Also available in Large Print
by Agatha Christie:
.The A.B.C. Murders
The Body in the Library
, The Boomerang Clue
Crooked House
Evil Under the Sun
Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories
A Murder is Announced
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
^Peril at End House
The Secret Adversary
Three Blind Mice and Other Stories
^Towards Zero
Witness for the Prosecution
The Patriotic Murders
. The Murder at the Vicarage
The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories
.-Mr. Porker Pyne, Detective
. Endless Night
. The Moving Finger
MURDER IN THREE RG5
G.I^HALL&CO.
Boston, Massachusetts
10SO
Copyright © 1934, by Agatha Christie Limited.
Copyright renewed 1961, by Agatha Christie Limited.
All rights reserved.
Published in Large Print by arrangement with
the Putnam Publishing Group, Inc.
G.K. Hall Large Print Book Series.
Set in 18 pt. Plantin.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Christie, Agatha, 18901976.
Murder in three acts.
(G.K. Hall large print book series)
1. Large type books. I. Tide.
[PR6005.H66M8447 1989] 823'.912 8831960
ISBN 0-8161-4569-5 (Ig. print)
ISBN 0-8161-4570-9 (pbk. : Ig. print)
Contents
first act: Suspicion
second act: Certainty
third act: Discovery
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MURDER IN THREE RC75
First Act
Suspicion
One
mr. satterthwaite sat on the terrace of
Crow's Nest and watched his host. Sir
Charles Cartwright, climbing up the path
from the sea. Crow's Nest was a modern
bungalow of the better type. It had no half
timbering, no gables, no excrescences dear to
many a builder's heart. It was a plain, white, solid building, deceptive as to size, since it
was a good deal bigger than it looked. It
owed its name to its position, high up, overlooking
the harbor of Loomouth. Indeed, from one corner of the terrace, protected by
a strong balustrade, there was a sheer drop
to the sea below. By road. Crow's Nest was a
mile from the town. The road ran inland and
fr
j then zigzagged high up above the sea. On
{ foot it was accessible in seven minutes by the
steep fisherman's path that Sir Charles
Cartwright was ascending at this minute.
Sir Charles was a well-built, sunburned
nan of middle age. He wore old, gray-flannel
rousers and a white sweater. He had a >lightly rolling gait, and carried his hands half closed as he walked. Nine people out of
Len would say, "Retired naval man, can't
mistake the type." The tenth and more discerning
would have hesitated, puzzled by
something indefinable that did not ring true.
And then perhaps a picture would rise
unsought--the deck of a ship, but not a real
ship--a ship curtailed by hanging curtains
of thick, rich material--a man, Charles
Cartwright, standing on that deck, light that
was not sunlight streaming down on him, the hands half clenched, the easy gait and a
voice--the easy, pleasant voice of an English
sailor and gentleman--a great deal magnified
in tone.
"No, sir," Charles Cartwright was saying, "I'm afraid I can't give you any answer to
that question."
And swish fell the heavy curtains, up
sprang the lights, an orchestra plunged into
the latest syncopated measure, girls with exaggerated
bows in their hair said, "Chocolates?
Lemonade?" The first act of The Call
of the Sea, with Charles Cartwright as Corn^
'- ^<-» \ /<-»*"»<-»-*-/'», *-k a w-r^^i ^-k.w-TJ^**
»"<-/^»%Z^ TTTQO f\\7f^f*
From his post of vantage, looking down, | Mr. Satterthwaite smiled.
A dried-up little pipkin of a man, Mr.
Satterthwaite, a patron of art and the drama, a determined but pleasant snob, always included
in the more important house parties
and social functions--the words "and Mr.
Satterthwaite" appeared invariably at the tail
of a list of guests. Withal, a man of consider-
Iable intelligence and a very shrewd observer
of people and things.
He murmured now, shaking his head, "I
wouldn't have thought it. No, really, I
wouldn't have thought it."
A step sounded on the terrace, and he
turned his head. The big, gray-haired man
who drew a chair forward and sat down had
his profession clearly stamped on his keen, kindly, middle-aged face. "Doctor" and
"Harley Street." Sir Bartholomew Strange
had succeeded in his profession. He was a
well-known specialist in nervous disorders
and had recently received a knighthood in
the birthday-honors list.
<He drew his chair forward beside that of
Mr. Satterthwaite and said: "What wouldn't
you have thought, eh? Let's have it."
With a smile, Mr. Satterthwaite drew attention to the figure below, rapidly ascending
the path.
"I shouldn't have thought Sir Charles
would have remained contented so long in--
er--exile."
"By Jove, no more should I!" The other
laughed, throwing back his head. "I've
known Charles since he was a boy. We were
at Oxford together. He's always been the
same--a better actor in private life than on
the stage' Charles is always acting. He can't
help it; it's second nature to him. Charles
doesn't go out of a room; he "makes an exit,'
and he usually has to have a good line to
make it on. All the same, he likes a change
of part--none better. Two years ago he retired
from the stage--said he wanted to live
a simple country life, out of the world, and
indulge his old fancy for the sea. He comes
down here and builds this place. His idea of
a simple country cottage. Three bathrooms
and all the latest gadgets! I was like you, Satterthwaite. I didn't think it would last.
After all, Charles is human; he needs his
audience. Two or three retired captains, a
bunch of old women and a parson--that's
not much of a house to play to. I thought
the 'simple fellow with his love of the sea' xi7^,,i/i »,,„ f^y ^ rnnnrhs. Then, frankly, I
thought he'd tire of the part. I thought the
next thing to fill the bill would be the weary
man of the world at Monte Carlo, or possibly
a laird in the highlands--he's versatile, Charles is."
The doctor stopped. It had been a long
speech. His eyes were full of affection and
amusement as he watched the man below. In
a couple of minutes he would be with them.
"However," Sir Bartholomew went on, "it
seems we were wrong. The attraction of the
simple life holds."
"A man who dramatizes himself is sometimes
misjudged," pointed out Mr. Satterthwaite.
"One does not take his sincerities
seriously."
The doctor nodded.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "that's true."
With a cheerful hallo, Charles Cartwright
ran up the steps onto the terrace.
"Mirabelle surpassed herself," he said.
"You ought to have come, Satterthwaite."
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. He had
suffered too often crossing the Channel to
have any illusions about the strength of his
stomach afloat. He had observed the
Mirabelle from his bedroom window that
morning. There had been a stiff sailing
breeze, and Mr. Satterthwaite had thanked
heaven devoutly for dry land.
Sir Charles called for drinks.
"You ought to have come, Tollie," he said
to his friend. "Don't you spend half your life
sitting in Harley Street telling your patients
how good a life on the ocean wave would be
for them?"
"The great merit of being a doctor," said
Sir Bartholomew, "is that you are not obliged
to follow your own advice."
Sir Charles laughed. He was still unconsciously
playing his part--the bluff, breezy, naval man. He was an extraordinarily goodlooking
man, beautifully proportioned, with
a lean, humorous face, and the touch of gray
at his temples gave him a kind of added
distinction. He looked like what he was--a
gentleman first and an actor second.
"Did you go alone?" asked the doctor.
"No"--Sir Charles turned to take his drink
from a smart parlor maid who was holding a
tray--"I had a hand. The girl Egga to be
exact."
There was something--some faint trace of
self-consciousness--in his voice which made
Mr. Satterthwaite look up sharply.
"Miss Lytton Gore? She knows something
aKnnt coiling doesn't she?"
Sir Charles laughed rather ruefully.
"She succeeds in making me feel a complete
landlubber, but I'm coming on, thanks
to her."
Thoughts slipped quickly in and out of
Mr. Satterthwaite's mind:
"I wonder . . . Egg Lytton Gore. . . .
Perhaps that's why he hasn't tired of the
place. She's very attractive."
Sir Charles went on, "The sea--there's
nothing like it. Sun and wind and sea, and a
simple shanty to come home to."
And he looked with pleasure at the white
building behind him, equipped with three
bathrooms, hot and cold water in all the
bedrooms, the latest system of central heating,
the newest electrical fittings and a staff
of parlor maid, housemaid, chef, and kitchen
maid. Sir Charles' interpretation of simple
living was, perhaps, a trifle exaggerated.
A tall and exceedingly ugly woman issued
from the house and bore down upon them.
"Good morning. Miss Milray."
"Good morning. Sir Charles. Good moming."
A slight inclination of the head toward
the other two. "This is the menu for dinner.
I don't know whether you would like it altered
in any way."
Sir Charles took it and murmured:
"Let's see. Melon cantaloupe, borsch soup, fresh mackerel, grouse, souffle Surprise, canape Diane. . . . No, I think that will do
excellently. Miss Milray. Everyone is coming
by the 4:30 train."
"I have already given Holgate his orders.
By the way. Sir Charles, if you will excuse
me, it would be better if I dined with you
tonight."
Sir Charles looked startled, but said courteously:

"Delighted, I am sure. Miss Milray, but--

er?»


Miss Milray proceeded calmly to explain:
"Otherwise, Sir Charles, it would make thirteen
at table. And so many people are superstitious."

From her tone, it could be gathered that
Miss Milray would have sat down thirteen to
dinner every night of her life without the
slightest qualm. She went on:
"I think everything is arranged. I have
told Holgate that the car is to fetch Lady
Mary and the Babbingtons. Is that right?"
"Absolutely. Just what I was going to ask
you to do."
With a slight, superior smile on her rugged
countenance. Miss Milray withdrew.
T'l-iat ?? coirl ^ir r^1-iar1f»<: r^-wrpntlv. "is a
very remarkable woman. I'm always afraid
she'll come and brush my teeth for me."
"Efficiency personified," said Strange.
"She's been with me for six years," said
Sir Charles. "First as my secretary in London,
and here, I suppose, she's a kind of
glorified housekeeper. Runs this place like
clockwork. And now, if you please, she's
going to leave."
"Why?"
"She says"--Sir Charles rubbed his nose
dubiously--"she says she's got an invalid
mother. Personally, I don't believe it. That
kind of woman never had a mother at all.
Spontaneously generated from a dynamo. No, there's something else."
"Quite probably," said Sir Bartholomew, "people have been talking."
"Talking?" The actor stared. "Talking
what about?"
"My dear Charles, you know what talking
means."
"You mean talking about her--and me?
With that face? And at her age?"
"She's probably under fifty."
"I suppose she is." Sir Charles considered
the matter. "But seriously, Tollie, have you
noticed her face? It's got two eyes, a nose
and a mouth, but it's not what you would
call a face--not a female face. The most
scandal-loving cat in the neighborhood
couldn't seriously connect scandal with a face
like that."
"You underrate the imagination of the
British spinster."
Sir Charles shook his head.
"I don't believe it. There's a kind of hideous
respectability about Miss Milray that
even a British spinster must recognize. She is
virtue and respectability personified, and a
useful woman. I always choose my secretaries
plain as sin."
"Wise man."
Sir Charles remained deep in thought for
some minutes. To distract him. Sir Bartholomew
asked:
"Who's coming this afternoon?"
"Angle, for one."
"Angela Sutcliffe? That's good."
Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward interestediy,
keen to know the composition of the
house party. Angela Sutcliffe was a wellknown
actress, no longer young, but with a
strong hold on the public, and celebrated for
her wit and charm. She was sometimes spoken
of as Ellen Terry's successor.
"Then there are the Dacres."
Ao-niti \j{v Q'ai-1-^rtl-iwQit^ nnddpd to himself. Mrs. Dacres was Ambrosine, Ltd.--
that successful dressmaking establishment.
You saw it on programs: "Miss Blank's
dresses in first act by Ambrosine, Ltd., Bruton Street." Her husband. Captain
Dacres, was a dark horse, in his own racing
parlance. He spent a lot of time on race
courses--had ridden himself in the Grand
National in years gone by. There had been
some trouble--nobody knew exactly what, though rumors had been spread about. There
had been no inquiry, nothing overt, but, somehow, at mention of Freddie Dacres people's
eyebrows went up a little.
"Then there's Anthony Astor, the playwright."

"Of course," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "she
wrote One-Way Traffic. I saw it twice. It
made a great hit."
He rather enjoyed showing that he knew
that Anthony Astor was a woman.
"That's right," said Sir Charles. "I forget
what her real name is--Wills, I think. I've only met her once. I asked her to please
Angela. That's the lot--of the house party, I
mean."
"And the locals?" asked the doctor.
"Oh, the locals! Well, there are the
Babbingtons; he's the parson; quite a good
fellow, not too parsonical, and his wife's a
really nice woman. Lectures me on gardening.
They're coming--and Lady Mary and
Egg. That's all. ... Oh, yes, there's a young
fellow called Manders; he's a journalist, or
something. Good-looking young fellow. That
completes the party."
Mr. Satterthwaite was a man of methodical
nature. He counted heads.
"Miss Sutcliffe, one; the Dacres, three;
Anthony Astor, four; Lady Mary and her
daughter, six; the parson and his wife, eight;
the young fellow, nine; ourselves, twelve.
Either you or Miss Milray must have counted
wrong. Sir Charles."
"It couldn't be Miss Milray," said Sir
Charles, with assurance; "that woman's never
wrong. Let me see. Yes, by Jove, you're
right. I have missed out one guest. He'd
slipped my memory." He chuckled.
"Wouldn't be best pleased at that either.
The fellow is the most conceited little devil I
ever met."
Mr. Satterthwaite's eyes twinkled. He had
always been of the opinion that the vainest
men in creation were actors. He did not
exempt Sir Charles Cartwright. This instance
of the pot calling the kettle black amused
him"Who is the egoist?" he asked.
"Rum little beggar," said Sir Charles.
"Rather a celebrated little beggar though.
You may have heard of him. Hercule Poirot.
He's a Belgian."
"The detective," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"I have met him. Rather a remarkable personage."

"He's a character," said Sir Charles.
"I've never met him," said Sir
Bartholomew, "but I've heard a good deal
about him. He retired some time ago, though, didn't he? Probably most of what I've heard
is legend. Well, Charles, I hope we shan't
have a crime this weekend."
"Why? Because we've got a detective in
the house? Rather putting the cart before the
horse, aren't you, Tollie?"
"Well, it's by way of being a theory of
mine."
"WTiat is your theory, doctor?" asked Mr.
Satterthwaite.
"That events come to people, not people
to events. Why do some people have exciting
lives and other people dull ones? Because of
their surroundings? Not at all. One man may
travel to the ends of the earth and nothing
will happen to him. There will be a massacre
a week before he arrives, and an earthquake
the day after he leaves, and the boat that he
nearly took will be shipwrecked. And another
man may live at Balham and travel to
the City every day, and things will happen to
him. He will be mixed up with blackmailing
gangs and beautiful girls and motor bandits.
There are people with a tendency to shipwrecks--even
if they go on a boat on an
ornamental lake, something will happen to
it. In the same way, men like your Hercule
Poirot don't have to look for crime; it comes
to them."
"In that case," said Mr. Satterthwaite,
"perhaps it is as well that Miss Milray is
joining us and that we are not sitting down
thirteen to dinner."
"Well," said Sir Charles handsomely, "you
can have your murder, Tollie, if you're so
keen on it. I make only one stipulation--that
I shan't be the corpse."
And, laughing, the three men went into
the house.
Two
Murder in Three Acts
the principal interest of Mr. Satterthwaite's
life was people. He was, on the whole, more
interested in women than in men. For a
manly man, Mr. Satterthwaite knew far too
much about women. There was a womanish
strain in his character which lent him insight
into the feminine mind. Women all his life
had confided in him, but they had never
taken him seriously. Sometimes he felt a little
bitter about this. He was, he felt, always
in the stalls watching the play, never on the
stage taking part in the drama. But, in truth, the role of onlooker suited him very well.
This evening, sitting in the large room
giving onto the terrace, cleverly decorated by
a modem firm to resemble a ship's cabin de
luxe, he was principally interested in the exact
shade of hair dye attained by -Cynthia
Dacres. It was an entirely new tone--straight
from Paris, he suspected--a curious and
rather pleasing effect of greenish bronze.
What Mrs. Dacres really looked like, it was
impossible to tell. She was a tall woman, with a figure perfectly disciplined to the demands
of the moment. Her neck and arms
were her usual shade of summer tan for the
country; whether naturally or artificially produced
it was impossible to tell. The greenishbronze
hair was set in a clever and novel
style that only London's best hairdresser
could achieve. Her plucked eyebrows, darkened
lashes, exquisitely made-up face, and
mouth lipsticked to a curve that its naturally
straight lines did not possess, seemed all adjuncts
to the perfection of her evening gown
of a deep and unusual blue, cut very simply, it seemed--though this was ludicrously far
from the case--and of an unusual material--
dull, but with hidden lights in it.
"That's a clever woman," said Mr.
Satterthwaite, eyeing her with approval. "I
wonder what she's really like."
But this time he meant in mind, not in
body.
Her words came drawlingly, in the mode
of the moment:
"My dear, it wasn't possible. I mean, things either are possible or they're not. This
wasn't. It was simply penetrating."
That was the new word just now--everything
was "penetrating."
Sir Charles was vigorously shaking cocktails
and talking to Angela Sutcliffe, a tall, gray-haired woman with a mischievous mouth
and fine eyes.
Dacres was talking to Bartholomew
Strange:
"Everyone knows what's wrong with old
Ladisboume. The whole stable knows."
He spoke in a high, clipped voice--a little, red, foxy man with a short mustache and
slightly shifty eyes.
Beside Mr. Satterthwaite sat Miss Wills, whose play, One-Way Traffic, had been acclaimed
as one of the most witty and daring
seen in London for some years. Miss Wills
was tall and thin, with a receding chin and
very badly waved, fair hair. She wore pincenez
and was dressed in exceedingly limp
green chiffon. Her voice was high and undistinguished.

"I went to the South of France," she said.
"But, really, I didn't enjoy it very much.
Not friendly at all. But, of course, it's useful
to me in my work--to see all the goings-on, you know."
Mr. Satterthwaite thought: "Poor soul. Cut
off by success from her spiritual home--a
boarding house in Bournemouth. That's
where she'd like to be." He marveled at the
difference between written works and their
authors. That cultivated man-ofthe-world
tone that Anthony Astor imparted to his
plays--what faintest spark of it could be perceived
in Miss Wills? Then he noticed that
the pale-blue eyes behind the pince-nez were
singularly intelligent. They were turned on
him now with an appraising look that slightly
disconcerted him. It was as though Miss Wills
were painstakingly learning him by heart.
Sir Charles was just pouring out the cocktails.

"Let me get you a cocktail," said Mr.
Satterthwaite, springing up.
Miss Wills giggled.
"I don't mind if I do," she said.
The door opened and Temple announced
Lady Mary Lytton Gore and Mr. and Mrs.
Babbington and Miss Lytton Gore.
Mr. Satterthwaite supplied Miss Wills with
her cocktail and then sidled into the neighborhood
of Lady Mary Lytton Gore. He had
a weakness for titles.
Also, apart from snobbishness, he liked a
gentlewoman, and that Lady Mary most undeniably
was.
t p-ft as a widow very badly off, with a
child of three, she had come to Loomouth
and taken a small cottage, where she had
lived with one devoted maid ever since. She
was a tall, thin woman, looking older than
her fifty-five years. Her expression was sweet
and rather timid. She adored her daughter, but was a little alarmed by her.
Hermione Lytton Gore, usually known for
some obscure reason as Egg, bore little resemblance
to her mother. She was of a more
energetic type. She was not, Mr. Satterthwaite
decided, beautiful, but she was
undeniably attractive. And the cause of that
attraction, he thought, lay in her abounding
vitality. She seemed twice as alive as anyone
in that room. She had dark hair and gray
eyes, and was of medium height. It was
something in the way the hair curled crisply
in her neck, in the straight glance of the gray
eyes, in the curve of the cheek, in the infectious
laugh that gave one that impression of
riotous youth and vitality.
She stood talking to Oliver Manders, who
had just arrived.
"I can't think why sailing bores you so
much. You used to like it."
"Egg, my dear, one grows up."
He drawled the words, raising his eyebrows.

"That's the playwright, Anthony Astor."
"What? That--that anaemic-looking young
woman? Oh"--she caught herself up--"how
dreadful of me! But it was a surprise. She
doesn't look--I mean she looks exactly like
an inefficient nursery governess."
It was such an apt description of Miss
Wills's appearance that Mr. Satterthwaite
laughed. Mr. Babbington was peering across
the room with amiable shortsighted eyes. He
took a sip of his cocktail and choked a little.
He was unused to cocktails, thought Mr.
Satterthwaite amusedly; probably they represented
modernity to his mind, but he didn't
like them. Mr. Babbington took another determined
mouthful with a slightly wry face
and said:
"Is it the lady over there? . . . Oh, dear--" His hand went to his throat.
Egg Lytton Gore's voice rang out, "Oliver,
you slippery Shylock--"
"Of course," thought Mr. Satterthwaite, "that's it--not foreign--he's Jewish!"
What a handsome pair they made. Both so
young and good-looking, and quarreling too.
Always a healthy sign.
He was distracted by a sound at his side.
Mr Rahhmeton had risen to his feet and
was swaying to and fro. His face was convulsed.

