The Middle of Things

The Middle of Things, by
Fletcher

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Title: The Middle of Things
Author: J. S. Fletcher
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THE MIDDLE OF THINGS
BY J.S. FLETCHER
1922

CONTENTS
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 sentences she felt the
deepest thing that she could give to any human being--respect. Such a
master was entered permanently on her mental library list.
At precisely ten o'clock that evening Viner read the last page of a novel
which had proved to be exactly suited to his aunt's tastes. A dead
silence fell on the room, broken only by the crackling of the logs in the
grate. Miss Penkridge dropped her knitting on her silk-gowned knees
and stared at the leaping flames; her nephew, with an odd glance at her,
rose from his easy-chair, picked up a