And after a time I felt that, however mistaken Maggie had been about her night’s sleep, she was possibly correct about the horse.

“He started to run about the stable somewhere,” she said.  “You can smile if you want.  That’s the heaven’s truth.  And he came down the drive on the jump and out onto the road.”

“We can go and look for hoof-marks,” I said, and rose.  But Maggie only shook her head.

“It was no real horse, Miss Agnes,” she said.  “You’ll find nothing.  Anyhow, I’ve been and looked.  There’s not a mark.”

But Maggie was wrong.  I found hoof-prints in plenty in the turf beside the drive, and a track of them through the lettuce-bed in the garden.  More than that, behind the stable I found where a horse had been tied and had broken away.  A piece of worn strap still hung there.  It was sufficiently clear, then, that whoever had broken into the house had come on horseback and left afoot.  But many people in the neighborhood used horses.  The clue, if clue it can be called, got me nowhere.

IV

For several days things remained in statu quo.  Our lives went on evenly.  The telephone was at our service, without any of its past vagaries.  Maggie’s eyes ceased to look as if they were being pushed out from behind, and I ceased to waken at night and listen for untoward signs.

Willie telephoned daily.  He was frankly uneasy about my remaining there.  “You know something that somebody resents your knowing,” he said, a day or two after the night visitor.  “It may become very uncomfortable for you.”

And, after a day or two, I began to feel that it was being made uncomfortable for me.  I am a social being; I like people.  In the city my neighborly instincts have died of a sort of brick wall apathy, but in the country it comes to life again.  The instinct of gregariousness is as old as the first hamlets, I daresay, when prehistoric man ceased to live in trees, and banded together for protection from the wild beasts that walked the earth.

The village became unfriendly.  It was almost a matter of a night.  One day the postmistress leaned on the shelf at her window and chatted with me.  The next she passed out my letters with hardly a glance.  Mrs. Graves did not see me at early communion on Sunday morning.  The hackman was busy when I called him.  It was intangible, a matter of omission, not commission.  The doctor’s wife, who had asked me to tea, called up and regretted that she must go to the city that day.

I sat down then and took stock of things.  Did the village believe that Miss Emily must be saved from me?  Did the village know the story I was trying to learn, and was it determined I should never find out the truth?  And, if this were so, was the village right or was I?  They would save Miss Emily by concealment, while I felt that concealment had failed, and that only the truth would do.  Did the village know, or only suspect?  Or was it not the village at all, but one or two people who were determined to drive me away?