The Case of Naomi Clynes by Basil Thomson Page A

dead.”
    â€œYou don’t say! What did she die of?”
    â€œThe doctor who saw her thinks it was suicide, but I believe it was murder.”
    â€œSakes alive! Why should anyone want to murder the poor thing?”
    â€œThat’s what we have to find out, and that’s why I’ve come to you. You knew her better than anybody else, I believe.”
    â€œWell, she worked with our Committee here in Paris all through the Peace Conference, and when the American troops were all demobilized, and the Committee broke up, she stayed with me for quite a time. Say, hadn’t you better read her letter to me? I can give you a copy of it if you like.”
    She went to a nest of drawers against the wall, unlocked one and took out a typed letter. Milsom read it.
    37A SEYMOUR STREET,
CHELSEA,
S.W.3.
    11th May , 1934.
    â€œ DEAR MRS. SIDMORE,
    â€œYou will be surprised to hear from me after so many years, and I do not now know whether this letter will ever reach you. I am now quite ‘on my own,’ having at last attained my greatest ambition—to try my luck as a writer. Moreover, I have had an unexpected success in getting my first mystery story accepted by a publisher on very good terms. I ought to be in the seventh heaven, but it is a little marred by a secret anxiety, which may prove to be a mare’s nest after all. I need a wise head to consult with, and naturally, remembering how good you were to me in the old days, I turn instinctively to you. When my book is launched I shall feel free to run over and inflict my troubles upon you, if you will let me. I know that one talk with you will show me what my duty is. If you write the word ‘come,’ will you find me a cheap room not too far from you?
    â€œYours ever,
    â€œ NAOMI CLYNES .”
    â€œShe had some secret trouble then?” said Milsom. 
    â€œIn London we all thought that she was the most unlikely person in the world to put an end to her life.”
    â€œSo she was when she had a worse trouble than this seems to be. You know that she was engaged to be married to an officer who was reported killed in the war. We all admired her for the courage she showed when the news reached her. She just went on with her work, a little more sad, a little more silent than she’d been before, and only once in a moment of confidence did she tell me that life was over for her; that she would have to get over the rest of it the best way she could.”
    â€œLook here, Mrs. Sidmore, I want to have a long talk with you about this, and it would take up too much time just at the moment when you are so busy.
    Will you come and dine with me at seven or so? I believe they can give one quite a passable meal at the Grand Hotel where I am staying.”
    â€œThat’s just too kind of you. You see I must look after my girls, and we have work on hand that must be finished this evening, but I’ll come on to the Grand at seven and I’ll take you to a little restaurant where they give you a real cute little dinner. I guess that I can tell you something that will surprise you.”
    At half-past seven the two sat down to the “cute little dinner” in a restaurant of the second order, where good cooking counted for more than table service. When their orders had been given, Mrs. Sidmore turned to business.
    â€œYou know I told you, Mr. Milsom, that Miss Clynes’ fiancé was reported killed. Well, as far as Miss Clynes was concerned, he was killed, but two years ago I was taking my vacation at Pourville, near Dieppe, and there in the hotel was a man whose face was strangely familiar to me. He limped just like hundreds of men who were badly wounded in the war. Whenever he passed me in the lounge the impression grew stronger, that he was Lieutenant Bryant—Miss Clynes’ fiancé. You see, during the war he was in and out of our office whenever he could get Paris leave from his Colonel, and Miss Clynes had