Free Into the Valley of Death by Evelyn Hervey

truly famous one, illustrated in the Rev. C. P. Wilkinson’s book. The 13th Hussars, heroes of the Charge of the Light Brigadeitself, though the man who so objected to her presence was a captain too young to have taken part in that glorious affair.
    “My dear Brackham,” she heard his companion remonstrate, “let old Pastell act as he thinks fit. He is a hero, after all.”
    “A hero, I dare say. But that’s a deuced odd thing to do.”
    She dared wait no longer. Either of the two smokers might turn his head at any moment. Or in the morning-room an impatient lady might be waiting for attention.
    But she had learnt perhaps enough. Captain Brackham. Of the 13th Hussars. A possible suspect. Yes, surely a possible suspect.
    And, mercifully, the morning-room, when she got back to it, was deserted. No long skirt had had a clumsy foot tear it in the dance. No elegant coiffure had succumbed to the energy of a waltz.
    She sank down on her little chair behind the long table and breathed more easily.
    She would give a good deal to know more about Captain Brackham. But, if he was no more than a bully unduly concerned with his dignity, was there perhaps some other officer or other gentleman visitor who would want to use more violent methods on the secret interloper?
    Barely had the thought entered her mind when from somewhere in the room behind her she heard a noise. In the room she had thought to be deserted.
    She darted a glance at the door. She had left it only just ajar, and she herself on her chair in the far corner must be out of sight of any passer-by. Between her and that means of escape lay the room’s whole width, as well as the obstacle of the long table in front of her.
    Where had that sound come from? It had been too distinct to be caused by a puff of breeze through the curtained window or even the scurry of a mouse in the wainscot.
    She sat, glued to her chair, and tried to identify the directionof the sound. The room now, certainly, was utterly quiet. Deathly quiet.
    And, yes, she thought after a little, the sound had come from behind the heavy dull red curtains across the window.
    She slowly turned her head and peered towards them. There seemed to be no sign of anybody lurking behind them waiting to strike. But, she remembered from when she had drawn the curtains herself, the window protruded a foot or so from the wall outside, leaving a space where anyone could stand unobserved.
    What should she do?
    Should she try getting to her feet, darting round the table and making for the door? But to do so would be certain to alert whoever was behind the curtains. He would leap out and could easily get between herself and the door. And then? Perhaps, if it was indeed Alfie Goode’s murderer lurking there, would he hesitate over killing again?
    She almost felt strong, unyielding hands round her throat.
    Then, on the point of making up her mind on a dash for safety after all, there came from behind the thick curtains another sound.
    A sneeze.
    And somehow it seemed to her at once that whoever was hidden there could not be any real danger. Someone who could sneeze? And, having sneezed, stay still?
    In half a dozen rapid strides, she was at the window. She seized the two halves of the curtains with both hands and flung them wide.
    Standing, back pressed against the darkened panes of the big window, hands spread to either side as if sheer wishing could cause the glass behind mysteriously to melt, was a girl of about twelve or thirteen. Miss Unwin saw at once that, though the Scotch plaid day-dress she wore was buttoned askew and though she was without stockings, she was a young lady.
    Then she remembered a remark Mrs. Perker had madewhile she had been desperately attempting to gain employment. She had complained that besides her other responsibilities she had a child to consider, General Pastell’s granddaughter.
    This must be she. The knowledge at once put Miss Unwin back into her state of governess-ship.
    “What on earth are