Taken at the Flood by Agatha Christie Page A

always do, David.”
    He laughed. “Yes, you always do. We’ll snap out of this, never you fear. I’ll find a way of scotching Mr. Enoch Arden.”
    â€œWasn’t there a poem, David—something about a man coming back—”
    â€œYes.” He cut her short. “That’s just what worries me…But I’ll get to the bottom of things, never you fear.”
    She said:
    â€œIt’s Tuesday night you—take him the money?”
    He nodded.
    â€œFive thousand. I’ll tell him I can’t raise the rest all at once. But I must stop him going to the Cloades. I think that was only a threat, but I can’t be sure. ”
    He stopped, his eyes became dreamy, far away. Behind them his mind worked, considering and rejecting possibilities.
    Then he laughed. It was a gay reckless laugh. There were men, now dead, who would have recognized it….
    It was the laugh of a man going into action on a hazardous and dangerous enterprise. There was enjoyment in it and defiance.
    â€œI can trust you, Rosaleen,” he said. “Thank goodness I can trust you absolutely!”
    â€œTrust me?” She raised her big inquiring eyes. “To do what?”
    He smiled again.
    â€œTo do exactly as you are told. That’s the secret, Rosaleen, of a successful operation.”
    He laughed:
    â€œOperation Enoch Arden.”

Eleven
    R owley opened the big mauve envelope with some surprise. Who on earth, he wondered, could be writing to him, using that kind of stationery—and how did they manage to get it, anyway? These fancy lines had surely gone right out during the war.
    â€œDear Mr. Rowley,” he read,
    â€œI hope you won’t think I’m taking a liberty in writing to you this way, but if you’ll excuse me, I do think there are things going on that you ought to know about.”
    He noted the underlining with a puzzled look.
    â€œArising out of our conversation the other evening when you came in asking about a certain person. If you could call in at the Stag I’d be very glad to tell you all about it. We’ve all of us felt down here whata wicked shame it was about your Uncle dying and his money going the way it did.
    â€œHoping you won’t be angry with me, but I really do think you ought to know what’s going on.
    â€œYours ever,
“Beatrice Lippincott.”
    Rowley stared down at this missive, his mind afire with speculation. What on earth was all this about? Good old Bee. He’d known Beatrice all his life. Bought tobacco from her father’s shop and passed the time of day with her behind the counter. She’d been a good-looking girl. He remembered as a child hearing rumours about her during an absence of hers from Warmsley Vale. She’d been away about a year and everybody said she’d gone away to have an illegitimate baby. Perhaps she had, perhaps she hadn’t. But she was certainly highly respectable and refined nowadays. Plenty of backchat and giggles, but an almost painful propriety.
    Rowley glanced up at the clock. He’d go along to the Stag right away. To hell with all those forms. He wanted to know what it was that Beatrice was so anxious to tell him.
    It was a little after eight when he pushed open the door of the saloon bar. There were the usual greetings, nods of the head, “Evening, sir.” Rowley edged up to the bar and asked for a Guinness. Beatrice beamed upon him.
    â€œGlad to see you, Mr. Rowley.”
    â€œEvening, Beatrice. Thanks for your note.”
    She gave him a quick glance.
    â€œI’ll be with you in a minute, Mr. Rowley.”
    He nodded—and drank his half pint meditatively whilst hewatched Beatrice finish serving out. She called over her shoulder and presently the girl Lily came in to relieve her. Beatrice murmured, “If you’ll come with me, Mr. Rowley?”
    She led him along a passage and in through a door marked Private. Inside it was very small and