It was Egg's clear voice that drew the
attention of the room, though Lady Mary
had risen and stretched out an anxious hand.
"Look," said Egg's voice. "Mr. Babbington
is ill."
Sir Bartholomew Strange came forward
hurriedly, supporting the stricken man and
half lifting him to a couch at one side of the
room. The others crowded round, anxious to
help, but impotent.
Two minutes later. Strange straightened
himself and shook his head. He spoke
bluntly, aware that it was no use to beat
about the bush.
"I'm sorry," he said. "He's dead."
Three
"come in here a minute, Satterthwaite, will
you?"
Sir Charles poked his head out of the door.
An hour and a half had passed. To confusion
had succeeded peace. Lady Mary had
led the weeping Mrs. Babbington out of the
room and had finally gone home with her to
the vicarage. Miss Milray had been efficient
with the telephone. The local doctor had
arrived and taken charge. A simplified dinner
had been served, and by mutual consent
the house party had retired to their rooms
after it. Mr. Satterthwaite had been making
his own retreat when Sir Charles had called
to him from the door of the ship room, where the death had taken place.
Mr. Satterthwaite passed in, repressing a
slight shiver as he did so. He was old enough
not to like the sight of death. For soon, nprbans. he himself-- But why think of that?
"I'm good for another twenty years," said
Mr. Satterthwaite robustly to himself.
The only other occupant of the ship room
was Bartholomew Strange. He nodded approval
at the sight of Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Good man," he said. "We can do with
Satterthwaite. He knows life."
A little surprised, Mr. Satterthwaite sat
down in an armchair near the doctor. Sir
Charles was pacing up and down. He had
forgotten the semi-clenching of his hands and
looked definitely less naval.
"Charles doesn't like it," said Sir
Bartholomew. "Poor old Babbington's death, I mean."
Mr. Satterthwaite thought the sentiment
ill expressed. Surely nobody could be expected
to "like" what had occurred. He realized
that Strange had quite another meaning
from the bald one the words conveyed.
"It was very distressing," said Mr. Satterthwaite, cautiously feeling his way.
"Very distressing indeed," he added, with a
reminiscent shiver.
"H'm--yes, it was rather painful," said
the physician, the professional accent creeping
for a moment into his voice.
Cartwright paused in his pacing.
"Ever see anyone die quite like that before,
Tome?"
"No," said Sir Bartholomew thoughtfully.
"I can't say that I have. But," he added in a
moment or two, "I haven't really seen as
many deaths as you might suppose. A nerve
specialist doesn't kill off many of his patients.
He keeps 'em alive and makes his
income out of them. MacDougal has seen far
more deceases than I have, I don't doubt."
Doctor MacDougal was the principal doctor
in Loomouth, whom Miss Milray had
summoned.
"MacDougal didn't see this man die. He
was dead when he arrived. There was only
what we could tell him, what you could tell
him. He said it was some kind of seizure;
said Babbington was elderly and his health
was none too good. That doesn't satisfy me."
"Probably didn't satisfy him," grunted the
other. "But a doctor has to say something. 'Seizure' is a good word--means nothing at
all, but satisfies the lay mind. And, after all, Babbington was elderly, and his health had
been giving him trouble lately; his wife told
us so. There may have been some unsuspected
weakness somewhere."
"Was that a typical fit or seizure, or whatever
you call it?"
"Typical of what?"
"Of any known disease."
"If you'd ever studied medicine," said Sir
Bartholomew, "you'd know that there is
hardly any such thing as a typical case."
"What, precisely, are you suggesting. Sir
Charles?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
Cartwright did not answer. He made a
vague gesture with his hand. Strange gave a
slight chuckle.
"Charles doesn't know himself," he said.
"It's just his mind turning naturally to the
dramatic possibilities."
Sir Charles made a reproachful gesture.
His face was absorbed, thoughtful. He shook
his head slightly in an abstracted manner.
An elusive resemblance teased Mr.
Satterthwaite, then he got it. Aristide Duval, the head of the secret service, unraveling the
tangled plot of Underground Wires. In another
minute he was sure. Sir Charles was
limping unconsciously as he walked. Aristide
Duval had been known as The Man with a
Limp.
Sir Bartholomew continued to apply ruthless
common sense to Sir Charles' unformulated
suspicions:
"Yes, what do you suspect, Charles?
Suicide? Murder? Who wants to murder a
harmless old clergyman? It's fantastic. Suicide?
Well, I suppose that is a point. One
might, perhaps, imagine a reason for
Babbington wanting to make away with
himself."
"What reason?"
Sir Bartholomew shook his head gently.
"How can we tell the secrets of the human
mind? Just one suggestion--suppose that
Babbington had been told he suffered from
an incurable disease, such as cancer. Something
of that kind might supply a motive.
He might wish to spare his wife the pain of
watching his own long-drawn-out suffering.
That's only a suggestion, of course. There's
nothing on earth to make us think that
Babbington did want to put an end to
himself."
"I wasn't thinking so much of suicide,"
began Sir Charles.
Bartholomew Strange again gave his low
chuckle.
"Exactly, Charles. You're not out for
probability. You want sensation--new and
untraceable poison in the cocktails."
Sir Charles made an expressive grimace.
"I'm not so sure I do want that. Remember
I mixed those cocktails, Tollie."
"^nrlrl^n aitapl^ nf homicidal mania, eh? I
suppose the symptoms are delayed in our
case, but we'll all be dead before morning."
"Damn it all, you joke, but--" Sir Charles
broke off irritably.
"I'm not really joking," said the physician.

His voice had altered. It was grave and
not unsympathetic.
"I'm not joking about poor old Babbington's
death. I'm casting fun at your suggestions, Charles, because--well, because I
don't want you, thoughtlessly, to do harm."
"Harm?" demanded Sir Charles.
"Perhaps you understand what I'm driving
at, Mr. Satterthwaite?"
"I think, perhaps, I can guess," said Mr.
Satterthwaite.
"Don't you see, Charles," went on Sir
Bartholomew, "that those idle suspicions of
yours might be definitely harmful? These
things get about. A vague suggestion of foul
play, totally unfounded, might cause serious
trouble and pain to Mrs. Babbington. I've
known things of that kind to happen once or
twice. A sudden death, a few idle tongues
wagging, rumors flying all round the place.
Rumors that go on growing, and that no one
can stop. Damn it all, Charles, don't you see
how cruel and unnecessary it would be?
You're merely indulging your vivid imagination
in a gallop over a wholly speculative
course."
A look of irresolution appeared on the
actor's face.
"I hadn't thought of it like that," he admitted.

"You're a thundering good chap, Charles, but you do let your imagination run away
with you. Come, now, do you seriously believe
anyone--anyone at all--would want to
murder that perfectly harmless old man?"
"I suppose not," said Sir Charles. "No, as
you say, it's ridiculous. Sorry, Tollie, but it
wasn't really a mere stunt on my part. I did
genuinely have a hunch that something was
wrong."
Mr. Satterthwaite gave a little cough.
"May I make a suggestion? Mr. Babbington
was taken ill a very few moments
after entering the room and just after drinking
his cocktail. Now, I did happen to notice
that he made a wry face when drinking. I
imagined because he was unused to the taste.
But supposing that Sir Bartholomew's tentative
suggestion is correct--that Mr. Babbington
may for some reason have wished to
^^mm^t om^irl^ TiTat dnps strike me as just
possible, whereas the suggestion of murder
seems quite ridiculous.
"I feel that it is possible, though not likely, that Mr. Babbington introduced something
into that glass unseen by us. Now, I see that
nothing has yet been touched in this room.
The cocktail glasses are exactly where they
were. This is Mr. Babbington's. I know because
I was sitting here talking to him. I
suggest that Sir Bartholomew should get the
glass analyzed; that can be done quite quietly
and without causing any talk."
Sir Bartholomew rose and picked up the
glass.
"Right," he said. "I'll humor you so far, Charles, and I'll bet you ten pounds to one
that there's nothing in it but horiestto-God
gin and vermuth."
"Done," said Sir Charles. Then he added, with a rueful smile, "You know, Tollie, you are partly responsible for my flights of
fancy."
"I?"
"Yes, with your talk of crime this moming.
You said this man Hercule Poirot was a
kind of stormy petrel, that where he went
crimes followed. No sooner does he arrive
than we have a suspiciously sudden death.
Of course, my thoughts fly to murder at
once."
"I wonder," said Mr. Satterthwaite, and
stopped.
"Yes," said Charles Cartwright. "I'd
thought of that. . . . What do you think, Tollie? Could we ask him what he thinks of
it all? Is it etiquette, I mean?"
"A nice point," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite.

"I know medical etiquette, but I'm hanged
if I know anything about the etiquette of
detection."
"You can't ask a professional singer to
sing," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite. "Can
one ask a professional detective to detect?
Yes, that is a very nice point."
"Just an opinion," said Sir Charles.
There was a gentle tap on the door and
Hercule Poirot's face appeared, peering in
with an apologetic expression.
"Come in, man!" cried Sir Charles, springing
up. "We were just talking of you."
"I thought perhaps I might be intruding."
"Not at all. Have a drink."
"I thank you, no. I seldom drink the
whisky. A glass of strop now--"
But sirop was not included in Sir Charles5
/-./-»»-»^ai^'t-tr^m /-k-F ^i^nL-rtl-tl^t -nniric T-Tavino' settied his guest in a chair, the actor went
straight to the point.
"I'm not going to beat about the bush,"
he said. "We were just talking of you, M.
Poirot, and--and of what happened tonight.
Look here. Do you think there's anything
wrong about it?"
Poirot's eyebrows rose. He said:
"Wrong? How do you mean that--
wrong?"
Bartholomew Strange said, "My friend has
got an idea into his head that old Babbington
was murdered."
"And you do not think so, eh?"
"We'd like to know what you think?"
Poirot said thoughtfully:
"He was taken ill, of ^course, very suddenly--very
suddenly indeed."
"Just so."
Mr. Satterthwaite explained the theory of
suicide and his own suggestion of having the
cocktail glass analyzed.
Poirot nodded approval.
"That, at any rate, can do no harm. As a
judge of human nature, it seems to me unlikely
in the extreme that anyone would wish
to do away with a charming and harmless
old gentleman. Still less does the solution of
suicide appeal to me. However, the cocktail
glass will tell us, one way or another."
"And the result of the analysis, you think,
will be, what?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"Me? I can only guess. You ask me to
guess what will be the result of the analysis?"

"Yes."
"Then I guess that they will find only
the remains of a very excellent dry Martini."
He bowed to Sir Charles. "To poison a
man in a cocktail--one of many handed
round on a tray--well, it woxdd be a technic
very, very difficult. And if that charming
old clergyman wanted to commit suicide, I
do not think he would do it at a party.
That would show a very decided lack of
consideration for others, and Mr. Babbington
struck me as a very considerate person." He
paused. "That, since you ask me, is my
opinion."
There was a moment's silence. Then Sir
Charles gave a deep sigh. He opened one of
the windows and looked out.
"Wind's gone round a point," he said.
The sailor had come back and the secretservice
detective had disappeared.
a disappeared. |
»roy»<- \^i- ^arr^rthwaite it 1
"D-.-.-*- -t-.^. <-l,^ <^l»t-><
seemed as though Sir Charles hankered
slightly after the part he was not, after all, to
play.
Four
"yes, but what do you think, Mr.
Satterthwaite? Really think?"
Mr. Satterthwaite looked this way and that.
There was no escape. Egg Lytton Gore had
got him securely cornered on the fishing
quay. Merciless, these modem young women,
and terrifyingly alive.
"Sir Charles has put this idea into your
head," he said.
"No, he hasn't. It was there already. It's
been there from the beginning. It was so
frightfully sudden."
"He was an old man and his health wasn't
very good—"
Egg cut the recital short:
"That's all tripe. He had neuritis and a
touch of rheumatoid arthritis. That doesn't
make you fall down in a fit. He never had
'"- TT —-- -i-~ -—•*- /^T /»^^,4-l^ ^f^oL-ino (rate
that would have lived to be ninety. What did
you think of the inquest?"
"It all seemed to be quite--er--normal."
"What did you think of Doctor
MacDougaTs evidence? Frightfully technical
and all that--close description of the organs--but
didn't it strike you that behind all
that bombardment of words he was hedging? What he said amounted to this--that there
was nothing to show that death had not arisen
from natural causes. He didn't say it was the
| result of natural causes."
"Aren't you splitting hairs a little, my
dear?"
"The point is that he did; he was puzzled, but he had nothing to go upon, so he had to
take refuge in medical caution. What did Sir
Bartholomew Strange think?"
Mr. Satterthwaite repeated some of the
_ physician's dictums.
H "Pooh-poohed it, did he?" said Egg ] thoughtfully. "Of course, he's a cautious
{ man; I suppose a Harley Street big bug has j to be."
"There was nothing in the cocktail glass
but gin and vermuth," Mr. Satterthwaite reminded
her.
"That seems to settle it. All the same,
something that happened after the inquest
made me wonder--"
"Something he said to you?"
Mr. Satterthwaite began to feel a pleasant
curiosity.
"Not to me--to Oliver--Oliver Manders;
he was at dinner that night, but perhaps you
don't remember him."
"Yes, I remember him very well. Is he a
great friend of yours?"
"Used to be. Now we scrap most of the
time. He's gone into his uncle's office in the
City and he's getting--well, a bit above himself,
if you know what I mean. Always talks
of chucking it and being a journalist; he
writes rather well. But I don't think it's any
more than talk now. He wants to get rich. I
think everybody is rather disgusting about
money, don't you, Mr. Satterthwaite?"
Her youth came home to him then--the
crude, arrogant childishness of her.
"My dear," he said, "so many people are
disgusting about so many things."
"Most people are swine, of course," agreed
Egg cheerfully. "That's why I'm really cut
up about old Mr. Babbington. Because, you
see, he really was rather a pet. He prepared
me for confirmation and all that, and though, ^f /^,,,.oo, o i^i- ^f t^Qi hnsin^ss is all bunkum, he really was rather sweet about it.
You see, Mr. Satterthwaite, I really believe
in Christianity--not like mother does, with
little books and early service and things, but
intelligently and as a matter of history. The
church is all cluttered up with the Pauline
tradition--in fact, the church is a mess, but
Christianity, itself, is all right. That's why I
can't be a Communist, like Oliver. In practice, our beliefs would work out much the
same--things in common and ownership by
all--but the difference--well, I needn't go
into that. But the Babbingtons really were
Christians; they didn't poke and pry and
condemn, and they were never unkind about
people or things. They were pets--and there
was Robin--"
"Robin?"
"Their son. He was out in India and got
killed. I--I had rather a pash on Robin."
Egg blinked. Her gaze went out to sea.
Then her attention returned to Mr.
Satterthwaite and the present.
"So, you see, I feel rather strongly about
this. Supposing it wasn't a natural death."
"My dear child!"
"Well, it's damned odd! You must admit
it's odd."
"But surelv you yourself have just Dracti-
cally admitted that the Babbingtons hadn't
an enemy, in the world."
"That's what's so queer about it. I can't
think of any conceivable motive."
"Fantastic! There was nothing in the cocktail."

"Perhaps someone jabbed him with a hypodermic."

"Containing the arrow poison of the South
American Indians," suggested Mr. Satterthwaite, gently ridiculing.
Egg grinned.
"That's it. The good, old, untraceable
stuff. Oh, well, you're all very superior about
it. Some day, perhaps, you'll find out we are
right."
"We?"
"Sir Charles and I." She flushed slightly.
Mr. Satterthwaite thought in the words
and meter of his generation, when Quotations
for All Occasions was to be found in
every bookcase:
"Of more than twice her years,
Seamed with an ancient sword-cut on the
cheek,
And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes
And loved him, with that love which was her
He felt a little ashamed of himself for
thinking in quotations; Tennyson, too, was
very little thought of nowadays. Besides, though Sir Charles was bronzed, he was not
scarred, and Egg Lytton Gore, though doubtless
capable of a healthy passion, did not
look at all likely to perish of love and drift
about rivers on a barge. There was nothing
of the lily maid of Astolat about her.
"Except," thought Mr. Satterthwaite, "her
youth."
Girls were always attracted to middle-aged
men with interesting pasts. Egg seemed to
be no exception to this rule.
"Why hasn't he ever married?" she asked
abruptly.
"Well," Mr. Satterthwaite paused. His
own answer, put bluntly, would have been
"Caution," but he realized that such a word
would be unacceptable to Egg Lytton Gore.
Sir Charles Cartwright had had plenty of affairs with women, actresses and others, but
he had always managed to steer clear of matrimony.
Egg was clearly seeking for a more
romantic explanation.
"That girl who died of consumption--
some actress, name began with an R--wasn't
he suDDOsed to be very fond of her?"
Mr. Satterthwaite remembered the lady in
question. Rumor had coupled Charles
Cartwright's name with hers, but only very
slightly, and Mr. Satterthwaite did not for a
moment believe that Sir Charles had remained
unmarried in order to be faithful to
her memory. He conveyed as much tactfully.
"I suppose he's had lots of affairs," said
Egg.
"Er--h'm--probably," said Mr. Satterthwaite, feeling Victorian.
"I like men to have affairs," said Egg. "It
shows they're not queer or anything."
Mr. Satterthwaite's Victorianism suffered
a further pang. He was at a loss for a reply.
Egg did not notice his discomfiture. She went
on musingly:
"You know. Sir Charles is really cleverer
than you'd think. He poses a lot, of course, dramatizes himself, but behind all that he's
got brains. He's far better sailing a boat than
you'd ever think to hear him talk. You'd
think, to listen to him, that it was all pose, but it isn't. It's the same about this business.
You think it's all done for effect--that he
wants to play the part of the great detective.
All I say is I think he'd play it rather well."
"Possibly," agreed Mr. Satterthwaite.
' ------""' -^f\a.f*-i r^irt f\f 1-tio ^7/Mr*^ shoWPfl hiS fedings clearly enough. Egg pounced on them
and expressed them in words:
"But your view is that Death of a Clergyman
isn't a thriller. It's merely Regrettable
Incident at a Dinner Party. Purely a social
catastrophe. What did M. Poirot think? He
ought to know."
"M. Poirot advised us to wait for the analysis
of the cocktail, but, in his opinion, everything
was quite all right."
"Oh, well," said Egg, "he's getting old.
He's a back number." Mr. Satterthwaite
winced. Egg went on, unconscious of brutality:
"Come home and have tea with mother.
She likes you. She said so."
Delicately flattered, Mr. Satterthwaite accepted
the invitation.
On arrival. Egg volunteered to ring up Sir
Charles and explain the non-appearance of
his guest.
Mr. Satterthwaite sat down in the tiny
sitting room with its faded chintzes and its
well-polished pieces of old furniture. It was a
Victorian room, what Mr. Satterthwaite
called in his own mind a lady's room, and he
approved of it.
His conversation with Lady Mary was
agreeable; nothing brilliant, but pleasantly
chatty. They spoke of Sir Charles. Did Mr.
Satterthwaite know him well? Not intimately, Mr. Satterthwaite said. He had a
financial interest in one of Sir Charles' plays
some years ago. They had been friends ever
since.
"He has great charm," said Lady Mary, smiling. "I feel it as well as Egg. I suppose
you've discovered that Egg is suffering badly
from hero worship?"
Mr. Satterthwaite wondered if, as a
mother. Lady Mary was not made slightly
uneasy by that hero worship. But it did not
seem so.
"Egg sees so little of the world," she said, sighing. "We are so badly off. One of my
cousins presented her and took her to a few
things in town, but since then she has hardly
been away from here, except for an occasional
visit. Young people, I feel, should see
plenty of people and places--especially people.
Otherwise--well, propinquity is sometimes
a dangerous thing."
Mr. Satterthwaite agreed, thinking of Sir
Charles and the sailing, but that this was not
what was in Lady Mary's mind she showed a
moment or two later.
"Sir Charles' coming has done a lot for
Egg. It has widened her horizon. You see,
-i --- -„_ _._--. -c^,,, »T/^,,->rr »-»^r»r»1^ rinwn here,
especially men. I've always been afraid that
Egg might marry someone simply from being
thrown with one person only and seeing
no one else."
Mr. Satterthwaite had a quick intuition.
"Are you thinking of young Oliver
Manders?"
Lady Mary blushed in ingenuous surprise.
"Oh, Mr. Satterthwaite, I don't know how
you knew! I was thinking of him. He and
Egg were together a lot at one time, and I
know I'm old-fashioned, but I don't like some
of his ideas."
"Youth must have its fling," said Mr.
Satterthwaite.
Lady Mary shook her head.
"I've been so afraid--It's quite suitable, of
course; I know all about him, and his uncle, who has recently taken him into his firm, is
a very rich man. It's not that. It's silly of
me, but--"
She shook her head, unable to express
herself further.
Mr. Satterthwaite felt curiously intimate.
He said quietly and plainly:
"All the same. Lady Mary, you wouldn't
like your girl to marry a man twice her own
age."
Her answer surorised him.
Five
mr. satterthwaite thought to himself, "He's got it badly."
He felt a sudden pity for his host. At the
age of fifty-two, Charles Cartwright, the gay, debonair breaker of hearts, had fallen in love.
And as he himself realized, his case was
doomed to disappointment. Youth turns to
youth.
"Girls don't wear their hearts on their
sleeves," thought Mr. Satterthwaite. "Egg
makes a great parade of her feeling for Sir
Charles. She wouldn't if it really meant anything.
Young Manders is the one."
Mr. Satterthwaite was usually fairly shrewd
in his assumptions.
Still, there was probably one factor that he
did not take into account, because he was
unaware of it himself. That was the enhanced
value placed by age on youth. To Mr. - ^i--__;<.^ „„ oiri^rUr man. the fact that
Egg might prefer a middle-aged man to a
young one was frankly incredible. Youth was
to him so much the most magical of all gifts.
He felt strengthened in his beliefs when
Egg rang up after dinner and demanded permission
to bring Oliver along and "have a
consultation."
Certainly a handsome lad, with his dark,
heavy-lidded eyes and easy grace of movement.
He had, it seemed, permitted himself
to be brought--a tribute to Egg's energy--
but his general attitude was lazily skeptical.
"Can't you talk it out of her, sir?" he said
to Sir Charles. "It's this appallingly healthy,
bucolic life she leads that makes her so energetic.
. . . You know. Egg, you really are
detestably hearty. And your tastes are childish--crime,
sensation, and all that bunk."
"You're a skeptic, Manders?"
"Well, sir, really. That dear, old, bleating
fellow. It's fantastic to think of anything else
but natural causes."
"I expect you're right," said Sir Charles.
Mr. Satterthwaite glanced at him. What
part was Charles Cartwright playing tonight?
Not the ex-naval man, not the international
detective. No, some new and unfamiliar role.
It came as a shock to Mr. Sattenhwaite
when he realized what that role was. Sir
Charles was playing second fiddle. Second
fiddle to Oliver Manders.
He sat back with his head in shadow, watching those two, Egg and Oliver, as they
disputed--Egg hotly, Oliver languidly.
Sir Charles looked older than usual--old
and tired.
More than once Egg appealed to him, hotly
and confidently, but his response was lacking.

It was eleven o'clock when they left. Sir
Charles went out on the terrace with them
and offered the loan of an electric torch to
help them down the stony path.
But there was no need of a torch. It was a
beautiful moonlit night. They set off together,
their voices growing fainter as they descended.

