cold weather for the time of year, isn't it?”
    “Yes - I suppose it is. Have you got a Mr Arden staying here?”
    “Let me see now,” said Miss Lippincott, making rather a parade of not knowing exactly, a proceeding she always adopted as tending to increase the importance of the Stag. “Oh, yes. Mr Enoch Arden. No. 5. On the first floor. You can't miss it, Mr Hunter. Up the stairs, and don't go along the gallery but round to the left and down three steps.”
    Following these complicated directions, David tapped on the door of No. 5 and a voice said “Come in.”
    He went in, closing the door behind him.
    Coming out of the office, Beatrice Lippincott called, “Lily.” An adenoidal girl with a giggle and pale boiled gooseberry eyes responded to the summons.
    “Can you manage for a bit, Lily? I've got to see about some linen.”
    Lily said, “Oh, yes, Miss Lippincott,” gave a giggle and added, sighing gustily: “I do think Mr Hunter's ever so good-looking, don't you?”
    “Ah, I've seen a lot of his type in the war,” said Miss Lippincott, with a world-weary air. “Young pilots and suchlike from the fighter station. Never could be sure about their cheques. Often had such a way with them that you'd cash the things against your better judgment. But, of course, I'm funny that way, Lily, what I like is class. Give me class every time. What I say is a gentleman's a gentleman even if he does drive a tractor.”
    With which enigmatic pronouncement Beatrice left Lily and went up the stairs.
    Inside room No. 5, David Hunter paused inside the door and looked at the man who had signed himself Enoch Arden.
    Fortyish, knocked about a bit, a suggestion of having come down in the world - on the whole a difficult customer. Such was David's summing up. Apart from that, not easy to fathom. A dark horse.
    Arden said:
    “Hallo - you Hunter? Good. Sit down. What'll you have? Whisky?”
    He'd made himself comfortable, David noted that. A modest array of bottles - a fire burning in the grate on this chilly Spring evening. Clothes not English cut, but worn as an Englishman wears clothes.
    The man was the right age, too...
    “Thanks,” David said, “I'll have a spot of whisky.”
    “Say When.”
    “When. Not too much soda.”
    They were a little like dogs, maneuvering for position -