Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 46, No. 6. Whole No. 265, December 1965

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We have never read a story by Ursula Curtiss that did not offer a “certain something” — something all her own. Here, in our opinion, is Ursula Curtiss’ finest story in the shorter-than-novel length — a distinguished and impressive story, admirably conceived and artfully written, and with a truly memorable fillip — we doubt if you will ever quite forget the last scene, even if you try... Don’t miss this outstanding contemporary example of the literate — no, of the literary — detective-crime story...

He came back on a raw, darkly glistening day in March, but it was not at all the triumphant return he had planned. It was a hasty, off-balance thing, like being pushed rudely onto a stage before the raised trumpets had blown a single note.

Conlon’s letter — the letter that had brought him tumbling up from New York to this inhospitable part of the New England countryside — was still in his pocket. He had never liked Conlon, but the architect was Marian’s cousin and it would have looked odd, when he had the old barn remodeled, to have given the job to someone else. And now here was Conlon writing “...have been approached by friends about the possibility of renting your property here for the summer, with an option to buy. As they have a young child, they would like to drain the pond, and although I told them I was certain you would not permit this—”

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