Moonlight or no moonlight, Mr. Satterthwaite
was not going to risk a chill. He
returned to the ship room. Sir Charles stayed
out on the terrace a little while longer.
When he came in, he latched the window
behind him, and striding to a side table, poured himself out a whisky and soda.
"Satterthwaite," he said, "I'm leaving here
tomorrow for good."
"What?" cried Mr. Satterthwaite, aston-
A kind of melancholy pleasure at the effect
he had produced showed for a minute
on Charles Cartwright's face.
"It's the Only Thing to Do," he said,
obviously speaking in capital letters. "I shall
sell this place. What it has meant to me, no
one will ever know," His voice dropped, lingeringly, effectively.
After an evening of second fiddle. Sir
Charles' egoism was taking its revenge.
This was the great renunciation scene, so often played by him in sundry and divers
dramas. Giving up the other man's wife; renouncing
the girl he loved.
There was a brave flippancy in his voice
as he went on:
"Cut your losses; it's the only way. Youth
to youth. They're made for each other, those
two. I shall clear out."
"Where to?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
The actor made a careless gesture.
"Anywhere. W^hat does it matter?" He
added, with a slight change of voice, "Probably Monte Carlo." And then, retrieving
what his sensitive taste could not but feel
to be a slight anticlimax, "In the heart of the
desert or the heart of the crowd, what does it
matter? The inmost core of man is solitary, alone. I have always been a lonely soul."
It was clearly an exit line. He nodded to Mr. Satterthwaite and left
the room.
Mr. Satterthwaite got up and prepared to
follow his host to bed.
"But it won't be the heart of a desert," he
thought to himself, with a slight chuckle.
On the following morning. Sir Charles
begged Mr. Satterthwaite to forgive him if
he went up to town that day.
"Don't cut your visit short, my dear fellow.
You were staying till tomorrow, and I
know you're going on to the Harbertons' at
Tavistock. The car will take you there. What
I feel is that having come to my decision, I
mustn't look back. No, I mustn't look back."
Sir Charles squared his shoulders with
manly resolution, wrung Mr. Satterthwaite's
hand with fervor and delivered him over to
the capable Miss Milray.
Miss Milray seemed prepared to deal with
the situation as she had dealt with any other.
She expressed no surprise or emotion at Sir
Charles' overnight decision. Nor could Mr.
Satterthwaite draw her out on the point. Neither
sudden deaths nor sudden changes of
plan could excite Miss Milray. She accepted
whatever happened as a fact and proceeded ^ r^nr^ with it in an pffident way. She telephoned to the house agents, dispatched wires
abroad, and wrote busily on her typewriter.
Mr. Satterthwaite escaped from the depressing
spectacle of so much efficiency by strolling
down to the quay. He was walking
aimlessly along when he was seized by the
arm from behind and turned to confront a
white-faced girl.
"What's all this?" demanded Egg fiercely.
"All what?" parried Mr. Satterthwaite.
"It's all over the place that Sir Charles is
going away--that he's going to sell Crow's
Nest."
"Quite true."
"He is going away?"
"He's gone."
"Oh!" Egg relinquished his arm. She
looked suddenly like a very small child who
has been cruelly hurt.
Mr. Satterthwaite did not know what to
say.
"Where has he gone?"
"Abroad. To the South of France."
"Oh!"
Still he did not know what to say. For
clearly there was more than hero worship
here.
Pitying her, he was turning over various
consolatory words in his mind, when she
spoke again, and startled him.
"Which of those damned women is it?"
asked Egg fiercely.
Mr. Satterthwaite stared at her, his mouth
fallen open in surprise. Egg took him by the
arm again and shook him violently.
"You must know!" she cried. "Which of
them? The gray-haired one or the other?"
"My dear, I don't know what you're talking
about."
"You do! You must! Of course, it's some
woman. He liked me--I know he liked me.
One of those two women the other night
must have seen it, too, and determined to
get him away from me. I hate women. Lousy
cats. Did you see her clothes--that one with
the green hair? They made me gnash my
teeth with envy. A woman who has clothes
like that has a pull--you can't deny it. She's
quite old and ugly as sin, really, but what
does it matter? She makes everyone else look
like a dowdy curate's wife. Is it her? Or is it
the otfier one with the gray hair? She's amusing--you
can see that. She's got masses of
S. A. and he called her Angle. It can't be the
one like a wilted cabbage. Is it the smart one
or is it Angle?"
"My ripar. vou've eot the most extraordi-
nary ideas into your head. He--er--Charles
Cartwright isn't in the least interested in either
of those women."
"I don't believe you. They're interested in
him anyway."
"No, no, no, you're making a mistake.
This is all imagination. I can assure you that
you are laboring under a misapprehension."
"Then why has he gone away like this?"
Mr. Satterthwaite cleared his throat.
"I fancy--he--er--thought it best."
Egg stared at him piercingly.
"Do you mean because of me?"
"Well, something of the kind, perhaps."
"And so he's legged it. I suppose I did
show my hand a bit plainly. Men do hate
being chased, don't they? Mums is right, after all. You've no idea how sweet she is
when she talks about men. Always in the
third person--so Victorian and polite. 'A
man hates being run after'; "a girl should
always let the man make the running.' Don't
you think it's a sweet expression--'make the
running'? Sounds the opposite of what it
means. Actually that's just what Charles has
done--made the running. He's run away
from me. He's afraid. And the devil of it is
I can't go after him. If I did, I suppose he'd
take a boat to the wilds of Africa or somewhere."

"Hermione," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "are
you serious about Sir Charles?"
The girl flung him an impatient glance.
"Of course I am."
"What about Oliver Manders?"
Egg dismissed Oliver Manders with an impatient
whisk of the head. She was following
out a train of thought of her own.
"Do you think that I might write to him?
Nothing alarming. Just chatty, girlish stuff.
You know, put him at his ease, so that he'd
get over his scare."
She frowned.
"What a fool I've been. Mums would have
managed it much better. They knew how to
do the trick, those Victorians. All blushing
retreat. I've been all wrong about it. I actually
thought he needed encouraging. He
seemed--well, he seemed to need a bit of
help. Tell me"--she turned abruptly on Mr.
Satterthwaite--"did he see me do my kissing
act with Oliver last night?"
"Not that I know of. When?"
"All in the moonlight. As we were going
down the path. I thought he was still looking
from the terrace. I thought perhaps if he saw
me and Oliver--well, I thought it might wake
him up a bit. Because he did like me. I
could swear he liked me."
"Wasn't that a little hard on Oliver?"
Egg shook her head decisively.
"Not in the least. Oliver thinks it's an
honor for any girl to be kissed by him. It
was bad for his conceit, of course, but one
can't think of everything. I wanted to ginger
up Charles. He's been different lately—more
standoffish."
"My dear child," said Mr. Satterthwaite,
"I don't think you realize quite why Sir
Charles went away so suddenly. He thought
that you cared for Oliver. He went away to
save himself further pain."
Egg whisked round. She caught hold of
Mr. Satterthwaite by the shoulders and
peered into his face.
"Is that true? Is that really true? The mutt!
The boob! Oh!"
She released Mr. Satterthwaite suddenly
and moved along beside him with a skipping
motion.
"Then he'll come back," she said. "He'll
come back. If he doesn't—"
"Well, if he doesn't?"
Egg laughed.
"I'll get him back somehow. You see if I
don't."
It seemed as though, allowing for difference
of language. Egg and the lily maid of
Astolat had much in common, but Mr.
Satterthwaite felt that Egg's methods would
be more practical than those of Elaine, and
that dying of a broken heart would form no
part of them.
Second Act
Certainty
Six
mr. satterthwaite had come over for the day
to Monte Carlo. His round of house parties
was over, and the Riviera in September was
rather a favorite haunt of his.
He was sitting in the gardens enjoying the
sun and reading a two-days-old Daily Mail.
Suddenly a name caught his attention:
"Strange." "Death of Sir Bartholomew
Strange." He read the paragraph through:
We much regret having to announce the
death of Sir Bartholomew Strange, the
eminent nerve specialist. Sir Bartholomew
was entertaining a party of friends at his
house in Yorkshire. Sir Bartholomew appeared
to be in perfect health and spirits, and his demise occurred quite suddenly
at the end of dinner. He was chatting
with his friends and drinking a glass of
port when he had a sudden seizure and
died before medical aid could be summoned.
Sir Bartholomew will be deeply
regretted. He was--
Here followed a description of Sir Bartholomew's
career and work.
Mr. Satterthwaite let the paper slip from
his hand. He was very disagreeably impressed.
A vision of the physician as he had
seen him last flashed across his mind--big,
jocund, in the pink of condition. And now
dead. Certain words detached themselves
from their context and floated about disagreeably
in Mr. Satterthwaite's mind.
"Drinking a glass of port. . . sudden seizure
. . . died before medical aid could be summoned.
. . ."
Port, not a cocktail, but otherwise curiously
reminiscent of that death in Cornwall.
Mr. Satterthwaite saw again the convulsed
face of the mild old clergyman.
Supposing that, after all--
He looked up to see Sir Charles Cartwright
coming toward him across the grass.
"Satterthwaite, by all that's wonderful!
Just the man I'd have chosen to see. Have
you seen about poor old Tollie?"
"I was just reading it now."
^ir riiarlps droDDed into a chair beside
him. He was immaculately got up in yachting
costume. No more gray flannels and old
sweaters. He was the sophisticated yachtsman
of the South of France.
"Listen, Satterthwaite; Tollie was as sound
as a bell. Never had anything wrong with
him. Am I being a complete fanciful ass, or
does this business remind you of--of--"
"Of that business at Loomouth? Yes, it
does. But of course we may be mistaken.
The resemblance may be only superficial.
After all, sudden deaths occur the whole time
from a variety of causes."
Sir Charles nodded his head impatiently.
Then he said:
"I've just got a letter from Egg Lytton
Gore."
Mr. Satterthwaite concealed a smile.
"The first you've had from her?"
Sir Charles was unsuspecting:
"No, I had a letter soon after I got here. It
followed me about a bit. Just giving me the
news and all that. I didn't answer it. ...
Dash it all, Satterthwaite, I didn't dare answer
it. The girl had no idea, of course, but
I didn't want to make a fool of myself."
Mr. Satterthwaite passed his hand over his
mouth, where the smile still lingered.
"And this one?" he asked.
"This is different. It's an appeal for help."
"An appeal for help?" Mr. Satterthwaite's
eyebrows went up.
"She was there, you see—in the house—
when it happened."
"You mean she was staying with Sir
Bartholomew Strange at the time of his
death?"
"Yes."
"What does she say about it?"
Sir Charles had taken a letter from his
pocket. He hesitated for a moment, then he
handed it to Mr. Satterthwaite.
"You'd better read it for yourself."
Mr. Satterthwaite opened out the sheet
with lively curiosity.
Dear Sir Charles: I don't know when
this will get to you. I do hope soon.
I'm so worried I don't know what to do.
You'll have seen, I expect, in the papers
that Sir Bartholomew Strange is dead.
Well, he died just the same way as Mr.
Babbington. It can't be a coincidence—it
can't—it can't. . . . I'm worried to death.
Look here, can't you come home and
do something? It sounds a bit crude put
like that, but you did have suspicions
l^^f^^ r.,,/4 nrkl-indv WOllld listen tO you,
and now it's your own friend who's been
killed) and perhaps, if you don't come
back, nobody will ever find out the truth,
and I'm sure you could. I feel it in my
bones.
And there's something else. I'm
worried, definitely, about someone. He
had absolutely nothing to do with it, I
know that, but things might look a bit
odd. Oh, I can't explain in a letter, but
won't you come back? You could find
out the truth. I know you could.
Yours in haste, egg.
"Well?" demanded Sir Charles impatiently.
"A bit incoherent, of course; she
wrote it in a hurry. But what about it?"
Mr. Satterthwaite folded the letter slowly
to give himself a minute or two before replying.

He agreed that the letter was incoherent, but he did not think it had been written in a
hurry. It was, in his view, a very careful
production. It was designed to appeal to Sir
Charles' vanity, to his chivalry, and to his
sporting instinct.
From what Mr. Satterthwaite knew of Sir
Charles, that letter was a certain draw.
"Who do you think she means by
'someone,' and 'he'?" he asked.
"Manders, I suppose."
"Was he there, then?"
"Must have been. I don't know why. Tollie
never met him except on that one occasion at
my house. Why he should ask him to stay, I
can't imagine."
"Did he often have those big house
parties?"
"Three or four times a year. Always one
for the St. Leger."
"Did he spend much time in Yorkshire?"
"Had a big sanatorium, nursing home,
whatever you like to call it. He bought
Melfort Abbey—it's an old place—restored it
and built a sanatorium in the grounds."
"I see."
Mr. Satterthwaite was silent for a minute
or two. Then he said:
"I wonder who else there was in the house
party?"
Sir Charles suggested that it might be in
one of the other newspapers, and they went
off to institute a newspaper hunt.
"Here we are," said Sir Charles.
He read aloud:
" to;.. T»oi^i-»r»irtmew Strause is having his
usual house party for the St. Leger.
Amongst the guests are Lord and Lady
Eden, Lady Mary Lytton Gore, Sir
Jocelyn and Lady Cambell, Captain and
Mrs. Dacres, and Miss Angela Sutcliffe, the well-known actress.' "
Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite looked
at each other.
"The Dacres and Angela Sutcliffe," said
Sir Charles. "Nothing about Oliver Manders."
"Let's
get today's Continental Daily Mail," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "There might be
something in that."
Sir Charles glanced over the paper. Suddenly
he stiffened.
"Listen to this, Satterthwaite:
" 'Death of Sir Bartholomew Strange. At
the inquest today on the late Sir Bartholomew
Strange, a verdict of death by
nicotine poisoning was returned, there being
no evidence to show how or by whom
the poison was administered.' "
He frowned.
"Nicotine poisoning. Sounds mild
enough--not the sort of thing to make a man
fall down in a fit. I don't understand all
this."
"What are you going to do?"
"Do? I'm going to book a berth on the
Blue Train tonight."
"Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "I might
as well do the same."
"You?" Sir Charles wheeled round on him, surprised.
"This sort of thing is rather in my line,"
said Mr. Satterthwaite modestly. "I've--er--
had a little experience. Besides, I know the
chief constable in that part of the world rather
well--Colonel Johnson. That will come in
useful."
"Good man'" cried Sir Charles. "Let's go
round to the Wagons-Lits offices."
Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself:
"The girl's done it. She's got him back.
She said she would. I wonder just exactly
how much of her letter was genuine."
Decidedly, Egg Lytton Gore was an opportunist.

When Sir Charles had gone off to the
Wagons-Lits offices, Mr. Satterthwaite
strolled slowly through the gardens. His mind
was still pleasantly engaged with the problem
of Egg Lytton Gore. He admired her re- or>ri iipr drivine nower, and stilled
that slight Victorian side of his nature which
disapproved of a member of the fairer sex
taking the initiative in affairs of the heart.
Mr. Satterthwaite was an observant man.
In the midst of his cogitations on the female
sex in general and Egg Lytton Gore in particular, he was unable to resist saying to
himself:
"Now where have I seen that particularshaped
head before?"
The owner of the head was sitting on a
seat gazing thoughtfully ahead of him. He
was a little man whose mustaches were out
of proportion to his size.
A discontented-looking English child was
standing} near by, standing first on one foot, then the other, and occasionally meditatively
kicking the lobelia edging.
"Don't do that, darling," said her mother, who was absorbed in a fashion paper.
"I haven't anything to do," said the child.
The little man turned his head to look at
her, and Mr. Satterthwaite recognized him.
"M. Poirot," he said, "this is a very pleasant
surprise."
M. Poirot rose and bowed.
"Enchante, monsieur."
They shook hands and Mr. Satterthwaite
sat down.
"Everyone seems to be in Monte Carlo.
Not half an hour ago I ran across Sir Charles
Cartwright, and now you.^
"Sir Charles, he also is here?"
"He's been yachting. You know that he
gave up his house at Loomouth?"
"Ah, no, I did not know it. I am
surprised."
"I don't know that I am. He worked too
hard at his own profession; had a bit of a
breakdown and had to retire; but I don't
think Cartwright is really the kind of man
who likes to live permanently out of the
world."
"Ah, no, I agree with you there. I was
surprised for another reason. It seemed to
me that Sir Charles had a particular reason
for staying in Loomouth—a very charming
reason. Eh, am I not right? The little
demoiselle who calls herself, so amusingly,
the egg?"
His eyes were twinkling gently.
"Oh, so you noticed that?"
"Assuredly I noticed. I have the heart very
susceptible to lovers—you, too, I think. And
la jeunesse, it is always touching."
He sighed.
"I think," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that
i<«,»^ iiii- r»n <^ir Charles' reason
for leaving Loomouth. He was running
away."
"From Mademoiselle Egg? But it is obvious
that she adores him. Why, then, run?"
"Ah," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "You don't
understand our Anglo-Saxon complexes."
M. Poirot was following his own line of
reasoning.
"Of course," he said. "It is a good move
to pursue. Run from a woman; immediately
she follows. Doubtless Sir Charles, a man of
much experience, knows that."
Mr. Satterthwaite was rather amused.
"I don't think it was quite that way," he
said. "Tell me, what are you doing out here?
A holiday?"
"My time is all holidays nowadays. I have
succeeded. I am rich. I retire. Now I travel
about, seeing the world."
"Splendid," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"N'est-ce pas?"
"Mummy," said the English child, "isn't
there anything to do?"
"Darling," said her mother reproachfully, "isn't it lovely to have come abroad and to
be in the beautiful sunshine?"
"Yes, but there's nothing to do."
"Run about, amuse yourself. Go and look
at the sea."
"Maman," said a French child, suddenly
appearing, "joue avec moi."
A French mother looked up from her
book.
"Amuse-toi avec ta balle, Marcelle."
Obediently the French child bounced her
ball with a gloomy face.
"Je m'amuse," said Hercule Poirot, and
there was a very curious expression on his
face.
Then, as if in answer to something he read
in Mr. Satterthwaite's face, he said:
"But yes, you have the quick perceptions.
It is as you think."
He was silent for a minute or two, then he
said:
"See you, as a boy I was poor. There were
many of us. We had to get on in the world. I
entered the police force. I worked hard.
Slowly I rose in that force. I began to make a
name for myself. I made a name for myself.
I began to acquire an international reputation.
At last I was due to retire. There came
the war. I was injured. I came, a sad and
weary refugee, to England. A kind lady gave
me hospitality. She died; not naturally; no, she was killed. Eh bien, I set my wits to
work. I employed my little gray cells. I dis-
-'---- t r/^.i,-»rl i4-»ot T was not
yet finished. No, indeed, my powers were
stronger than ever. Then began my second
career--that of a private inquiry agent in
England. I have solved many fascinating and
baffling problems. Ah, monsieur, I have
lived! The psychology of human nature, it is
wonderful. I grew rich. 'Some day,' I said to
myself, 'I will have all the money I need. I
will realize all my dreams.5 "
He laid a hand on Mr. Satterthwaite's
knee.
"My friend, beware of the day when your
dreams come true. That child near us, doubt- J less she, too, has dreamed of coming abroad--of the excitement--of how different
everything would be. You understand?"
"I understand," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that you are not amusing yourself."
Poirot nodded.
"Exactly."
There were moments when Mr. Satterthwaite
looked like Puck. This was one of
them. His little wrinkled face twitched impishly.
He hesitated. Should he? Should he
not?
Slowly he unfolded the newspaper he was
1 still carrying.
"Have you seen this, M. Poirot?"
With his forefinger he indicated the oara-
graph he meant. The little Belgian took the
paper. Mr. Satterthwaite watched him as he
read. No change came over his face, but the
Englishman had the impression that his body
stiffened, as does that of a terrier when it
sniffs a rat hole.
Hercule Poirot read the paragraph twice, then he folded the paper and returned it to
Mr. Satterthwaite.
"That is interesting," he said.
"Yes. It looks, does it not, as though Sir
Charles Cartwright had been right and we
had been wrong?"
"Yes," said Poirot. "It seems as though
we had been wrong. I will admit it, my
friend. I could not believe that so harmless, so friendly an old man could have been murdered.
Well, it may be that I was wrong.
Although, see you, this other death may be
coincidence. Coincidences do occur--the
most amazing coincidences. I know, I, Hercule Poirot, have known coincidences that
surprise you."
He paused and went on:
"Sir Charles Cartwrighfs instinct may have
been right. He is an artist--sensitive, impressionable. He feels things rather than rea^ ^-~-- c,,/4, o rn^thnd in life is
often disastrous, but it is sometimes justified.
I wonder where Sir Charles is now."
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled.
"I can tell you that. He is in the office of
the Wagons-Lits Company. He and I are
returning to England tonight."
"Aha!" Poirot put immense meaning into
the exclamation. His eyes, bright, inquiring, roguish, asked a question: "What zeal he
has, our Sir Charles. He is determined, then, to play this role--the role of the amateur
policeman? Or is there another reason?"
Mr. Satterthwaite did not reply, but from
his silence Poirot seemed to deduce an answer.

"I see," he said. "The bright eyes of mademoiselle
are concerned in this. It is not
only crime that calls?"
"She wrote to him," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "begging him to return."
Poirot nodded.
"I wonder now," he said. "I do not quite
understand--"
Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted:
"You do not understand the modem English
girl? Well, that is not surprising. I do
not always understand them myself. A girl
like Miss Lytton Gore--"
In his turn, Poirot intemiDted:
"Pardon. You have misunderstood me. I
understand Miss Lytton Gore very well. I
have met such another--many such others.
You call the type modem, but it is--how
shall I say?--age long."
Mr. Satterthwaite was slightly annoyed.
He felt that he, and only he, understood
Egg. This preposterous foreigner knew nothing
about young English womanhood.
Poirot was still speaking. His tone was
dreamy, brooding:
"A knowledge of human nature--what a
dangerous thing it can be."
"A useful thing," corrected Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Perhaps. It depends upon the point of
view."
"Well--" Mr. Satterthwaite hesitated, got
up. He was a little disappointed. He had cast
the bait and the fish had not risen. He felt
that his own knowledge of human nature
was at fault. "I will wish you a pleasant
holiday."
"I thank you."
"I hope that, when you are next in London,
you will come and see me." He produced
a card. "This is my address."
"You are most amiable, Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Good-by for the present, then."
"Good-by and bon voyage."
Mr. Satterthwaite moved away. Poirot
looked after him for a moment or two, then
once more he stared straight ahead of him,
looking out over the blue Mediterranean.
So he sat for at least ten minutes.
The English child reappeared.
"I've looked at the sea, mummy. What
shall I do next?"
"An admirable question," said Hercule
Poirot under his breath.
He rose and walked slowly away—in the
direction of the Wagons-Lits offices.
Seven
sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite were sitting
in Colonel Johnson's study. The chief
constable was a big, red-faced man with a
barrack-room voice and a hearty manner. He
had greeted Mr. Satterthwaite with every sign
of pleasure and was obviously delighted to
make the acquaintance of the famous Charles
Cartwright.
"My missus is a great playgoer. She's one
of your--what do the Americans call it?--
fans. That's it--fans. I like a good play myself--good
clean stuff, that is. Some of the
things they put on the stage nowadays--
faugh!"
Sir Charles, conscious of rectitude in this
respect--he had never put on daring plays--
responded suitably with all his easy charm of
manner. When they came to mention the
object of their visit. Colonel Johnson was
-_1_- <-^^ -.^^.^i,t <-<-«, <-£»11 l-l-ioi-n oil l"i^ rTYIlIrl
"Friend of yours, you say? Too bad--too
bad. Yes, he was very popular around here.
That sanatorium of his is very highly spoken
of, and, by all accounts. Sir Bartholomew
was a first-rate fellow as well as being at the
top of his profession. Kind, generous, popular
all round. Last man in the world you'd
expect to be murdered--and murder is what
it looks like. There's nothing to indicate suicide, and anything like accident seems out of
the question."
"Satterthwaite and I have just come back
from abroad," said Sir Charles. "We've only
seen snippets here and there in the papers."
"And, naturally, you want to know all
about it. Well, I'll tell you exactly how the
matter stands. I think there's no doubt the
butler's the man we've got to look for. He
was a new man. Sir Bartholomew had only
had him a fortnight, and the moment after
the crime he disappears--vanishes into thin
air. That looks a bit fishy, doesn't it? Eh, what?"
"You've no notion where he went?"
Colonel Johnson's naturally red face got a
little redder.
"Negligence on our part, you think. I admit
it looks like it. Naturally the fellow was
under observation, just the same as everyone
else. He answered our questions quite satisfactorily--gave
the London agency which
obtained him the place. Last employer. Sir
Horace Bird. All very civil-spoken, no signs
of panic. Next thing was he'd gone, and the
house under observation. I've hauled my men
over the coals, but they swear they didn't bat
an eyelid."
"Very remarkable," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Apart from everything else," said Sir
Charles thoughtfully, "it seems a damn-fool
thing to do. As far as he knew, the man
wasn't suspected. By bolting, he draws attention
to himself."
"Exactly. And not a hope of escape. His
description's been circulated. It's only a matter
of days before he's pulled in."
"Very odd," said Sir Charles. "I don't
understand it."
"Oh, the reason's clear enough. He lost
his nerve. Got the wind-up suddenly."
"Wouldn't a man who had the nerve to
commit murder have the nerve to sit still
afterwards?"
"Depends. Depends. I know criminals.
Chicken-livered, most of them. He thought
bp was susnected and he bolted."
"Have you verified his own account of
himself?"
"Naturally, Sir Charles. That's plain routine
work. London agency confirms his story.
He had a written reference from Sir Horace
Bird, recommending him warmly. Sir Horace
himself is in West Africa."
"So the reference might have been
forged?"
"Exactly," said Colonel Johnson, beaming
upon Sir Charles with the air of a schoolmaster
congratulating a bright pupil. "We've
wired to Sir Horace, of course, but it may be
some little time before we get a reply. He's
on safari."
"When did the man disappear?"
"Morning after the death. There was a
doctor present at the dinner--Sir Jocelyn
Cambell--bit of a lexicologist, I understand.
He and Davis--local man--agreed over the
case, and our people were called in immediately.
We interviewed everybody that night.
Ellis--that's the butler--went to his room
that night and was missing in the morning.
His bed hadn't been slept in."
"He slipped away under cover of the darkness?"

"Seems so. One of the ladies stavine
there--Miss Sutcliffe, the actress-- You
know her, perhaps?"
"Very well indeed."
"Miss Sutcliffe has made a suggestion to
us. She suggested that the man had left the
house through a secret passage." He blew his
nose apologetically. "Sounds rather Edgar
Wallace stuff, but it seems there was such a
thing. Sir Bartholomew was rather proud of
it. He showed it to Miss Sutcliffe. The end
of it comes out among some fallen masonry
about half a mile away."
"That would be a possible explanation, certainly," agreed Sir Charles. "Only, would
the butler know of the existence of such a
passage?"
"That's the point, of course. My missus
always says servants know everything. Dare
say she's right."
"I understand the poison was nicotine,"
said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"That's right. Most unusual stuff to use, I
believe. Comparatively rare. I understand if
a man's a heavy smoker, such as the doctor
was, it would tend to complicate matters. I
mean he might have died of nicotine poisoning
in a natural way. Only, of course, this
business was too sudden for that."
"T-T/vw wac it 'arlmimstprpd?"
"We don't know," admitted Colonel
Johnson. "That's going to be the weak part
of the case. According to medical evidence) it could only have been swallowed a few
minutes previous to death."
"They were drinking port, I understand?"
"Exactly. Seems as though the stuff was in
the port. But it wasn't. We analyzed his
glass. That glass had contained port and
nothing but port. The other wineglasses had
been cleared, of course, but they were all on
a tray in the pantry, unwashed, and not one
of them contained anything it shouldn't. As
for what he ate, it was the same as everybody
else had. Soup, grilled sole, pheasant
and chipped potatoes, chocolate souffle, soft
roes on toast. His cook's been with him fifteen
years. No, there doesn't seem to be any
way he could have been given the stuff, and
yet there it is in the stomach. It's a nasty
problem."
Sir Charles wheeled round on Mr.
Satterthwaite.
"The same thing," he said excitedly. "Exactly
the same as before."
He turned apologetically to the chief constable.

"I must explain. A death occurred at my
house in Cornwall--"
Colonel Johnson looked interested.
"I think I've heard about that. From a
young lady--Miss Lytton Gore."
"Yes, she was there. She told you about
it?"
"She did. She was very set on her theory.
But you know, Sir Charles, I can't believe
there's anything in that theory. It doesn't
explain the flight of the butler. Your man
didn't disappear, by any chance?"
"Haven't got a man; only a parlormaid."
"She couldn't have been a man in
disguise?"
Thinking of the smart and obviously feminine
Temple, Sir Charles smiled.
Colonel Johnson also smiled apologetically.
"Just an idea," he said. "No, I can't say I
put much reliance in Miss Lytton Gore's
theory. I understand that the death in question
was an elderly clergyman. Who would
want to put an old clergyman out of the
way?"
"That's just the puzzling part of it," said
Sir Charles.
"I think you'll find it's just coincidence.
Depend on it, the butler's our man. Very
likely he's a regular criminal. Unluckily, we ^on'i- finri oiw r\f his finwmrints. We had a
fingerprint expert go over his bedroom and
the butler's pantry, but he had no luck."
"If it was the butler, what motive can you
suggest?"
"That, of course, is one of our difficulties,"
admitted Colonel Johnson. "The man
might have been there with intent to steal, and Sir Bartholomew might have caught him
out."
Both Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite
remained courteously silent. Colonel Johnson
himself seemed to feel that the suggestion
lacked plausibility.
"The fact of the matter is, one can only
theorize. Once we've got John Ellis under
lock and key and have found out who he is
and whether he's ever been through our
hands before--well, the motive may be clear
as day."
"You've been through Sir Bartholomew's
papers, I suppose?"
"Naturally, Sir Charles. We've given that
side of the case every attention. I must introduce
you to Superintendent Crossfield, who
has charge of the case. A most reliable man.
I pointed out to him, and he was quick to
agree with me, that Sir Bartholomew's profession
might have had something to do with
the crime. A doctor knows many profes-
sional secrets. Sir Bartholomew's papers were
all neatly filed and docketed; his secretary, Miss Lyndon, went through them with
Crossfield."
"And there was nothing?"
"Nothing at all suggestive. Sir Charles."
"Was anything missing from the house--
silver, jewelry--anything like that?"
"Nothing whatsoever."
"Who exactly was staying in the house?"
"I've got a list. . . . Now where is it? Ah, I think Crossfield has it. You must meet
Crossfield. As a matter of fact, I'm expecting
him any minute now to report--" As a bell
went: "That's probably the man now."
Superintendent Crossfield was a large solidlooking
man, rather slow of speech, but with
a fairly keen blue eye.
He saluted his superior officer and was
introduced to the two visitors.
It is possible that had Mr. Satterthwaite
been alone, he would have found it hard to
make Crossfield unbend. Crossfield didn't
hold with gentlemen from London, amateurs, coming down with "ideas." Sir Charles, however, was a different matter. Superintendent
Crossfield had a childish reverence for the
glamour of the stage. He had twice seen Sir
r'.harlps apt. and the excitement and rapture
of seeing this hero of the footlights in a
flesh-and-blood manner made him as friendly
and loquacious as could be wished.
"I saw you in London, sir, I did. I was up
with the wife. Lord Aintree's Dilemma--
that's what the play was. In the pit I was, and the house crowded out, we had to stand
two hours beforehand. But nothing else
would do for the wife. (I must see Sir Charles
Cartwright in Lord Aintree's Dilemma,5 she
said. At the Pall Mall Theater it was."
"Well," said Sir Charles, "I've retired from
the stage now, as you know. Worked too
hard and had a bad breakdown two years
ago. But they still know my name at the Pall
Mall." He took out a card and wrote a few
words on it. "You give this to the people at
the box office the next time you and Mrs.
Crossfield are having a jaunt to town, and
they'll give you a couple of the best seats
going."
"I take that very kindly of you. Sir
Charles--very kindly indeed. My wife will
be all worked up when I tell her about this."
After this. Superintendent Crossfield was
as wax in the ex-actor's hands.
"It's an odd case, sir. Never came across a
case of nicotine poisoning before in all my
experience. No more has our Doctor Davis."
"I always thought it was a kind of disease
you got from oversmoking."
"To tell the truth, so did I, sir. But the
doctor says that the pure alkaloid is an odorless
liquid and that a few drops of it are
enough to kill a man almost instantaneously."
Sir Charles whistled.
"Potent stuff."
"As you say, sir. And yet it's in common
use, as you might say. Solutions are used to
spray roses with. And of course it can be
extracted from ordinary tobacco."
"Roses," said Sir Charles. "Now where
have I heard--"
He frowned, then shook his head.
"Anything fresh to report, Crossfield?"
asked Colonel Johnson.
"Nothing definite, sir. We've had reports
that our man, Ellis, has been seen at Durham, at Ipswich, at Balham, at Land's End and a
dozen other places. That's all got to be sifted
out for what it's worth." He turned to the
other two. "The moment a man's description
is circulated as wanted, he's seen by someone
all over England."
"What is the man's description?" asked
Sir Charles.
Johnson took up a paper.
"John EUis. medium height, say five foot
seven or eight, .stoops slightly, gray hair, small side whiskers, dark eyes, husky voice, tooth missing in upper jaw visible when he
smiles, no special marks or characteristics."
"H'm," said Sir Charles. "Very nondescript, bar the side whiskers and the tooth, and the first will be off by now, and you
can't rely on his smiling."
"The trouble is," said Crossfield, "that
nobody observes anything. The difficulty I
had in getting anything but the vaguest description
out of the maids at the abbey. It's
always the same. I've had descriptions of one
and the same man, and he's been called tall, thin, short, stout, medium height, thickset, slender. Not one in fifty really uses his eyes
properly."
"You're satisfied in your own mind, superintendent, that Ellis is the man?"
"Why else did he bolt, sir? You can't get
away from that."
"That's the stumbling block," said Sir
Charles thoughtfully.
Mr. Satterthwaite repeated Sir Charles'
former question as to Bartholomew Strange's
papers.
"Couldn't find anything there, sir. Everything
seemed perfectly straight and aboveboard."

"That's so," put in Johnson. "I had a look
at them myself. There was nothing in the
least out of the way."
"I remember seeing Tollie's secretary once,
I think," said Sir Charles. "Efficient sort of
girl, but rather plain."
"That's right, sir. A very nice young lady,
though, and most businesslike. By the way,
we went through Sir Bartholomew's diary.
Just a notebook really—that's all it is. I've
got it here."
"Oh." Sir Charles held out an eager hand.
The superintendent handed him a little
green book, rather shabby and worn.
Mr. Satterthwaite looked over Sir Charles'
shoulder as the latter turned the leaves.
The entries were mere pencil jottings:
Old Lathom's sale. Some good port.
Must remember to go.
Tell L to get new set table mats.
Feeling all in. Shall retire soon.
Note—blow up that damn fool
gardener. Why can't he plant the tulips
thick enough?
The last entry was dated the day before
the tragedy. It ran as follows:
Am worried abut M--. Don't like the
look of things.
Tell L springs of sofa gone.
"I is Miss Lyndon," explained the superintendent.

"And M?"
"We don't know. Possibly one of his
patients."
Sir Charles then asked for the list of inmates
of the abbey on the night of the crime.
It ran as follows:
Martha Leckie, cook.
Beatrice Church, upper housemaid.
Doris Coker, under housemaid.
Victoria Ball, parlormaid.
Violet Bassington, kitchenmaid.
Above have all been in the service of deceased
for some time and bear good characters.
Mrs. Leckie has been there for
fifteen years.
Gladys Lyndon, secretary, thirty-three, has been secretary to Sir Bartholomew
Strange for three years; can give no information
as to likely motive.
Guests:
Lord and Lady Eden, Cadogan Square, London.
Sir Jocelyn and Lady Cambell, Harley
Street, London.
Miss Angela Sutcliffe, Cantrell Mansions, London, S.W. 3.
Captain and Mrs. Dacres, St. John's
House, London, W. 1. Mrs. Dacres carries
on business as Ambrosine, Ltd., Bruton Street, London.
Lady Mary and Miss Hermione Lytton
Gore, Rose Cottage, Loomouth.
Miss Muriel Wills, Upper Cathcart
Road, Tooting.
Mr. Oliver Manders, Messrs. Speier &
Ross, Old Broad Street, B.C.
"ITm," said Sir Charles, "the Tooting
touch is omitted by the papers. I see young
Manders was here too."
"That's by way of being an accident, sir,"
said Superintendent Crossfield. "The young
gentleman ran his motorcycle into a wall just
by the abbey, and Sir Bartholomew, who, I
understand, was slightly acquainted with him askpd him to stav the night."
"Careless thing to do," said Sir Charles
cheerfully.
"It was that, sir," said the superintendent.
"In fact, I fancy myself that the young gentleman
must have had one over the eight, as
the saying goes. What made him ram the
wall just where he did, I can't imagine, if he
was sober at the time."
"Just high spirit, I expect," said Sir
Charles.
"Spirits, it was, in my opinion, sir."
"Well, thank you very much, superintendent.
. . . Any objection to our going and
having a look at the abbey. Colonel
Johnson?"
"Of course not, my dear sir. Though I'm
afraid you won't learn much more there than
I can tell you."
"Anybody there?"
j "Only the domestic staff, sir. The house
party left immediately after the inquest, and
Miss Lyndon has returned to Harley Street."
"We might, perhaps, see Doctor--er--
Davis, too?" suggested Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Good idea."
They obtained the doctor's address, and
having thanked Colonel Johnson warmly for
his kindness, they left.
Eight
as they walked along the street. Sir Charles
said:
"Any ideas, Satterthwaite?"
"What about you?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
He liked to reserve judgment until
the last possible moment.
Not so Sir Charles; he spoke emphatically:
"They're wrong, Satterthwaite. They're all
wrong. They've got the butler on the brain.
The butler's done a bunk--ergo, the butler's
the murderer. It doesn't fit. No, it doesn't
fit. You can't leave that other death out of
account--the one down at my place."
"You're still of the opinion that the two
are connected?"
Mr. Satterthwaite asked the question,
though he had already answered it in the
affirmative in his own mind.
"Man, they must be connected. Everything noints to it. We've got to find the
common factor--someone who was present
on both occasions."
"Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "And that's
not going to be so simple a matter as one
might think on the face of it. We've got too
many common factors. Do you realize, Cartwright, that practically every person who
was present at the dinner at your house was
present here?"
Sir Charles nodded.
"Of course I've realized that, but do you
realize what deduction one can draw from
it?"
"I don't quite follow you, Cartwright."
"Dash it all, man; do you suppose that's
coincidence? No, it was meant. Why are all
the people who were at the first death present
at the second? Accident? Not on your life. It
was plain--design--Tollie's plan."
"Oh!" said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Yes, it's
possible."
"It's certain. You didn't know Tollie as
well as I did, Satterthwaite. He was a man
who kept his own counsel, and a very patient
man. In all the years I've known him, I've never known Tollie to give utterance to
a rash opinion or judgment.
"Look at it this way: Babbington's murdered--yes, murdered; I'm not going to
hedge or mince terms--murdered one
evening in my house. Tollie ridicules me
gently for my suspicions in the matter, but
all the time he's got suspicions of his own.
He doesn't talk about them--that's not his
way. But quietly, in his own mind, he's
building up a case. I don't know what he
had to build upon. It can't, I think, be a
case against any one particular person. He
believed that one of those people was responsible
for the crime, and he made a plan, a
test of some kind, to find out which person
it was."
"What about the other guests--the Edens
and the Cambells?"
"Camouflage. It made the whole thing less
obvious."
"What do you think the plan was?"
Sir Charles shrugged his shoulders--an exaggerated
foreign gesture. He was Aristide
Duval, that master mind of the secret service.
His left foot limped as he walked.
"How can we know? I am not a magician.
I cannot guess. But there was a plan. It went
wrong because the murderer was just one
degree cleverer than Tollie thought. He
struck first."
"He?"
"Or she. Poison is as much a woman's
weapon as a man's--more so."
Mr. Satterthwaite was silent. Sir Charles
said:
"Come now, don't you agree? Or are you
on the side of public opinion? The butler's
the man. He done it.' "
"What's your explanation of the butler?"
"I haven't thought about him. In my view, he doesn't matter. I could suggest an explanation."

"Such as?"
"Well, say that the police are right so far;
Ellis is a professional criminal, working in--
shall we say?--with a gang of burglars. Ellis
obtains this post with false credentials. Then
Tollie is murdered. What is Ellis' position?
A man is killed, and in the house is a man
whose fingerprints are at Scotland Yard and
who is known to the police. Naturally, he
gets the wind-up and bolts."
"But the secret passage."
"Secret passage be damned. He dodged
out of the house while one of the fat-headed
constables who were watching the house was
taking forty winks."
"It certainly seems more probable."
"Well, Satterthwaite, what's your view?"
"Mine?" said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Oh, it's
the same as yours. It has been all along. The
butler seems to me a very clumsy red herring.
I believe that Sir Bartholomew and poor
old Babbington were killed by the same
person."
"One of the house party?"
"One of the house party."
There was silence for a minute or two,
and then Mr. Satterthwaite asked casually:
"Which of them do you think it was?"
"My God, Satterthwaite, how can I tell?"
"You can't tell, of course," said Mr.
Satterthwaite mildly. "I just thought you
might have some idea--you know, nothing
scientific or reasoned. Just an ordinary
guess."
"Well, I haven't." He thought for a
minute, and then burst out: "You know, Satterthwaite, the moment you begin to
think, it seems impossible that any of them
did it."
"I suppose your theory is right," mused
Mr. Satterthwaite. "As to the assembling of
the suspects, I mean. We've got to take it
into account that there were certain definite
exclusions. Yourself and myself and Mrs.
Babbington, for instance. Young Manders, too; he was out of it."
"Manders?"
"Yes, his arrival on the scene was an accident.
He wasn't asked or expected. That lets
him out of the circle of suspects."
"The dramatist woman too. Anthony
Astor."
"No, no, she was there. Miss Muriel Wills, of Tooting."
"So she was. I'd forgotten the woman's
name was Wills."
He frowned. Mr. Satterthwaite was fairly
good at reading people's thoughts. He estimated
with fair accuracy what was passing
through the actor's mind. When the other
spoke, Mr. Satterthwaite mentally patted
himself on the back.
"You know, Satterthwaite, you're right. I
don't think it was definitely suspected people
that he asked, because, after all, Lady Mary
and Egg were there. No, he wanted to stage
some reproduction of the first business, perhaps.
He suspected someone, but he wanted
other eyewitnesses there to confirm matters.
Something of that kind."
"Something of the kind," agreed Mr.
Satterthwaite. "One can only generalize at
this stage. Very well, the Lytton Gores are
out of it; you and I and Mrs. Babbington
and Oliver Manders are out of it. Who is
left? Angela Sutcliffe?"
"Angle? My dear fellow. She's been a
friend of Tollie's for years."
"Then it boils down to the Dacres. In
fact, Cartwright, you suspect the Dacres. You
might just as well have said so when I asked
you."
Sir Charles looked at him. Mr. Satterthwaite
had a mildly triumphant air.
"I suppose," said Cartwright slowly, "that
I do. At least, I don't suspect them; they just
seem rather more possible than anyone else.
I don't know them very well, for one thing.
But for the life of me, I can't see why Freddie
Dacres, who spends his life on the race
course, or Cynthia, who spends her time
designing fabulously expensive clothes for
women, should have any desire to remove a
dear insignificant old clergyman."
He shook his head, then his face brightened.

"There's the Wills woman. I forgot her
again. What is there about her that continually
makes you forget her? She's the most
damnably nondescript creature I've ever
seen."
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled.
"I rather fancy she might embody Burns'
famous line, 'A chiel's amang ye takin' notes.'
t ^o+kor fon^v that Miss Wills spends her
time taking notes. There are sharp eyes behind
that pair of glasses. I think you'll find
that anything worth noticing in this affair
has been noticed by Miss Wills."
"Do you?" said Sir Charles doubtfully.
"The next thing to do," said Mr.
Satterthwaite, "is to have some lunch. After
that, we'll go out to the abbey and see what
we can discover on the spot."
"You seem to be taking very kindly to
this, Satterthwaite," said Sir Charles, with a
twinkle of amusement.
"The investigation of crime is not new to
me," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Once when
my car broke down and I was staying at a
lonely inn--"
He got no further.
"I remember," said Sir Charles, in his
high, clear, carrying actor's voice, "when I
was touring in 1921--"
Sir Charles won.
<'
Nine
nothing could have been more peaceful than
the grounds and building of Melfort Abbey
as the two men saw it that afternoon in the
September sunshine.
Portions of the abbey were fifteenth century.
It had been restored and a new wing
added on to it. The new sanatorium was out
of sight of the house, with grounds of its
own.
Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite were
received by Mrs. Leckie, the cook, a portly
lady, decorously gowned in black, who was
tearful and voluble. Sir Charles she already
knew, and it was to him she addressed most
of her conversation:
"You'll understand, I'm sure, sir, what
it's meant to me. The master's death and all.
Policemen all over the place, poking their
noses here and there. Would you believe it, ----„ ^u^ ^,,^,1-u^o i-i"»^\r l-iad m have their
noses in. And questions--they wouldn't have
done with asking questions. Oh, that I should
have lived to see such a thing--the doctor
such a quiet gentleman as he always was, and made Sir Bartholomew, too, which a
proud day it was to all of us, as Beatrice and
I well remember, though she's been here two
years less than I have. And such questions as
that police fellow--for 'gentleman' I will not
call him, having been accustomed to gentlemen
and their ways, and knowing what's
what--fellow, I say, whether or no he is a
superintendent."
Mrs. Leckie paused, took breath and extricated
herself from the somewhat complicated
conversational morass into which she
had fallen: "Questions, that's what I say, about all the maids in the house--and good
girls they are, every one of them--not that
I'd say that Doris gets up when she should
do in the morning. I have to speak about it at least once a week; and Vickie, she's inclined
to be impertinent, but there, with the
young ones you can't expect the training--
their mothers don't give it to them nowadays--but
good girls they are and no police
superintendent shall make me say otherwise. 'Yes,' I said to him, 'you needn't think I'm
crmno- tr» <;£i\7 'an'vthino- ao-cnnct m\7 crirls
They're good girls, they are, and as to having
anything to do with murder, why, it's
downright wicked to suggest such a thing.5 "
Mrs. Leckie paused.
"Mr. Ellis, now, that's different. I don't
know anything about Mr. Ellis and couldn't
answer for him in any way, he having been
brought from London and strange to the
place, while Mr. Baker was on holiday."
"Baker?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Mr. Baker had been Sir Bartholomew's
butler for the last seven years, sir. He was in
London most of the time, in Harley Street.
You'll remember him, sir?" She appealed to Sir Charles, who nodded. "Sir Bartholomew
used to bring him up here when he h-ad a
party. But he hadn't been so well in his
health, so Sir Bartholomew said, and he gave
him a couple of months' holiday, paid for
him, too, in a place near the sea down near
Brighton--a real kind gentleman the doctor
was--and he took Mr. Ellis on temporary
for the time being, and so, as I said to that
superintendent, I' can't say anything about
Mr. Ellis, though from all he said himself,
he seems to have been with the best families, and he certainly had a gentlemanly way with
FR1;"You didn't find anything unusual about
him?" asked Sir Charles hopefully.
"Well, it's odd your saying that, sir, because
if you know what I mean, I did and I
didn't."
Sir Charles looked encouraging and Mrs.
Leckie went on:
"I couldn't exactly say what it was, sir, but there was something--"
"There always is--after the event,"
thought Mr. Satterthwaite to himself grimly.
However much Mrs. Leckie had despised
the police, she was not proof against suggestion.
If Ellis turned out to be criminal, well, Mrs. Leckie would have noticed something.
"For one thing, he was standoffish. Oh, quite polite, quite the gentleman--as I said, he'd been used to good houses. But he kept
himself to himself, spent a lot of time in his
own room. And he was--well, I don't know
how to describe it, I'm sure--he was--well, there was something--"
"You didn't suspect he wasn't--not really
a butler?" suggested Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Oh, he'd been in service right enough, sir. The things he knew--and about wellknown
people in society too."
"Such as?" suggested Sir Charles gently.
But Mrs. Leckie heramp vaoiip and nnn-
committal. She was not going to retail servants' hall gossip. Such a thing would have
offended her sense of fitness.
To put her at her ease, Mr. Satterthwaite
said:
"Perhaps you can describe his appearance."
Mrs. Leckie brightened.
"Yes, indeed, sir. He was a very
respectable-looking man--side whiskers and
gray hair, stooped a little, and he was growing
stout--it worried him, that did. He had
rather a shaky hand, too, but not from the
cause you might imagine. He was a most
abstemious man--not like many I've known.
His eyes were a bit weak, I think, sir; the
light hurt them--especially a bright light
used to make them water something cruel.
Out with us he wore glasses, but not when
he was on duty."
"No special distinguishing marks?" asked
Sir Charles. "No scars? Or broken fingers?
Or birthmarks?"
"Oh, no, sir, nothing of that kind."
"How superior detective stories are to life,"
sighed Sir Charles. "In fiction there is always
some distinguishing characteristic."
"He had a tooth missing," said Mr.
"I believe so, sir. I never noticed it
myself."
"What was his manner on the night of the
tragedy?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite in a
slightly bookish manner.
"Well, really, sir, I couldn't say. I was
busy, you see, in my kitchen. I hadn't time
for noticing things."
"No, no, quite so."
"When the news came out that the master
was dead, we were all struck all of a heap. I
cried and couldn't stop, and so did Beatrice.
The young ones, of course, were excited like, though very upset. Mr. Ellis, naturally, wasn't so upset as we were, he being new, but he behaved very considerate, and insisted
on Beatrice and me taking a little glass
of port to counteract the shock. And to think
that all the time it was he--the villain--"
Words failed Mrs. Leckie, her eyes shone
with indignation.
"He disappeared that night, I understand?"

"Yes, sir, went to his room like the rest of us, and in the morning he wasn't there.
That's what set the police on him, of course."
"Yes, yes, very foolish of him. Have you
any idea how he left the house?"
"Not the slightest. It seems the police were
watching the house all night, and they never
saw him go--but there, that's what the police
are, human like anyone else, in spite of
the airs that they give themselves, coming
into a gentleman's house and nosing round."
"I hear there's some question of a secret
passage," Sir Charles said.
Mrs. Leckie sniffed.
"That's what the police say."
"Is there such a thing?"
"I've heard mention of it," Mrs. Leckie
agreed cautiously.
"Do you know where it starts from?"
"No, I don't, sir. Secret passages are all
very well, but they're not things to be encouraged
in the servants' hall. It gives the
girls ideas. They might think of slipping out
that way. My girls go out by the back door
and in by the back door, and then we know
where we are."
"Splendid, Mrs. Leckie. I think you're
very wise."
Mrs. Leckie bridled in the sun of Sir
Charles' approval.
"I wonder," he went on, "if we might just
ask a few questions of the other servants?"
"Of course, sir, but they can't tell you
anything more than I can."
"Oh T know I didn't mean so much about
EUis as about Sir Bartholomew himself--his
manner that night, and so on. You see, he
was a friend of mine."
"I know, sir. I quite understand. There's
Beatrice, and there's Doris. She waited at
table, of course."
"Yes, I'd like to see Doris."
Mrs. Leckie, however, had a belief in seniority.
Beatrice Church, the upper housemaid, was the first to appear.
She was a tall, thin woman with a pinched
mouth, who looked aggressively respectable.
After a few unimportant questions. Sir
Charles led the talk to the behavior of the
house party on the fatal evening. Had they
all been terribly upset? What had they said
or done?
A little animation entered into Beatrice's
manner. She had the usual ghoulish relish
for tragedy.
"Miss Sutcliffe, she quite broke down. A
very warm-hearted lady, she's stayed here
before. I suggested bringing her a little drop
of brandy, or a nice cup of tea, but she
wouldn't hear of it. She took some aspirin, though. Said she was sure she couldn't sleep.
But she was sleeping like a little child the
next morning when I brought her her early
tea."
"And Mrs. Dacres?"
"I don't think anything would upset that
lady much."
From Beatrice's tone, she had not liked
Cynthia Dacres.
"Just anxious to get away, she was. Said
her business would suffer. She's a big dressmaker
in London, so Mr. EUis told us."
A big dressmaker, to Beatrice, meant
"trade," and "trade" she looked down upon.
"And her husband?"
Beatrice sniffed.
"Steadied his nerves with brandy, he did.
Or unsteadied them, some would say."
"What about Lady Mary Lytton Gore?"
"A very nice lady," said Beatrice, her tone
softening. "My great-aunt was in service with
her father at the castle. A pretty young girl
she was, so I've always heard. Poor she may
be, but you can see she's someone--and so
considerate, never giving trouble and always
speaking so pleasant. Her daughter's a nice
young lady too. They didn't know Sir
Bartholomew well, of course, but they were
very distressed."
"Miss Wills?"
Some of Beatrice's rigidity returned.
"I'm sure I couldn't say, sir, what Miss
\V7^11r. +l-»/-mrrlft- *al-»rvnt it i?
"Or what you thought about her?" asked
Sir Charles. "Come now, Beatrice, be
human."
An unexpected smile dinted Beatrice's
wooden cheeks. There was something appealingly
schoolboyish in Sir Charles' manner.
She was not proof against the charm
that nightly audiences had felt so strongly.
"Really, sir, I don't know what you want
me to say."
"Just what you thought and felt about
Miss Wills."
"Nothing, sir--nothing at all. She wasn't, of course--" Beatrice hesitated.
"Go on, Beatrice."
"Well, she wasn't quite the class of the
others, sir. She couldn't help it, I know,"
went on Beatrice kindly. "But she did things
a real lady wouldn't have done. She pried, if
you know what I mean, sir--poked and pried
about."
Sir Charles tried hard to get this statement
amplified, but Beatrice remained vague. Miss
Wills had poked and pried; but asked to
produce a special instance of the poking, Beatrice seemed unable to do so. She merely
repeated that Miss Wills pried into things
that were no business of hers.
They gave it up at last and Mr.
Satterthwaite said: *
"Young Mr. Manders arrived unexpectedly,
didn't he?"
"Yes, sir, he had an accident with his
motorcycle--just by the lodge gates, it was.
He said it was a bit of luck, its happening
just here. The house was full, of course, but
Miss Lyndon had a bed made up for him in
the little study."
"Was everyone very surprised to see him?"
"Oh, yes, sir; naturally, sir."
Asked her opinion of Ellis, Beatrice was
noncommittal. She'd seen very little of him.
Going off the way he did looked bad; though
why he should want to harm the master, she
couldn't imagine. Nobody could.
"What was he like--the doctor, I mean?
Did he seem to be looking forward to the
house party? Had he anything on his mind?"
"He seemed particularly cheerful, sir.
Smiled to himself, he did, as though he had
some joke on. I even heard him make a joke
with Mr. Ellis--a thing he'd never done with
Mr. Baker. He was usually a bit brusque
with the servants, kind always, but not
speaking to them much."
"What did he say?" asked Mr. Satter4M»»Trt<-#-A
^^n/»A*»llT
"Well, I forget exactly now, sir. Mr. Ellis
had come up with a telephone message, and
Sir Bartholomew asked him if he was sure
he'd got the names right, and Mr. Ellis said
quite sure--speaking respectful, of course.
And the doctor, he laughed and said, 'You're
a good fellow, Ellis, a first-class butler. . . .
Eh, Beatrice, what do you think?' And I was
so surprised, sir, at the master speaking like
that--quite unlike his usual self--that I
didn't know what to say."
"And Ellis?"
"He looked kind of disapproving, sir. As
though it was the kind of thing he hadn't
been used to. Stiff like."
"What was the telephone message?" asked
Sir Charles.
"The message, sir? Oh, it was from the
sanatorium--about a patient who had arrived
there and had stood the journey well."
"Do you remember the name?"
"It was a queer name, sir," Beatrice hesitated.
"Mrs. de Rushbridger--something like
that."
"Ah, yes," said Sir Charles soothingly.
"Not an easy name to get right on the telephone.
Well, thank you very much, Beatrice.
Perhaps we could see Doris now."
VCn"IPn Rpfltnr^ liar! 1p»ft thf» rr»r»m ^ir
FR1;Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite compared
notes by an interchange of glances.
"Miss Wills poked and pried. Captain
Dacres got drunk, Mrs. Dacres displayed no
emotion. Anything there? Precious little."
"Very little indeed," agreed Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Let's pin our hopes on Doris."
Doris was a demure dark-eyed young
woman of thirty. She was only too pleased to
talk.
She herself didn't believe Mr. Ellis had
anything to do with it. He was too much the
gentleman. The police had suggested he was
just a common crook. Doris was sure he was
nothing of the sort.
"You're quite certain he was an ordinary
honest-to-God butler?" asked Sir Charles.
"Not ordinary, sir. He wasn't like any
butler that I've ever worked with before. He
arranged the work different."
"But you don't think he poisoned your
master."
"Oh, sir, I don't see how he could have
done. I was waiting at table with him, and
he couldn't have put anything in the master's
food without my seeing him."
"And the drink?"
"He went round with the wmp- sir Sbprrv-
first, with the soup, and then hock and claret.
But what could he have done, sir? If there'd
been anything in the wine, he'd have poisoned
everybody--or all those who took it.
It's not as though the master had anything
that nobody else had. The same thing with
the port. All the gentlemen had port, and
some of the ladies."
"The wineglasses were taken out on a
tray?"
"Yes, sir, I held the tray and Mr. Ellis put
the glasses on it, and I carried the tray out
to the pantry, and there they were, sir, when
the police came to examine them. The port
glasses were still on the table. And the police
didn't find anything."
"You're quite sure that the doctor didn't
have anything to eat or drink at dinner that
nobody else had?"
"Not that I saw, sir. In fact, I'm sure he
didn't."
"Nothing that one of the guests gave him?"
"Oh, no, sir."
"Do you know anything about a secret
passage, Doris?"
"One of the gardeners told me something
about it. Comes out in the wood where there's
some old walls and things tumbled down.
But I've never seen any opening to it in the
house."
"Ellis never said anything about it?"
"Oh, no, sir; he wouldn't know anything
about it, I'm sure."
"Who do you really think killed your master,
Doris?"
"I don't know, sir. I can't believe anyone
did. I feel it must have been some kind of
accident."
"H'm, thank you, Doris."
"If it wasn't for the death of Babbington,"
said Sir Charles, as the girl left the room, "we could make her the criminal. She's a
good-looking girl. And she waited at table.
. . . No, it won't do. Babbington was murdered.
And anyway, Tollie never noticed
good-looking girls. He wasn't made that
way."
"But he was fifty-five," said Mr.
Satterthwaite thoughtfully.
"Why do you say that?"
"It's the age when a man loses his head
badly about a girl, even if he hasn't done so
before."
"Dash it all, Satterthwaite, I'm--er--getting
on for fifty-five."
"I know" said Mr. Satterthwaite.
And before his gentle twinkling gaze. Sir
Charles' eyes fell.
He looked consciously confused.
Satterthwaite pointed out to Sir Charles that
that seemed rather a remarkable fact.
"Any man in his senses would have
changed into an ordinary suit."
"Yes, it's odd, that. Looks almost--though
that's absurd--as if he hadn't gone at all.
Nonsense, of course."
They continued their search. No letters, no papers, except a cutting from a newspaper
regarding a cure for corns, and a paragraph
relating to the approaching marriage
of a duke's daughter.
There was a small blotting book and a
penny bottle of ink on a side table; no pen.
Sir Charles held up the blotting book to the
mirror, but without result. One page of it
was very much used--a meaningless jumble--and
the ink looked, to both men, old.
"Either he hasn't written any letters since
he was here or he hadn't blotted them,"
deduced Mr. Satterthwaite. "This is an old
blotter. Ah, yes." With some gratification, he pointed to a barely decipherable "I.
Baker" amidst the jumble.
"I should say that Ellis hadn't used this at
all."
"That's rather odd, isn't it?" said Sir
Charles.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, a man usually writes letters."
"Not if he's a criminal."
"No, perhaps you're right. There must
have been something fishy about him to make
him bolt as he did. All we say is that he
didn't murder Tollie."
They hunted round the floor, raising the
carpet, looking under the bed. There was
nothing anywhere except a splash of ink beside
the fireplace. The room was disappointingly
bare.
They left it in a somewhat disconcerted
fashion. Their zeal as detectives was momentarily
damped.
Possibly the thought passed through their
minds that things were arranged better in
books.
They had a few words with the other
members of the staff, scared-looking juniors
in awe of Mrs. Leckie and Beatrice Church, but they elicited nothing further.
Finally they took their leave.
"Well, Satterthwaite," said Sir Charles, as
they strolled across the park--Mr. Satterthwaite's
car had been instructed to pick
them up at the lodge--"anything strike you--
anything at all?"
Mr. Satterthwaite thought. He was not to
be hurried into an answer--especially as he
felt something ought to have struck him. To
confess that the whole expedition had been a
waste of time was an unwelcome idea. He
passed over in his mind the evidence of one
servant after another; the information was
extraordinarily meager.
As Sir Charles had summed it up just
now. Miss Wills had poked and pried. Miss
Sutcliffe had been very upset. Mrs. Dacres
had not been upset at all, and Captain Dacres
had got drunk. Very little there, unless
Freddie Dacres' indulgence showed the deadening
of a guilty conscience. But Freddie
Dacres, Mr. Satterthwaite knew, quite frequently
got drunk.
"Well?" repeated Sir Charles impatiently.
"Nothing," confessed Mr. Satterthwaite
reluctantly, "except--well, I think we are
entitled to assume, from the clipping we
found, that Ellis suffered from corns." Sir Charles gave a wry smile.
"That seems quite a reasonable deduction.
Does it--er--get us anywhere?"
Mr. Satterthwaite confessed that it did not.
"The only other thing," he said, and then
stopped.
"Yes? Go on, man. Anything may help."
"It struck me as a little odd the way that
Sir Bartholomew chaffed his butler--you
know, what the household told us. It seems, somehow, uncharacteristic."
"It was uncharacteristic," said Sir Charles
with emphasis. "I knew Tollie well--better
than you did--and I can tell you that he
wasn't a facetious sort of man. He'd never
have spoken like that unless--well, unless, for some reason, he wasn't quite normal at
the time. You're right, Satterthwaite; that is
a point. Now where does it get us?"
"Well--" began Mr. Satterthwaite, but it
was clear that Sir Charles' question had been
merely a rhetorical one. He was anxious, not
to hear Mr. Satterthwaite's views, but to air
his own.
"You remember when that incident occurred, Satterthwaite? Just after Ellis had
brought him a telephone message. I think
it's a fair deduction to assume that it was
that telephone message which was the cause
of Tollie's sudden unusual hilarity. You may
remember I asked the housemaid woman
what that message had been."
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.
"It was to say that a woman named Mrs.
de Rushbridger had arrived at the sanatorium,"
he said, to show that he, too, had
paid attention to the point. "It doesn't sound
particularly thrilling."
"It doesn't sound so, certainly. But if our
reasoning is correct, there must be some significance
in that message."
"Ye-es," said Mr. Satterthwaite doubtfully.

"Indubitably," said Sir Charles. "We've
got to find out what that significance was. It
just crosses my mind that it may have been a
code message of some kind--a harmlesssounding,
natural thing, but which really
meant something entirely different. If Tollie
had been making inquiries into Babbington's
death, this may have had something to do
with those inquiries. Say, even, that he employed
a private detective to find out a certain
fact. He may have told him, in the event
of this particular suspicion being justified, to
ring up and use that particular phrase, which
would convey no hint of the truth to anyone
taking it. That would explain his jubilation, it might explain his asking Ellis if he was
sure of the name; he himself knowing well
there was no such person really. In fact, the
slight lack of balance a person shows when
he has brought off what can be described as
a long shot."
"You think there's no such person as Mrs.
de Rushbridger?"
"Well, I think we ought to find out for
certain."
"How?"
"We might run along to the sanatorium
now and ask the matron."
"She may think it rather odd."
Sir Charles laughed.
"You leave it to me," he said.
They turned aside from the drive and
walked in the direction of the sanatorium.
Mr. Satterthwaite said:
"What about you, Cartwright? Does anything
strike you at all? Arising out of our
visit to the house, I mean?"
Sir Charles answered slowly: "Yes, there
is something. The devil of it is, I can't remember
what."
Mr. Satterthwaite stared at him in surprise.
The other frowned.
"How can I explain? There was something--something
which, at the moment, struck me as wrong, as unlikely--only, I
hadn't the time to think about it then. I put
it aside in my own mind."
"And now you can't remember what it
was?"
"No. Only that at some moment I said to
myself. That's odd.' "
"Was it when we were questioning the
servants? Which servant?"
"I tell you I can't remember. And the
more I think the less I shall remember. If I
leave it alone, it may come back to me."
They came into view of the sanatorium, a
big white modem building, divided from the
park by palings. There was a gate through
which they passed, and they rang the front
doorbell and asked for the matron.
The matron, when she came, was a tall
middle-aged woman, with an intelligent face
and a capable manner. Sir Charles she clearly
knew by name as a friend of the late Sir
Bartholomew Strange.
Sir Charles explained that he had just come
back from abroad, had been horrified to hear
of his friend's death and of the terrible suspicions
entertained, and had been up to the
house to learn as many details as he could.
The matron spoke in moving terms of the
loss Sir Bartholomew would be to them, and
of his fine career as a doctor. Sir Charles
professed himself anxious to know what was
going to happen to the sanatorium. The matron
explained that Sir Bartholomew had had
two partners, both capable doctors; one was
in residence at the sanatorium.
"Bartholomew was very proud of this
place, I know," said Sir Charles.
"Yes, his treatments were a great success."
"Mostly nerve cases, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"That reminds me, fellow I met out at
Monte had some kind of relation coming here.
I forget her name now—odd sort of name—
Rushbridger—Rushbridger—something like
that."
"Mrs. de Rushbridger, you mean?"
"That's it. Is she here now?"
"Oh, yes. But I'm afraid she won't be able
to see you—not for some time yet. She's
having a very strict rest cure." The matron
smiled just a trifle archly. "No letters, no
exciting visitors."
"I say, she's not very bad, is she?"
"Rather a bad nervous breakdown—lapses
of memory and severe nervous exhaustion.
Oh, we shall get her right in time."
The matron smiled reassuringly.
"Let me see. Haven't I heard Tollie—Sir
Bartholomew—speak of her? She was a friend
of his as well as a patient, wasn't she?"
"I don't think so. Sir Charles. At least the
doctor never said so. She has recently arrived
from the West Indies. Really, it was very
funny, I must tell you. Rather a difficult
name for a servant to remember--the
parlormaid here is rather stupid. She came
and said to me: 'Mrs. West India has come,' and of course I suppose Rushbridger does
sound rather like West India; but it was
rather a coincidence, her having just come
from the West Indies."
"Rather, rather; most amusing. Her husband
over too?"
"He's still out there."
"Ah, quite, quite. I must be mixing her
up with someone else. It was a case the
doctor was specially interested in."
"Cases of amnesia are fairly common, but
they're always interesting to a medical man--
the variations, you know. Two cases are seldom
alike."
"Seems all very odd to me. . . . Well, thank you, matron. I'm glad to have had a
little chat with you. I know how much Tollie
thought of you. He often spoke about you,"
finished Sir Charles mendaciously.
"Oh, I'm glad to hear that." The matron
flushed and bridled. "Such a splendid man;
such a loss to us all. We were absolutely
shocked--well, stunned would describe it
better. Murder! 'Whoever would murder
Doctor Strange?' I said. It's incredible. That
awful butler. I hope the police catch him.
And no motive or anything."
Sir Charles shook his head sadly and they
took their departure, going round by the
road to the spot where the car awaited them.
In revenge for his enforced quiescence during
the interview with the matron, Mr.
Satterthwaite displayed a lively interest in
the scene of Oliver Manders' accident, plying
the lodge keeper, a slow-witted man of
middle age, with questions.
Yes, that was the place, where the wall
was broken away. On a motorcycle the young
gentleman was. No, he didn't see it happen.
He heard it, though, and come out to see.
The young gentleman was standing there--
just where the other gentleman was standing
now. He didn't seem to be hurt. Just looking
rueful like at his bike--and a proper
mess that was. Just asked what the name of
the place might be, and when he heard it
was Sir Bartholomew Strangers, he said, "That's a piece of luck," and went on up to
the house. A very calm young gentleman he
seemed to be--tired like. How he come to
have such an accident the lodge keeper
couldn't see, but he supposed them things
went wrong sometimes.
"It was an odd accident," said Mr.
Satterthwaite thoughtfully.
He looked at the wide straight road. No
bends, no dangerous crossroads, nothing to
cause a motorcyclist to swerve suddenly into
a ten-foot wall. Yes, an odd accident.
"What's in your mind, Satterthwaite?"
asked Sir Charles curiously.
"Nothing," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Nothing."
"Ifs odd, certainly," said Sir Charles, and
he, too, stared at the scene of the accident in
a puzzled manner.
They got into the car and drove off.
Mr. Satterthwaite was busy with his
thoughts. Mrs. de Rushbridger. . . .
Cartwright's theory wouldn't work, it wasn't
a code message. There was such a person.
But could there be something about the
woman herself? Was she, perhaps, a witness
of some kind? Or was it just because she was
an interesting case that Bartholomew Strange
had displayed this unusual elation? Was she,
perhaps, an attractive woman? To fall in love
at the age of fifty-five did—Mr. Satterthwaite
had observed it many a time—change a man's
character completely. It might, perhaps,
make him facetious where, before, he had
been aloof.
His thoughts were interrupted. Sir Charles
leaned forward.
"Satterthwaite," he said, "do you mind if
we turn back?"
Without waiting for a reply, he took up
the speaking tube and gave the order. The
car slowed down, stopped, and the chauffeur
began to reverse into a convenient lane. A
minute or two later they were bowling along
the road in the opposite direction.
"What is it?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
"I've just remembered," said Sir Charles,
"what it was that struck me as odd. It was
the ink stain on the floor in the butler's
room."
Eleven
mr. satterthwaite stared at his friend in surprise.

"The ink stain? What do you mean,
Cartwright?"
"You remember it?"
"I remember there was an ink stain, yes."
"You remember its position?"
"Well, not exactly."
"It was close to the skirting board near the
fireplace."
"Yes, so it was. I remember now."
"How do you think that stain was caused, Satterthwaite?"
Mr. Satterthwaite reflected a minute or
two.
"It wasn't a big stain," he said at last. "It
couldn't have been an upset ink bottle. I
should say, in all probability, that the man
dropped his fountain pen there. There was
no pen in the room, you remember." ["He
shall see that I notice things just as much as
he does," thought Mr. Satterthwaite.] "So it
seems clear that the man must have had a
fountain pen if he ever wrote at all, and
there's no evidence that he ever did."
"Yes, there is, Satterthwaite. There's the
ink stain."
"He mayn't have been writing," snapped
Mr. Satterthwaite. "He may have just
dropped the pen on the floor."
"But there wouldn't have been a stain unless
the top had been off the pen."
"I dare say you're right," said Mr.
Satterthwaite. "But I can't see what's odd
about it."
"Perhaps there isn't anything odd," said
Sir Charles. "I can't tell till I get back and
see for myself."
They were turning in at the lodge gates. A
few minutes later they had arrived at the
house, and Sir Charles was allaying the curiosity
caused by his return by inventing a
pencil left behind in the butler's room.
"And now," said Sir Charles, shutting the
door of Ellis' room behind them, having, with some skill, shaken off the helpful Mrs.
Leckie, "let's see if I'm making an infernal
fool of myself, or whether there's anything in my idea."
FR1;In Mr. Satterthwaite's opinion, the former
alternative was by far the more probable, but
he was much too polite to say so. He sat
down on the bed and watched the other.
"Here's our stain," said Sir Charles, indicating
the mark with his foot. "Right up
against the skirting board at the opposite
side of the room to the writing table. Under
what circumstances would a man drop a pen
just there?"
"You can drop a pen anywhere," said Mr.
Satterthwaite.
"You can hurl it across the room, of
course," agreed Sir Charles. "But one doesn't
usually treat one's pen like that. I don't know, though. Fountain pens are damned annoying
things. Dry up and refuse to write just when
you most want them to. Perhaps that's the
solution of the matter. Ellis lost his temper, said, 'Damn the thing,' and hurled it across
the room."
"I think there are plenty of explanations,"
said Mr. Satterthwaite. "He may have simply
laid the pen on the mantelpiece and it
rolled off."
Sir Charles experimented with a pencil.
He allowed it to roll off the corner of the
mantplnipre The nendl struck the ffround at
least a foot from the mark and rolled inwards
toward the gas fire.
"Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "what's
your explanation?"
"I'm trying to find one."
From his seat on the bed, Mr. Satterthwaite
now witnessed a thoroughly amusing
performance.
Sir Charles tried dropping the pencil from
his hand as he walked in the direction of the
fireplace. He tried sitting on the edge of the
bed and writing there, and then dropping
the pencil. To get the pencil to fall on the
right spot, it was necessary to stand or sit
jammed up against the wall in a most
unconvincing attitude.
"That's impossible," said Sir Charles
aloud. He stood considering the wall, the
stain and the prim little gas fire.
"If he were burning papers, now," he said
thoughtfully. "But one doesn't bum papers
in a gas fire."
Suddenly Sir Charles drew in his breath.
A minute later Mr. Satterthwaite was realizing
Sir Charles' profession to the full.
Charles Cartwright had become Ellis, the
butler. He sat writing at the writing table.
He looked furtive; every now and then he
raised his eyes, shooting them shiftily from
side to side. Suddenly he seemed to hear
something. Mr. Satterthwaite could even
guess what that something was--footsteps
along the passage. The man had a guilty
conscience. He attached a certain meaning to
those footsteps. He sprang up, the paper on
which he had been writing in one hand, his
pen in the other. He darted across the room
to the fireplace, his head half turned, still
alert, listening, afraid. He tried to shove the
papers under the gas fire; in order to use
both hands, he cast down the pen impatiently.
Sir Charles5 pencil, the pen of the
drama, fell accurately on the ink stain.
"Bravo!" said Mr. Satterthwaite, applauding
generously.
So good had the performance been that he
was left with the impression that so, and
only so, could Ellis have acted.
"You see?" said Sir Charles, resuming his
own personality and speaking with modest
elation. "If the fellow heard the police, or
what he thought was the police, coming and
had to hide what he was writing--well, where
could he hide it? Not in a drawer or under
the mattress. If the police searched the room, that would be found at once. He hadn't time
to take up a floor board. No, behind the gas
fire was the only chance."
FR1;"T"!,^	-.^,,«.	-.I-*----	<-^	^^ "
The next thing to do," said Mr.
Satterthwaite, "is to see whether there is anything
hidden behind the gas fire."
"Exactly. Of course, it may have been a
false alarm and he may have got the things
out again later. But we'll hope for the best."
Removing his coat and turning up his shirt
sleeves. Sir Charles lay down on the floor
and applied his eye to the crack under the
gas fire.
"There's something under there," he reported.
"Something white. How can we get it out? We want something like a woman's
hatpin."
"Women don't have hatpins any more,"
said Mr. Satterthwaite sadly. "Perhaps a
penknife."
But a penknife proved unavailing.
In the end, Mr. Satterthwaite went out
and borrowed a knitting needle from
Beatrice. Though extremely curious to know
what he wanted it for, her sense of decorum
was too great to permit her to ask.
The knitting needle did the trick. Sir
Charles extracted half a dozen sheets of
crumpled writing paper, hastily crushed together
and pushed in.
With growing excitement, he and Mr.
Satterthwaite smoothed them out. They were
clearly several different drafts of a letter, written in a small, neat, clerkly handwriting.
The first began:
This is to say that the writer of this
does not wish to cause unpleasantness and
may possibly have been mistaken in what
he thought he saw tonight, but--
Here the writer had clearly been dissatisfied
and had broken off to start afresh:
John Ellis, butler, presents his
compliments and would be glad of a short
interview touching the tragedy tonight, before going to the police with certain
information in his possession--
Still dissatisfied, the man had tried again:
John Ellis, butler, has certain facts
concerning the death of the doctor in his
possession. He has not yet given these
facts to the police--
In the next one the use of the third person
had been abandoned:
I am badly in need of money. A
thousand pounds would make all the
difference to me. There are certain things
I could tell the police, but do not want to
make trouble--
The last one was even more unreserved:
I know how the doctor died. I haven't
said anything to the police--yet. If you
will meet me--
This letter broke off in a different way;
after the "me," the pen had tailed off in a
scrawl and the last five words were all blurred
and blotchy. Clearly, it was when writing
this that Ellis had heard something that
alarmed him. He had crumpled up the papers
and dashed to conceal them.
Mr. Satterthwaite drew a deep breath.
"I congratulate you, Cartwright," he said.
"Your instinct about that ink stain was right.
Good work. Now let's see exactly where we
stand."
He paused a minute.
"Ellis, as we thought, is a scoundrel. He
wasn't the murderer, but he knew who the
murderer was, and he was preparing to
blackmail him or her."
"Him or her," interrupted Sir Charles.
FR1;"Annoying we don't know which. Why
couldn't the fellow begin one of his effusions 'sir' or 'madam'; then we'd know where we
are. Ellis seems to have been an artistic sort
of fellow. He was taking a lot of trouble over
his blackmailing letter. If only he'd given us
one clue--one simple little clue--as to whom
that letter was addressed to."
"Never mind," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"We are getting on. You remember you said
that what we wanted to find in this room
was a proof of Ellis' innocence. Well, we've
found it. These letters show that he was
innocent--of the murder, I mean. He was a
thorough-paced scoundrel in other ways, but
he didn't murder Sir Bartholomew Strange.
Somebody else did that. Someone who murdered
Babbington also. I think even the police
will have to come round to our view
now."
"You're going to tell them about this?" Sir
Charles, voice expressed dissatisfaction.
"I don't see that we can do otherwise.
Why?"
"Well--" Sir Charles sat down on the bed.
His brow furrowed itself in thought. "How
can I put it best? At the moment we know
something that nobody else does. The police
arp Inoldna for F.llis. They think he's the
murderer. Everyone knows that they think
he's the murderer. So the real criminal must
be feeling pretty good. He or she will be not
exactly off his or her guard, but feeling--
well, comfortable. Isn't it a pity to upset that
state of things? Isn't that just our chance? I
mean our chance of finding a connection
between Babbington and one of these people.
They don't know that anyone has connected
this death with Babbington's death.
They'll be unsuspicious. It's a chance in a
hundred."
"I see what you mean," said Mr.
Satterthwaite. "And I agree with you. It is a
chance. But all the same, I don't think we
can take it. It is our duty as citizens to report
this discovery of ours to the police at once.
We have no right to withhold it from them."
Sir Charles looked at him quizzically.
"You're the pattern of a good citizen, Satterthwaite. I've no doubt the orthodox
thing must be done, but I'm not nearly such
a good citizen as you are. I should have no
scruples in keeping this find to myself for a
day or two--only a day or two, eh? . . . No?
Well, I give in. Let us be pillars of law and
order."
"You see," explained Mr. Satterthwaite, "Johnson is a friend of mine and he was very
decent about it all--let us into all the police
were doing: gave us full information and all
that."
"Oh, you're right," sighed Sir Charles.
"Quite right. Only, after all, no one but me
thought of looking under that gas stove. The
idea never occurred to one of those thickheaded
policemen. But have it your own
way. I say, Satterthwaite, where do you think
Ellis is now?"
"I presume," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that
he got what he wanted. He was paid to
disappear, and he did disappear, most effectually."

"Yes," said Sir Charles, "I suppose that is
the explanation."
He gave a slight shiver.
"I don't like this room, Satterthwaite.
Come out of it."
Twelve
sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite arrived
back in London the following evening.
The interview with Colonel Johnson had
had to be very tactfully conducted. Superintendent
Crossfield had not been too pleased
that mere "gentlemen" should have found
what he and his assistants had missed. He
was at some pains to save his face.
"Very creditable indeed, sir. I confess I
never thought of looking under the gas fire.
As a matter of fact, it beats me what set you
looking there."
The two men had not gone into a detailed
account of how theorizing from an ink blot
had led to the discovery. "Just nosing
around" was how Sir Charles had put it.
"Still, look you did," continued the superintendent.
"And were justified. Not that what
you've found is much surprise to me. You
see, it stands to reason that if Ellis wasn't the
FR1;Her tone implied, "Now that you've come, everything will be all right."
Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself: "But
she wasn't sure he'd come; she wasn't sure at
all. She's been on tenterhooks. She's been
fretting herself to death." And he thought:
"Doesn't the man realize? Actors are usually
vain enough. Doesn't he know the girl's head
over ears in love with him?"
It was, he thought, an odd situation. That
Sir Charles was overwhelmingly in love with
the girl was perfectly plain. She was equally
in love with him. And the link between
them--the link to which each of them clung
frenziedly--was a crime--a double crime of
a revolting nature.
During dinner little was said; Sir Charles
talked about his experiences abroad. Egg
talked about Loomouth. Mr. Satterthwaite
encouraged them both whenever the conversation
seemed likely to flag.
When dinner was over, they went to Mr.
Satterthwaite's house.
Mr. Satterthwaite's house was on Chelsea
Embankment. It was a large house and contained
many beautiful works of art. There
were pictures, sculpture, Chinese porcelain, prehistoric pottery, ivories, miniatures and
--,,^l, ^.^«,,,^^ Pl-imr^ndale and HeDDelwhite
furniture. It had an atmosphere about it of
mellowness and understanding.
Egg Lytton Gore saw nothing, noticed
nothing. She flung off her evening coat onto
a chair and said:
"At last. Now tell me all about it."
She listened with vivid interest whilst Sir
Charles narrated their adventures in Yorkshire,
drawing in her breath sharply when he
described the discovery of the blackmailing
letters.
"What happened after that we can only
conjecture," finished Sir Charles. "Presumably, Ellis was paid to hold his tongue, and his escape was facilitated."
But Egg shook her head.
"Oh, no," she said. "Don't you see? Ellis
is dead."
Both men were startled, but Egg reiterated
her assertion:
"Of course he's dead. That's why he's
disappeared so successfully that no one can
find a trace of him. He knew too much, and
so he was killed. Ellis is the third murder."
Although neither of the two men had considered
the possibility before, they were
forced to admit that it did not entirely ring
false.
"But look here, my dear girl," argued Sir
Charles. "It's all very well to say Ellis is
dead. Where's the body? There's twelve stone
or so of solid butler to be accounted for."
"I don't know where the body is," said
Egg. "There must be lots of places."
"Hardly," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Hardly."
"Lots," reiterated Egg. "Let me see." She
paused for a moment. "Attics--there are
masses of attics that no one ever goes into.
He's probably in a trunk in the attic."
"Rather unlikely," said Sir Charles. "But
possible, of course. It might evade discovery
for--er--a time."
It was not Egg's way to avoid unpleasantness.
She dealt immediately with the point in
Sir Charles' mind:
"Smell goes up, not down. You'd notice a
decaying body in the cellar much sooner than
in the attic. And anyway, for a long time
people would think it was a dead rat."
"If your theory were correct, it would point
definitely to a man as the murderer. A woman
couldn't drag a body round the house. In
fact, it would be a pretty good feat for a
man."
"Well, there are other possibilities. There's
a secret passage there, you know. Miss
t./.r _,., „ _ A^/4 C,,. RarthnlnmPW
told me he would show it to me. The murderer
might have given Ellis the money and
shown him the way to get out of the house--
gone down the passage with him--and killed
him there. A woman could do that. She
could stab him, or something, from behind.
Then she'd just leave the body there and go
back, and no one would ever know."
Sir Charles shook his head doubtfully, but
he no longer disputed Egg's theory.
Mr. Satterthwaite felt sure that the same
suspicion had come to him for a moment in
Ellis5 room when they had found the letters.
He remembered Sir Charles" little shiver. The
idea that Ellis might be dead had come to
him then.
Mr. Satterthwaite thought: "If Ellis is
dead, then we're dealing with a very dangerous
person. Yes, a very dangerous person." And suddenly he felt a cold chill of fear
down his spine.
A person who had killed three times
wouldn't hesitate to kill again.
They were in danger, all three of them--
Sir Charles, and Egg, and he.
If they found out too much--
He was recalled by the sound of Sir
Charles' voice:
"There's one thing I didn't understand in
your letter. Egg. You spoke of someone being
in danger--of the police suspecting him.
I can't see that they attach the least suspicion
to anyone."
It seemed to Mr. Satterthwaite that Egg
was very slightly discomposed. He even fan- ||
cied that she blushed.
"Aha," said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself.
"Let's see how you get out of this, young
lady."
"It was silly of me," said Egg. "I got
confused. I thought that Oliver, arriving as
he did, with what might have been a
trumped-up excuse--well, I thought the police
were sure to suspect him."
Sir Charles accepted the explanation easily
enough.
"Yes," he said. "I see."
Mr. Satterthwaite spoke.
"Was it a trumped-up excuse?" he said.
Egg turned on him.
"What do you mean?"
"It was an odd sort of accident," said Mr.
Satterthwaite. "I thought if it was a trumpedup
excuse, you might know."
Egg shook her head.
"I don't know. I never thought about it.
But why should Oliver pretend to have an
arddent if he didn't?"
"He might have had reasons," said Sir
Charles. "Quite natural ones."
He was smiling at her. Egg blushed crimson.

"Oh, no," she said. "No."
Sir Charles sighed. It occurred to Mr.
Satterthwaite that his friend had interpreted
that blush quite wrongly. Sir Charles seemed
a sadder and older man when he spoke again.
"Well," he said, "if our young friend, Manders, is in no danger, where do I come
in?"
Egg came forward quickly and caught him
by the coat sleeve.
"You're not going away again. You're not
going to give up. You're going to find out
the truth--the truth. I don't believe anybody
but you could find out the truth. You can.
You will."
She was tremendously in earnest. The
waves of her vitality seemed to surge and
eddy in the Old World air of the room.
"You believe in me?" said Sir Charles. He
was moved.
"Yes, yes, yes. We're going to get at the
truth. You and I together."
"And Satterthwaite."
"Of course, and Mr. Satterthwaite," said
Egg without interest.
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled covertly.
Whether Egg wanted to include him or not, he had no intention of being left out. He was fond of mysteries, and he liked observing
human nature, and he had a soft spot for
lovers. All three tastes seemed likely to be
gratified in this affair.
Sir Charles sat down. His voice changed.
He was in command, directing a production.
"First of all, we've got to clarify the situation.
Do we, or do we not, believe that the
same person killed Babbington and
Bartholomew Strange?"
"Yes," said Egg.
"Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Do we believe that the second murder
sprang directly from the first? I mean, do we
believe that Bartholomew Strange was killed
in order to prevent his revealing the facts of
the first murder, or his suspicion about it?"
"Yes," said Egg and Mr. Satterthwaite
again, but in unison this time.
"Then it is the first murder we must investigate, not the second."
Egg nodded.
"In my mind, until we discover the motive
for the first murder, we can hardly hope
to discover the murderer. The motive
presents extraordinary difficulty. Babbington
was a harmless, pleasant, gentle old man
without, one would say, an enemy in the
world. Yet he was killed, and there must
have been some reason for the killing. We've
got to find that reason."
He paused and then said in his ordinary
everyday voice:
"Let's get down to it. What reasons are
there for killing people? First, I suppose, gain."
"Revenge," said Egg.
"Homicidal mania," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"The crime passionnel would hardly
apply in this case. But there's fear."
Charles Cartwright nodded. He was scribbling
on a piece of paper.
"That about covers the ground," he said. "First: Gain. Does anyone gain by Babbington's
death? Has he any money, or any
expectations of money?"
"I should think it very unlikely," said Egg.
"So should I, but we'd better approach
Mrs. Babbington on the point."
"Then there's revenge. Did Babbington
do any injury to anyone--perhaps in his
young days? Did he marry the girl that some
other man wanted? We'll have to look into
that too.
"Then homicidal mania. Both Babbington
and Tollie were killed by a lunatic. I don't
think that theory will hold water. Even a
lunatic has some kind of reasonableness in
his crimes. I mean a lunatic might think
himself divinely appointed to kill doctors or
to kill clergymen, but not to kill both. I
think we can wash out the theory of homicidal
mania. There remains fear.
"Now, frankly, that seems to me far the
most likely solution. Babbington knew something
about somebody, or he recognized
somebody. He was killed to prevent him
telling what that something was."
"I can't see what someone like Mr.
Babbington could know that was damaging
about anybody who was there that night."
"Perhaps," said Sir Charles, "it was something
that he didn't know that he knew."
He went on, trying to make his meaning
clear:
"It's difficult to say just what I mean.
Suppose, for instance--this is only an instance--that
Babbington saw a certain person
in a certain place at a certain time. As
far as he knows, there's no reason why that
person shouldn't be there. But suppose, also, that that person had concocted a very clever
alibi for some reason, showing that at that
nartinilar time he was somewhere else a hun-
dred miles away. Well, at any minute old
Babbington, in the most innocent way in the
world, might give the show away."
"I see," said Egg. "Say there's a murder
committed in London, and Babbington sees
the man who did it at Paddington Station, but the man has proved that he didn't do it
by having an alibi showing that he was at
Leeds at the time. Then Babbington might
give the whole show away."
"That's what I mean exactly. Of course, that's only an instance. It might be anything.
Someone he saw that evening whom he'd
known under a different name."
"It might be something to do with a
marriage," said Egg. "Clergymen do lots of
marriages. Somebody who'd committed bigamy."

"Or it might have to do with a birth or a
death," suggested Mr. Satterthwaite.
"It's a very wide field," said Egg, frowning.
"We'll have to get at it the other way.
Work back from the people who were there.
Let's make a list. WTio was at your house
and who was at Sir Bartholomew's?"
She took the paper and pencil from Sir
Charles.
"The Dacres, they were at both. That
woman like a wilted cabbage—what's her
name?—Wills. Miss Sutcliffe."
"You can leave Angela out of it," said Sir
Charles. "I've known her for years."
Egg frowned mutinously.
"We can't do that sort of thing," she said.
"Leave people out because we know them.
We've got to be business-like. Besides, I don't
know anything about Angela Sutcliffe. She's
just as likely to have done it as anyone else,
so far as I can see—more likely. All actresses
have pasts. I think, on the whole, she's the
most likely person."
She gazed defiantly at Sir Charles. There
was an answering spark in his eyes.
"In that case, we mustn't leave out Oliver
Manders."
"How could it be Oliver? He'd met Mr.
Babbington ever so many times before."
"He was at both places, and his arrival is a
little open to suspicion."
"Very well," said Egg. She paused, and
then added: "In that case, I'd better put
down mother and myself as well. That makes
seven suspects."
"I don't think—"
"We'll do it properly, or not at all." Her
eyes flashed.
Mr. Satterthwaite made peace by offering
refreshment. He rang for drinks.
Sir Charles strolled off into a far corner to
admire a head of Negro sculpture. Egg came
over to Mr. Satterthwaite and slipped a hand
through his arm.
"Stupid of me to have lost my temper,"
she murmured. "I am stupid--but why
should the woman be excepted? Why is he
so keen she should be? Oh, dear, why the
devil am I so disgustingly jealous?"
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled and patted her
hand.
"Jealousy never pays, my dear," he said.
"If you feel jealous, don't show it. By the
way, did you really think that young Manders
might be suspected?"
Egg grinned--a friendly, childish grin.
"Of course not. I put that in so as not to
alarm the man." She turned her head. Sir
Charles was still moodily studying Negro
sculpture. "You know, I didn't want him to
think I really have a pash for Oliver, because
I haven't. How difficult everything is! He's
gone back now to his 'Bless you, my children'
attitude. I don't want that at all."
"Have patience," counseled Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Everything comes right in the end, you know."
'I'm not patient," said Egg "I want to
«T»,
have things at once or even quicker
Mr. Sauerthwaite laughed, and Sir Charles
turned and came toward them.
As they sipped their drinks, they arranged
a plan of campaign. Sir Charles should return
to Crow's Nest, for which he had not
vet found a purchaser. Egg and her mother
would return to Rose Cottage rathersooner
Zn they had meant to do. Mrs. Babbmgton S? still living in Loomouth. They would
get what information they could from her
and then proceed to act upon it.
"We'll succeed," said Egg. "I know well
^ne^ieaned forward to Sir Charles, her
eyes glowing. She held out her glass to touch
-1
""Drink to our success," she commanded.
Slowly, very slowly, his eyes fixed on hers,
he raised his glass to his lips.
"To success." he said, "and to the future.
Thirteen
mrs. babbington had moved into a small
fisherman's cottage not far from the harbor.
She was expecting a sister home from Japan
in about six months. Until her sister arrived, she was making no plans for the future. The
cottage chanced to be vacant and she took it
for six months. She felt too bewildered by
her sudden loss to move away from
Loomouth. Stephen Babbington had held the
living of St. Petroch, Loomouth, for seventeen
years. They had been, on the whole, seventeen happy and peaceful years, in spite
of the sorrow occasioned by the death of her
son Robin. Of her remaining children, Edward was in Ceylon, Lloyd was in South
Africa, and Stephen was third officer on the
Angolia. They wrote frequently and affectionately, but they could offer neither a home
nor companionship to their mother.
Margaret Babbington was very lonely.
Not that she allowed herself much time
for thinking. She was still active in the parish--the
new vicar was unmarried--and she
spent a good deal of time working in the tiny
plot of ground in front of the cottage. She
was a woman whose flowers were part of her
life.
She was working there one afternoon,
when she heard the latch of the gate click, and looked up to see Sir Charles Cartwright
and Egg Lytton Gore.
Margaret was not surprised to see Egg.
She knew that the girl and her mother were
due to return shortly. But she was surprised
to see Sir Charles. Rumor had insisted that
he had left the neighborhood for good. There
had been paragraphs copied from other papers
about his doings in the South of France.
There had been a board. To be sold, stuck
up in the garden of Crow's Nest. No one
had expected Sir Charles to return. Yet return
he had.
Mrs. Babbington shook the untidy hair
back from her hot forehead and looked ruefully
at her earthstained hands.
"I'm not fit to shake hands," she said. "I
ought to garden in gloves, I know. I do start
in them sometimes. But I always tear them
off sooner or later. One can feel things so
much better with bare hands."
She led the way into the house. The tiny
sitting room had been made cozy with chintz.
There were photographs and bowls of chrysanthemums.

"It's a great surprise seeing you, Sir
Charles. I thought you had given up Crow's
Nest for good."
"I thought I had," said the actor frankly.
"But sometimes, Mrs. Babbington, our destiny
is too strong for us."
Mrs. Babbington did not reply. She turned
toward Egg, but the girl forestalled the words
on her lips.
"Look here, Mrs. Babbington. This isn't
just a call. Sir Charles and I have got something
very serious to say. Only I--I should
hate to upset you."
Mrs. Babbington looked from the girl to
Sir Charles. Her face had gone rather gray
and pinched.
"First of all," said Sir Charles, "I would
like to ask you if you have had any communication
from the Home Office?"
Mrs. Babbington bowed her head.
"I see. Well, perhaps that makes what we
are about to say easier."
"Is that what you have come about--this
exhumation order?"
"Yes. It is--I'm afraid it must be--very
distressing to you?"
She softened to the sympathy in his voice.
"Perhaps I do not mind as much as you
think. To some people, the idea of exhumation
is very dreadful; not to me. It is not the
dead clay that matters. My dear husband is
elsewhere, at peace--where no one can trouble
his rest. No, it is not that. It is the idea
that is a shock to me--the idea--a terrible
one--that Stephen did not die a natural
death. It seems so impossible--utterly impossible."

"I'm afraid it must seem so to you. It did
to me--to us--at first."
"What do you mean by 'at first,' Sir
Charles?"
"Because the suspicion crossed my mind
on the evening of your husband's death, Mrs.
Babbington. Like you, however, it seemed
to me so impossible that I put it aside."
"I thought so too," said Egg.
"You too?" Mrs. Babbington looked at
her wonderingly. "You thought someone
could have killed--Stephen?"
The incredulity in her voice was so great
^^ n^irk^r r»f lipr visitors knew Quite how
to proceed. At last Sir Charles took up the
tale:
"As you know, Mrs. Babbington, I went
abroad. When I was in the South of France I
read in the paper of my friend Bartholomew
Strange's death in almost exactly similar circumstances.
I also got a letter from Miss
Lytton Gore."
Egg nodded.
"I was there, you know, staying with him
at the time. Mrs. Babbington, it was exactly
the same--exactly. He drank some port and
his face changed and--and--well, it was just
the same. He died two or three minutes
later."
Mrs. Babbington shook her head slowly.
"I can't understand it. Stephen! Sir
Bartholomew--a kind and clever doctor!
Who could want to harm either of them? It
must be a mistake."
"Sir Bartholomew was proved to have been
poisoned, remember," said Sir Charles.
"Then it must have been the work of a
lunatic."
Sir Charles went on:
"Mrs. Babbington, I want to get to the
bottom of this. I want to find out the truth.
And I feel there is no time to lose. Once the
news of the exhumation gets about, our crim-
inal will be on the alert. I am assuming, for
the sake of saving time, what the result of
the autopsy on your husband's body will be.
I am taking it that he, too, died of nicotine
poisoning. To begin with, did you or he
know anything about the use of pure nico- .. tine?"
"I always use a solution of nicotine for
spraying roses. I didn't know it was supposed
to be poisonous."
"I should imagine--I was reading up the
subject last night--that in both cases the
pure alkaloid must have been used. Cases of
poisoning by nicotine are most unusual."
Mrs. Babbington shook her head.
"I really don't know anything about nicotine
poisoning except that I suppose inveterate
smokers might suffer from it."
"Did your husband smoke?"
"Yes."
"Now tell me, Mrs. Babbington. You have
expressed the utmost surprise that anyone
should want to do away with your husband.
Does that mean that, as far as you know, he
had no enemies?"
"I am sure Stephen had no enemies. Everyone
was fond of him. People tried to hustle
him sometimes." She smiled a little
---- --«-..-;«,„ /^y» i7r»n Iznnw.
and rather afraid of innovations) but everybody
liked him. You couldn't dislike
Stephen, Sir Charles."
"I suppose, Mrs. Babbington, that your
husband didn't leave very much money?"
"No. Next to nothing. Stephen was not
good at saving. He gave away far too much.
I used to scold him about it."
"I suppose he had no expectations from
anyone? He wasn't the heir to any property?"

"Oh, no. Stephen hadn't many relations.
He has a sister who is married to a clergyman
in Northumberland, but they are very
badly off, and all his uncles and aunts are
dead."
"Then it does not seem as though there
were anyone who could benefit by Mr.
Babbington's death."
"No, indeed."
"Let us come back to the question of
enemies for a minute. Your husband had no
enemies, you say, but he may have had as a
young man."
Mrs. Babbington looked skeptical.
"I should think it very unlikely. Stephen
hadn't a quarrelsome nature. He always got
on well with people."
"I don't want to sound melodramatic"--
Sir Charles coughed a little nervously--
"but--er--when he got engaged to you, for
instance, there wasn't any disappointed suitor
in the offing?"
A momentary twinkle came into Mrs.
Babbington's eyes.
"Stephen was my father's curate. He was
the first young man I saw when I came
home from school. I fell in love with him
and he with me. We were engaged for four
years and then he got a living down in Kent
and we were able to get married. Ours was a
very simple love story. Sir Charles, and a
very happy one."
Sir Charles bowed his head. Mrs. Babbington's
simple dignity was very charming.
Egg took up the role of questioner:
"Mrs. Babbington, do you think your husband
had met any of the guests at Sir Charles' that night before?"
Mrs. Babbington looked slightly puzzled.
"Well, there were you and your mother, my dear, and young Oliver Manders."
"Yes, but any of the others?"
"We had both seen Angela Sutcliffe in a
play in London five years ago. Both Stephen
and I were very excited that we were actually
going to meet her."
" --^ 1^.. K<yf/M.^"
"No. We've never met any actresses--or
actors, for the matter of that--until Sir
Charles came to live here. And that," added
Mrs. Babbington, "was a great excitement. I
don't think Sir Charles knows what a wonderful
thing it was to us. Quite a breath of
romance in our lives."
"You hadn't met Captain and Mrs.
Dacres?"
"Was he the little man with the woman
with the wonderful clothes?"
"Yes."
"No. Nor the other woman--the one who
wrote plays. Poor thing, she looked rather
out of it, I thought."
"You're sure you'd never seen any of them
before?"
"I'm quite sure I hadn't, and so I'm fairly
sure Stephen hadn't either. You see, we do
everything together."
"And Mr. Babbington didn't say anything
to you--anything at all," persisted Egg--
"about the people you were going to meet, or about them when he saw them?"
"Nothing beforehand, except that he was
looking forward to an interesting evening.
And when we got there--well, there wasn't
much time--" Her face twisted suddenly.
Sir Charles broke in auicklv:
"You must forgive us badgering you like
this. But, you see, we feel that there must be
something, if only we could get at it. There
must be some reason for an apparently brutal
and meaningless murder."
"I see that," said Airs. Babbington. "If it
was murder, there must be some reason. But
I don't know--I can't imagine--what the reason
could be."
There was silence for a minute or two, then Sir Charles said:
"Can you give me a slight biographical
sketch of your husband's career?"
Mrs. Babbington had a good memory for
dates, as Sir Charles' final notes disclosed.
Stephen Babbington, born Islington, Devon, 1868. Educated St. Paul's School
and Oxford. Ordained deacon and received
a title to the parish of Hoxton, 1891. Priested 1892. Was curate ofElsington,
Surrey, to Rev. Vernon Lorrimer
1894-1899. Married Margaret Lorrimer, 1899, and presented to the living of St.
Mary's, Gilling. Transferred to living of
St. Petroch, Loomouth, 1916.
"That gives us something to go upon,
--* 0;-- /^l--»~1^.^, t</"V,i,« 1-tAc?t r'l-tanr'p' sppms to
»»
me the time during which Mr. Babbington
was vicar of St. Mary's, Gilling. His earlier
history seems rather far back to concern any
of the people who were at my house that
evening."
Mrs. Babbington shuddered.
"Do you really think that one of them--"
"I don't know what to think," said Sir
Charles. "Bartholomew Strange saw something
or guessed something, and Bartholomew
Strange died the same way, and five--"
"Seven," said Egg.
"--of these people were also present. One
of them must be guilty."
"But why?" cried Mrs. Babbington.
"Why? What possible motive could there be
for anyone to want to kill Stephen?"
"That," said Sir Charles, "is what we are
going to find out."
Fourteen
mr. satterthwaite had come down to Crow's
Nest with Sir Charles. While his host and
Egg Lytton Gore were visiting Mrs.
Babbington, Mr. Satterthwaite was having
tea with Lady Mary.
Lady Mary liked Mr. Satterthwaite. For
all her gentleness of manner, she was a
woman who had very definite views on the
subject of whom she did or did not like.
Mr. Satterthwaite sipped China tea from a
Dresden cup, and ate a microscopic sandwich
and chatted. On his last visit, they had
found many friends and acquaintances in
common. Their talk today began on the same
subject, but gradually drifted into more intimate
channels. Mr. Satterthwaite was a sympathetic
person; he listened to the troubles of
other people and did not intrude his own.
Even on his last visit, it had seemed natural
" T --'-- x^---- *-- ^«-^r»i^ i-r» kim nf her nreoc-
cupation with her daughter's future. She
talked now as she would have talked to a
friend of many years' standing. ^
"Egg is so headstrong)" she said. "She
flings herself into a thing heart and soul.
You know, Mr. Satterthwaite, I do not like
the way she is--well, mixing herself up in
this distressing business. It--Egg would
laugh at me, I know--but it doesn't seem to
be ladylike."
She flushed as she spoke. Her brown eyes, gentle and ingenuous, looked with a childish
appeal at Mr. Satterthwaite.
"I know what you mean," he said. "I
confess that I don't quite like it myself. I
know that it's simply an old-fashioned prejudice, but there it is. All the same"--he twinkled
at her--"we can't expect young ladies
to sit at home and sew and shudder at the
idea of crimes of violence in these enlightened
days."
"I don't like to think of murder," said
Lady Mary. "I never, never dreamed that I
should be mixed up in anything of that kind.
It was dreadful." She shivered. "Poor Sir
Bartholomew."
"You didn't know him very well?"
hazarded Mr. Satterthwaite.
"I think I'd only met him twice. The first
time about a year ago, when he came down
to stay with Sir Charles for a week-end, and
the second time was on that dreadful evening
when poor Mr. Babbington died. I was really
most surprised when his invitation arrived.
I accepted because I thought Egg
would enjoy it. She hasn't many treats, poor
child, and--well, she had seemed a little
down in the mouth--as though she didn't
take any interest in anything. I thought a big
house party might cheer her up."
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.
"Tell me something about young Oliver
Manders," he said. "The young fellow rather
interests me."
"I think he's clever," said Lady Mary.
"Of course, things have been difficulit for
him."
She flushed, and then, in answer to the
plain inquiry of Mr. Satterthwaite's glance, she went on:
"You see, his father wasn't married, to his
mother."
"Really! I had no idea of that."
"Everyone knows about it down heres, otherwise
I wouldn't have said anything; about
it. Old Mrs. Manders, Oliver's grandnr.other,
lives at Dunboyne, that biggish house con the
TMrwr-t/Mn-k iff\^r\ T-Tf»r 1-m<;ltnnd was a llawver
down here. Her son went into a city firm
and did very well. He's quite a rich man.
The daughter was a good-looking girl and
she became absolutely infatuated with a married
man. I blame him very much indeed.
Anyway, in the end, after a lot of scandal, they went off together. His wife wouldn't
divorce him. The girl died not long after
Oliver was born. His uncle in London took
charge of him. He and his wife had no children
of their own. The boy divided his time
between them and his grandmother. He always
came down here for his summer holidays."

She paused and then went on:
"I always felt sorry for him. I still do. I
think that terribly conceited manner of his is
a good deal put on."
"I shouldn't be surprised," said Mr.
Satterthwaite. "It's a very common phenomenon.
If I ever see anyone who appears to
think only of himself and boasts unceasingly, I always know that there's a secret sense of
inferiority somewhere."
"It seems very odd."
"An inferiority complex is a very peculiar
thing. Crippen, for instance, undoubtedly
suffered from it. It's at the back of a lot of
crimes. The desire to assert one's personality."

"It seems very strange to me," murmured
Lady Mary.
She seemed to shrink a little. Mr.
Satterthwaite looked at her with an almost
sentimental eye. He liked her graceful figure
with the sloping shoulders, the soft brown of her eyes, her complete absence of makeup.
He thought:
"She must have been a beauty when she
was young."
Not a flaunting beauty, not a rose; no, a
modest charming violet, hiding its sweetness.
His thoughts ran serenely in the idiom of
his young days.
He remembered incidents in his own
youth.
Presently he found himself telling Lady
Mary about his own love affair--the only
love affair he had ever had. Rather a poor
love affair by the standards of today, but
very dear to Mr. Satterthwaite.
He told her about the girl and how pretty
she was, and of how they had gone together
to see the bluebells at Kew. He had meant to
propose to her that day. He had imagined--
so he put it--that she reciprocated his sentim^rtio
Anrl i4-iF»n ac tl-ipv wprp standine" looking at the bluebells, she had confided in
him. He had discovered that she loved another.
And he had hidden the thoughts surging
in his breast and had taken up the role of
the faithful friend.
It was not, perhaps, a very full-blooded
romance, but it sounded well in the dim
faded chintz and eggshell china atmosphere
of Lady Mary's drawing-room.
Afterward, Lady Mary spoke of her own
life--of her married life, which had not been
very happy.
"I was such a foolish girl--girls are foolish, Mr. Satterthwaite. They are so sure of
themselves, so convinced they know best.
People write and talk a lot of a woman's
instinct. I don't believe, Mr. Satterthwaite, that there is any such thing. Their parents
warn them, but that's no good; one doesn't
believe. It seems dreadful to say so, but there
is something attractive to a girl in being told
anyone is a bad man. She thinks at once that
her love will reform him."
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded gently.
"One knows so little. When one knows
more, it is too late."
She sighed.
"It was all my own fault. My people didn't
want me to marrv Ronald. He was wellborn, but he had a bad reputation. My father
told me straight out that he was a wrong
un. I didn't believe it; I believed that, for
my sake, he would turn over a new leaf."
She was silent a moment, dwelling on the
past.
"Ronald was a very fascinating man. My
father was quite right about him. I soon
found that out. It's an old-fashioned thing to
say, but he broke my heart. Yes, he broke
my heart. I was always afraid of what might come out next."
Mr. Satterthwaite, always intensely interested
in other people's lives, made a cautious
sympathetic noise.
"It may seem a very wicked thing to say,
Mr. Satterthwaite, but it was a relief when
he got pneumonia and died. Not that I didn't
care for him--I loved him up to the end--
but I had no illusions about him any longer.
And there was Egg."
Her voice softened:
"Such a funny little thing, she was. A
regular little roly-poly, trying to stand up
and falling over. Just like an egg--that's how
that ridiculous nickname started."
She paused again.
"Some books that I've read these last few
- 1----- !---„,,--1,4. „ 1/^,-t- ^\f /-/-»-»"»-Frvrl- 1-r» mp
Books on psychology. It seems to show that
in many ways people can't help themselves.
A kind of kink. Sometimes, in the most carefully brought-up families, you get it. As
a boy, Ronald stole money at school--money
that he didn't need. I can feel now that he
couldn't help himself. He was born with a
kink."
Very gently, with a small handkerchief, Lady Mary wiped her eyes.
"It wasn't what I was brought up to
believe," she said apologetically. "I was
taught that everyone knew the difference between
right and wrong. But somehow, I don't
always think that is so."
"The human mind is a great mystery,"
said Mr. Satterthwaite gently. "As yet, we
are only groping our way to understanding.
Without acute mania, it may nevertheless
occur that certain natures lack what I should
describe as braking power. If you or I were
to say, 'I hate someone; I wish he were
dead,' the idea would pass from our minds
as soon as the words were uttered. The brakes
would work automatically. But in some people
the idea, or obsession, holds. They see
nothing but the immediate gratification of
the idea formed."
"I'm afraid," said Lady Mary, "that that's
rather too clever for me."
"I apologize. I was talking rather bookishly."

"Did you mean that young people have
too little restraint nowadays?"
"No, no, I didn't mean that at all. Less
restraint is, I think, a good thing--wholesome.
I suppose you are thinking of Miss--
er--Egg."
"I think you'd better call her Egg," said
Lady Mary, smiling.
"Thank you. Miss Egg does sound rather
ridiculous."
"Egg's very impulsive and once she has
set her mind on a thing, nothing will stop
her. As I said before, I hate her mixing
herself up in all this, but she won't listen to
me."
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled at the distress in
Lady Mary's tone. He thought to himself:
"I wonder if she realizes for one minute
that Egg's absorption in crime is neither more
nor less than a new variant of that old, old
game, the pursuit of the male by the female.
No, Lady Mary would be horrified at the
thought."
"Egg says that Mr. Babbington was poi-
i -i-_ t^_ ,,^,, 4-i,;^i^ <4t<ii- 10 tm<=» Mr.
Satterthwaite? Or do you think it is just one
of Egg's sweeping statements?"
"We shall know for certain after the exhumation."

"There is to be an exhumation, then?"
Lady Mary shivered. "How terrible for poor
Mrs. Babbington! I can imagine nothing
more awful for any woman."
"You knew the Babbingtons fairly intimately, I suppose. Lady Mary?"
"Yes, indeed. They are--were--very dear
friends of ours."
"Do you know of anyone who could possibly
have had a grudge against the vicar?"
"No, indeed."
"He never spoke to you of such a person?"
"No."
"And the Babbingtons got on well together?"

"They were perfectly mated--happy in
each other and in their children. They were
badly off, of course, and Mr. Babbington
suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. Those
were their only troubles."
"How did Oliver Manders get on with the
vicar?"
"Well--" Lady Mary hesitated. "They
didn't hit it off very well. The Babbingtons
were sorry for Oliver and he used to go to
the vicarage a good deal in the holidays to
play with the Babbington boys; though I
don't think he got on very well with them.
Oliver wasn't exactly a popular boy. He
boasted too much of the money he had, and
the tuck he took back to school and all the
fun he had in London. Boys are rather merciless
about that sort of thing."
"Yes, but later--since he's been grown
up."
"I don't think he and the vicarage people [ have seen much of each other. As a matter of
fact, Oliver was rather rude to Mr.
Babbington one day here in my house. It
was about two years ago."
"What happened?"
"Oliver made a rather ill-bred attack on
Christianity. Mr. Babbington was very patient
and courteous with him. That only
seemed to make Oliver worse. He said: 'All
you religious people look down your noses
because my father and mother weren't married.
I suppose you'd call me the child of
sin. Well, I admire people who have the
courage of their convictions and don't care
what a lot of hypocrites and parsons think.'
Mr. Babbington didn't answer, but Oliver
went on: 'You won't answer that. It's ecclesi"o^^ow and snnprsrition that's got the whole
world into the mess it's in. I'd like to sweep
away the churches all over the world.' Mr.
Babbington smiled and said, 'And the clergy
too?' I think it was his smile that annoyed
Oliver. He felt he wasn't being taken seriously.
He said, (I hate everything the church
stands for. Smugness, security and hypocrisy.
Get rid of the whole canting tribe, I
say.' And Mr. Babbington smiled--he had a
very sweet smile--and he said, 'My dear
boy, if you were to sweep away all the
churches ever built or planned, you would
still have to reckon with God.' "
"What did young Manders say to that?"
"He seemed taken aback, and then he
recovered his temper and went back to his
usual sneering, tired manner.
"He said, 'I'm afraid the things I've been
saying are rather bad form, padre, and not
very easily assimilated by your generation.' "
"You don't like young Manders, do you, Lady Mary?"
"I'm sorry for him," said Lady Mary defensively.

"But you wouldn't like him to marry Egg."
"Oh, no."
"I wonder why exactly."
"Because--because he isn't kind. And because--"
"Yes?"
"Because there's something in him somewhere
that I don't understand. Something
cold."
Mr. Satterthwaite looked at her thoughtfully
for a minute or two, then he said:
"What did Sir Bartholomew Strange think
of him? Did he ever mention him?"
"He said, I remember, that he found
young Manders an interesting study. He said
that he reminded him of a case he was treating
at the moment in his nursing home. I
said that I thought Oliver looked particularly
strong and healthy, and he said, 'Yes, his
health's all right, but he's riding for a fall.' "
She paused, and then said:
"I suppose Sir Bartholomew was a very
clever doctor."
"I believe he was very highly thought of
by his own colleagues."
"I liked him," said Lady Mary.
"Did he ever say anything to you about
Babbington's death?"
"No."
"He never mentioned it at all?"
"I don't think so."
"Do you think--it's difficult for you to
tell, not knowing him well--but do you think ^ kari cm\7thinff on his mind?"
"He seemed in very good spirits; even
amused by something--some private joke of
his own. He told me at dinner that night
that he was going to spring a surprise on
me."
"Oh, he did, did he?"
On his way home, Mr. Satterthwaite pondered
that statement.
What had been the surprise Sir Bartholomew
had intended to spring on his
guests?
Would it, when it came, have been as
amusing as he pretended?
Or did that gay manner mask a quiet but
indomitable purpose? Would anyone ever
know?
Fifteen
"frankly," said Sir Charles, "are we any
forrader?"
It was a council of war. Sir Charles, Mr.
Satterthwaite and Egg Lytton Gore were sitting
in the ship room. A fire burned in the
grate and outside an equinoctial gale was
howling.
Mr. Satterthwaite and Egg answered the
question simultaneously.
"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Yes," said Egg.
Sir Charles looked from one to the other
of them. Mr. Satterthwaite indicated gracefully
that the lady should speak first.
Egg was silent a moment or two, collecting
her ideas.
"We are further on," she said at last. "We
are further on because we haven't found out
anything. That sounds nonsense, but it isn't.
What I mean is we had certain vague sketchy
ideas; we know now that certain of those
ideas are definitely washouts."
"Progress by elimination," said Sir
Charles.
"That's it."
Mr. Satterthwaite cleared his throat.
"The idea of gain we can now put definitely
away," he said. "There does not seem
to be anybody who, in detective-story parlance, could 'benefit by Stephen Babbington's
death.' Revenge seems equally out of the
question. Apart from his naturally amiable
and peace-loving disposition, I doubt if he
were important enough to make enemies. So
we are back at our last rather sketchy idea.
Fear. By the death of Stephen Babbington, someone gains security."
"That's rather well put," said Egg.
Mr. Satterthwaite looked modestly pleased
with himself. Sir Charles looked a little annoyed.
His was the star part, not Satterthwaite's.

"The point is," said Egg: "What are we
going to do next--actually do, I mean? Are
we going to sleuth people, or what? Are we
going to disguise ourselves and follow them?"
"My dear child," said Sir Charles, "I always
did set my face against playing old men
in beards, and I'm not going to begin now."
"Then what--" began Egg.
But she was interrupted. The door opened
and Temple announced:
"Mr. Hercule Poirot."
M. Poirot walked in with a beaming face
and greeted three highly astonished people.
"It is permitted," he said with a twinkle, "that I assist at this conference? I am right, am I not? It is a conference?"
"My dear fellow, we're delighted to see
you." Sir Charles, recovering from his surprise, shook his guest warmly by the hand
and pushed him into a large armchair.
"Where have you sprung from so suddenly?"
"I went to call upon my good friend Mr.
Satterthwaite in London. They tell me he is
away--in Cornwall. Eh bien, it leaps to the
eye where he has gone. I take the first train
to Loomouth and here I am."
"Yes," said Egg, "but why have you come?
I mean," she went on, blushing a little as she
realized the possible discourtesy of her words, "you have come for some particular reason."
"I have come," said Hercule Poirot, "to
admit an error." With an engaging smile he
turned to Sir Charles and spread out his
hands in a foreign gesture.
"Monsieur, it was in this very room that
vnn declared yourself not satisfied. And I--I
thought it was your dramatic instinct--I said
to myself, 'He is a great actor; at all costs he
must have drama.' It seemed--I will admit
it--incredible that a harmless old gentleman
should have died of anything but a natural
death. Even now I do not see how poison
could have been administered to him, nor
can I guess at any motive. It seems absurd--
fantastic. And yet, since then, there has been
another death--a death under such similar
circumstances that one cannot attribute it to
coincidence. No, there must be a link between
the two. And so. Sir Charles, I have
come to you to apologize--to say, I, Hercule
Poirot, was wrong, and to ask you to admit
me to your councils."
Sir Charles cleared his throat rather nervously.
He looked a little embarrassed.
"That's extraordinarily handsome of you, M. Poirot. I don't know--taking up a lot of
your time--I--"
He stopped, somewhat at a loss. His eyes
consulted Mr. Satterthwaite.
"It is very good of you--" began Mr.
Satterthwaite.
"No, no, it is not good of me. It is the
curiosity, and--yes, the hurt to my pride. I
must repair my fault. My time--that is nothing.
Why voyage after all? The language may
be different, but everywhere human nature
is the same. But of course if I am not welcome, if you feel that I intrude--"
Both men spoke at once:
"No, indeed."
"Rather not."
Poirot turned his eyes to the girl.
"And mademoiselle?"
For a minute or two. Egg was silent, and
on all three men the same impression was
produced; Egg did not want the assistance of
M. Poirot.
Mr. Satterthwaite thought he knew why.
This was the private play of Charles
Cartwright and Egg Lytton Gore. Mr.
Satterthwaite had been admitted on sufferance--on
the clear understanding that he was
a negligible third party. But Hercule Poirot
was different. His would be the leading role.
Perhaps, even. Sir Charles might retire in his
favor. And then Egg's plans would come to
naught.
He watched the girl, sympathizing with
her predicament. These men did not understand, but he, with his semi-feminine sensitiveness, realized her dilemma. Egg was
fighting for her happiness.
What would she say?
AAw an what could she saw? How could
she speak the thoughts in her mind? "Go
away--go away; your coming may spoil everything.
I don't want you here."
Egg Lytton Gore said the only thing she
could say.
"Of course," she said, with a little smile, "we'd love to have you."
Sixteen
"good," said Poirot. "We are colleagues. Eh
bien, you will put me if you please, au courant of the situation."
He listened with close attention whilst Mr.
Satterthwaite outlined the steps they had
taken since returning to England. Mr.
Satterthwaite was a good narrator. He had
the faculty of creating an atmosphere, of
painting a picture. His description of the
abbey, of the servants, of the chief constable
was admirable. Poirot was warm in his appreciation
of the discovery by Sir Charles of
the unfinished letters under the gas fire.
"Ah, mais c'est magnifique, ga!9' he exclaimed
ecstatically. "The deduction, the reconstruction--perfect!
You should have been
a great detective. Sir Charles, instead of a
great actor."
Sir Charles received these plaudits with
hprnminff modestv--his own particular brand
of modesty. He had not received compliments
on his stage performances for many
years without perfecting a manner of acknowledging
them.
"Your observation, too, it was very just,"
said Poirot, turning to Mr. Satterthwaite.
"That point of yours about his sudden familiarity
with the butler."
"Do you think there is anything in this
Mrs. de Rushbridger idea?" asked Sir Charles
eagerly.
"It is an idea. It suggests--well, it suggests
several things, does it not?"
Nobody was quite sure about the several
things, but nobody liked to say so, so there
was merely an assenting murmur.
Sir Charles took up the tale next. He
described his and Egg's visit to Mrs.
Babbington and its rather negative result.
"And now you're up to date," he said.
"You know what we do. Tell us, how does it
all strike you?"
He leaned forward, boyishly eager.
Poirot was silent for some minutes. The
other three watched him.
He said at last:
"Can you remember at all, mademoiselle, what type of port glass Sir Bartholomew had
on his table?"
Sir Charles interposed just as Egg was
shaking her head vexedly.
"I can tell you that."
He got up and went to a cupboard, where
he took out some heavy cut-glass sherry
glasses.
"They were a slightly different shape, of
course--more rounded--proper port shape.
He got them at old Lammersfield's sale--a
whole set of table glass. I admired them, and
as there were more than he needed, he passed
some of them on to me. They're good, aren't
they?"
Poirot took the glass and turned it about
in his hand.
"Yes," he said. "They are fine specimens.
I thought something of that kind had been
used."
"Why?" cried Egg.
Poirot merely smiled at her.
"Yes," he went on, "the death of Sir
Bartholomew Strange could be explained easily
enough, but the death of Stephen
Babbington is more difficult. Ah, if only it
had been the other way about!"
"What do you mean--the other way
about?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
Poirot turned to him.
"rnnsider. my friend. Sir Bartholomew is
a celebrated doctor. There might be many
reasons for the death of a celebrated doctor.
A doctor knows secrets, my friend--important
secrets. A doctor has certain powers.
Imagine a patient on the border line of sanity.
A word from the doctor and he will be
shut away from the world; what a temptation
to an unbalanced brain. A doctor may have
suspicions about the sudden death of one of
his patients. Oh, yes, we can find plenty of
motives for the death of a doctor.
"Now, as I say, if only it had been the
other way about. If Sir Bartholomew Strange
had died first and then Stephen Babbington.
For Stephen Babbington might have seen
something--might have suspected something
about the first death."
He sighed and then resumed:
"But one cannot have a case as one would
like to have it. One must take a case as it is.
Just one little idea I should like to suggest. I
suppose it is not possible that Stephen
Babbington's death was an accident--that the
poison--if poison there was--was intended
for Sir Bartholomew Strange, and that, by
mistake, the wrong man was killed."
"That's an ingenious idea," said Sir
Charles. His face, which had brightened, fell
again. "But I don't believe it will work.
Babbington came into this room about four
minutes before he was taken ill. During that
time the only thing that passed his lips was
half a cocktail; there was nothing in that
cocktail--"
Poirot interrupted him:
"That, you have already told me, but suppose, for the sake of argument, that there
was something in that cocktail. Could it have
been intended for Sir Bartholomew Strange
and did Mr. Babbington drink it by mistake?"

Sir Charles shook his head.
"Nobody who knew Tollie at all well
would have tried poisoning him in a cocktail."

"Why?"
"Because he never drank them."
"Never?"
"Never."
Poirot made a gesture of annoyance.
"Ah, this business: it goes all wrong. It
does not make sense."
"Besides," went on Sir Charles, "I don't
see how any one glass could have been mistaken
for another, or anything of that kind.
Temple carried them round on a tray and
everyone helped themselves to any glass they
"True," murmured Poirot. "One cannot
force a cocktail like one forces a card. What
is she like, this Temple of yours? She is the
maid who admitted me tonight, yes?"
"That's right. I've had her three or four
years—nice steady girl, knows her work. I
don't know where she came from. Miss
Milray would know all about that."
"Miss Milray—that is your secretary? The
tall woman, somewhat of the grenadier?"
"Very much of the grenadier," agreed Sir
Charles.
"I have dined with you before on various
occasions, but I do not think I met her until
that night."
"No, she doesn't usually dine with us. It
was a question of thirteen, you see."
Sir Charles explained the circumstances,
to which Poirot listened very attentively.
"It was her own suggestion that she should
be present. I see."
He remained lost in thought a minute,
then he said:
"Might I speak to this parlormaid of
yours—this Temple?"
"Certainly, my dear fellow."
Sir Charles pressed a bell. It was answered
promptly: "You rang, sir?"
Temple was a tall girl of thirty-two or
three. She had a certain smartness; her hair
was well brushed and glossy, but she was
not pretty. Her manner was calm and efficient.

"M. Poirot wants to ask you a few questions,"
said Sir Charles.
Temple transferred her superior gaze to
Poirot.
"We are talking of the night when Mr.
Babbington died here," said Poirot. "You
remember that night?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"I want to know exactly how the cocktails
were served."
"I beg your pardon, sir."
"I want to know about the cocktails. Did
you mix them?"
"No, sir. Sir Charles likes doing that himself.
I brought in the bottles--the vermuth, the gin and all that."
"Where did you put them?"
"On the table there, sir."
She indicated a table by the wall.
"The tray with the glasses stood here, sir.
Sir Charles, when he had finished mixing
and shaking, poured out the cocktails into
the glasses. Then I took the tray round and ko^^ri it to th^ ladies and ffentlemen."
"Were all the cocktails on the tray you
handed?"
"Sir Charles gave one to Miss Lytton Gore, sir--he was talking to her at the time--and
he took his own. And Mr. Satterthwaite"--
her eyes shifted to him for a moment--"came
and fetched one for a lady--Miss Wills, I
think it was."
"Quite right," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"The others I handed, sir. I think everyone
took one except Sir Bartholomew."
"Will you be so very obliging. Temple, as to repeat the performance? Let us put cushions
for some of the people. I stood here, I
remember; Miss Sutcliffe was there."
With Mr. Satterthwaite's help, the scene
was reconstructed. Mr. Satterthwaite was observant.
He remembered fairly well where
everyone had been in the room. Then Temple
did her round. They ascertained that she
had started with Mrs. Dacres, gone on to
Miss Sutcliffe and Poirot, and had then come
to Mr. Babbington, Lady Mary and Mr.
Satterthwaite, who had been sitting together.
This agreed with Mr. Satterthwaite's recollection.

Finally Temple was dismissed.
"Pah!" cried Poirot. "It does not make
sense. Temple is the last person to handle
those cocktails, but it was impossible for her
to tamper with them in any way and, as I
say, one cannot force a cocktail on a particular
person."
"It's instinctive to take the one nearest to
you," said Sir Charles.
"Possibly that might work by handing the
tray to the person first, but even then it
would be very uncertain. The glasses are
close together; one does not look particularly
nearer than another. No, no, such a haphazard
method could not be adopted. Tell me, Mr. Satterthwaite, did Mr. Babbington put
his cocktail down or did he retain it in his |
hand?"
"He put it down on this table."
"Did anyone come near that table after he
had done so?"
"No. I was the nearest person to him and
I assure you I did not tamper with it in any
way, even if I could have done so unobserved."

Mr. Satterthwaite spoke rather stiffly.
Poirot hastened to apologize:
"No, no, I am not making an accusation--quelle
idee! But I want to be very sure
of my facts. According to the analysis, there
was nothing out of the way in that cocktail.
^T """ ~~~--" <-l*rt+ owiii- frr»m i-liat analysis.
there could have been nothing put in it. The
same results from two different tests. But
Mr. Babbington ate or drank nothing else, and if he was poisoned by pure nicotine, death would have resulted very rapidly. You
see where that leads us?"
"Nowhere, damn it all," said Sir Charles.
"I would not say that--no, I would not
say that. It suggests a very monstrous idea--
which I hope and trust cannot be true. No, of course it is not true--the death of Sir
Bartholomew proves that--and yet--"
He frowned, lost in thought. The others
watched him curiously. He looked up.
"You see my point, do you not? Mrs.
Babbington was not at Melfort Abbey, therefore
Mrs. Babbington is cleared of suspicion."
"Mrs. Babbington--but no one has even
dreamed of suspecting her."
Poirot smiled beneficently.
"No? It is curious, that. The idea occurred
to me at once--but at once. If the
poor gentleman is not poisoned by the cocktail, then he must have been poisoned a very
few minutes before entering the house. What
way could there be? A capsule? Something, perhaps, to prevent indigestion. But who, then, could tamper with that? Only a wife.
Who might, perhaps, have a motive that no
one outside could possibly suspect? Again a
wife."
"But they were devoted to each other!"
cried Egg indignantly. "You don't understand
a bit!"
Poirot smiled kindly at her.
"No. That is valuable. You know, but I
do not. I see the facts unbiased by any preconceived
notions. And let me tell you something,
mademoiselle. In the course of my
experience I have known five cases of wives
murdered by devoted husbands, and twentytwo
of husbands murdered by devoted wives. Les femmes, they obviously keep up appearances
better."
"I think you're perfectly horrid," said Egg.
"I know the Babbingtons are not like that.
It's--it's monstrous!"
"Murder is monstrous, mademoiselle,"
said Poirot, and there was a sudden sternness
in his voice.
He went on in a lighter tone:
"But I, who see only the facts, agree that
Mrs. Babbington did not do this thing. You
see, she was not at Melfort Abbey. No, as
Sir Charles has already said, the guilt must
lie on a person who was present at both
--~~^:^^.^ ,^,,-to, ^f t4-i<» cn»\Tprr\ rvn vmir list.55
There was a silence.
"And how do you advise us to act?" asked
Mr. Satterthwaite.
"You have doubtless already your plan,"
suggested Poirot.
Sir Charles cleared his throat.
"The only feasible thing seems to be a
process of elimination," he said. "My idea
was to take each person on that list and
consider them guilty until they are proved
innocent. I mean that we are able to feel
convinced ourselves that there is a connection
between that person and Stephen
Babbington, and we are to use all our ingenuity
to find out what that connection can
be. If we find no connection, then we pass
on to the next person."
"It is good psychology, that," approved
Poirot. "And your methods?"
"That, we have not yet had time to discuss.
We should welcome your advice on
that point, M- Poirot. Perhaps you yourself--"

Poirot held up a hand.
"My friend, do not ask me to do anything
of an active nature. It is my lifelong conviction
that any problem is best solved by
thought. Let me hold what is called, I believe, the watching brief. Continue your invesdgations which Sir Charles i-s so ably
directing."
"And what about me?" thought Mr.
Satterthwaite. "These actors! Always in the
limelight, playing the star part!"
"You will, perhaps, from tim»e to time, require what we may describe as counsel's
opinion. Me, I am the counsel."
He smiled at Egg.
"Does that strike you as the sense, mademoiselle?"

"Excellent," said Egg. "I'm sure your experience
will be very useful to us."
Her face looked relieved. She glanced at
her watch and gave an exclamation.
"I must go home. Mother will have a fit."
"I'll drive you home," said Sir Charles.
They went out together.
Seventeen
"so you see, the fish has risen," said Hercule
Poirot.
Mr. Satterthwaite, who had been looking
at the door which had just closed behind the
other two, gave a start as he turned to Poirot.
The latter was smiling with a hint of mockery.

"Yes, yes, do not deny it. Deliberately
you showed me the bait that day in Monte
Carlo. Is it not so? You showed me the
paragraph in the paper. You hoped that it
would arouse my interest--that I should occupy
myself with the affair."
"It is true," confessed Mr. Satterthwaite.
"But I thought that I had failed."
"No, no, you did not fail. You are a shrewd
judge of human nature, my friend. I was
suffering from ennui; I had--in the words of
the child who was playing near us--'nothing
to do.' You came at the psychological moment--and talking of that, how much crime
depends, too, on that psychological moment.
The crime, the psychology, they go hand in
hand. But let us come back to our muttons.
This is a crime very intriguing; it puzzles me
completely."
"Which crime--the first or second?"
"There is only one; what you call the first
and the second murder are only the two
halves of the same crime. The second half is
simple--the motive, the means adopted--"
Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted:
"Surely the means present an equal difficulty.
There was no poison found in any of
the wine and the food was eaten by everybody."

"No, no, it is quite different. In the first
case it does not seem as though anybody
could have poisoned Stephen Babbington. Sir
Charles, if he had wanted to, could have
poisoned one of his guests, but not any particular
guest. Temple might possibly have
slipped something into the last glass on the
tray, but Mr. Babbington's was not the last
glass. No, the murder of Mr. Babbington
seems so impossible that I still feel that perhaps
it is impossible--that he died a natural
death, after all. But that we shall soon know.
tt-.^ o^/^t-tri ^ric^ ic diffprent. Any one of the
guests present, or the butler or parlormaid, could have poisoned Bartholomew Strange.
That presents no difficulty whatever."
"I don't see--" began Mr. Satterthwaite.
Poirot swept on:
"I will prove that to you sometime by a
little experiment. Let us pass on to another
and most important matter. It is vital, you
see--and you will see, I am sure; you have
the sympathetic heart and the delicate understanding--that
I must not play the part of
what you call the spoilsport."
"You mean--" began Mr. Satterthwaite, with the beginning of a smile.
"That Sir Charles must have the star part!
He is used to it. And, moreover, it is expected
of him by someone else. Am I not
right? It does not please mademoiselle at all
that I come to concern myself in this matter."
"You are what we call 'quick in the
uptake,' M. Poirot."
"Ah, that, it leaps to the eye! I am of a
very susceptible nature; I wish to assist a
love affair, not to hinder it. You and I, my
friend, must work together in this--to the
honor and glory of Charles Cartwright, is it
not so? When the case is solved--"
"If--" said Mr. Satterthwaite mildly.
"When! I do not permit myself to fail."
"Never?" asked Mr. Sattenhwaite searchingly.
"There have been times," said Poirot with
dignity, "when, for a short time, I have been
what I suppose you would call slow in the
take up. I have not perceived the truth as
soon as I might have done."
"But you've never failed altogether?"
The persistence of Mr. Satterthwaite was
curiosity, pure and simple. He wondered.
"Eh bien," said Hercule Poirot. "Once.
Long ago, in Belgium. We will not talk of
it."
Mr. Satterthwaite, his curiosity--and his
malice--satisfied, hastened to change the
subject:
"Just so. You were saying that when the
case is solved--"
"Sir Charles will have solved it. That is
essential. I shall have been a little cog in the
wheel." He spread out his hands. "Now and
then, here and there, I shall say a little
word--just one little word--a hint, no more.
I desire no honor, no renown. I have all the
renown I need."
Mr. Satterthwaite studied him with interest.
He was amused by the naive conceit, the
immense egoism of the little man. But he
did not make the pasv mistake of considerinff
it mere empty boasting. An Englishman is
usually modest about what he does well, sometimes pleased with himself over something
he does badly, but a Latin has a truer
appreciation of his own powers. If he is clever
he sees no reason for concealing the fact.
"I should like to know," said Mr.
Satterthwaite--"it would interest me very
much--just what do you yourself hope to get
out of this business? Is it the excitement of
the chase?"
Poirot shook his head.
"No, no, it is not that. Like the chien de
chasse, I follow the scent, and I get excited;
and once on the scent, I cannot be called off
it. All that is true. But there is more. It is--
how shall I put it?--a passion for getting at
the truth. In all the world there is nothing so
curious and so interesting and so beautiful as
truth."
There was silence for a little while after
Poirofs words. Then he took up the paper
on which Mr. Satterthwaite had carefully
copied out the seven names, and read them
aloud:
"Mrs. Dacres, Captain Dacres, Miss Wills, Miss Sutcliffe, Lady Mary Lytton Gore, Miss
Lytton Gore, Oliver Manders.
"Yes," he said. "Suggestive, is it not?"
"What is suggestive about it?"
"The order in which the names occur."
"I don't think there is anything suggestive
about it. We just wrote the names down
without any particular order about it."
"Exactly. The list is headed by Mrs.
Dacres. I deduce from that that she is considered
the most likely person to have committed
the crime."
"Not the most likely," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"The least unlikely would express it
better."
"And a third phrase would express it better
still. She is perhaps the person you would
all prefer to have committed the crime."
Mr. Satterthwaite opened his lips impulsively, then met the gentle quizzical gaze of
Poirot's shining green eyes and altered what
he had been about to say:
"I wonder-- Perhaps, M. Poirot, you are
right. Unconsciously that may be true."
"I would like to ask you something, Mr.
Satterthwaite."
"Certainly, certainly," Mr. Satterthwaite
answered complacently.
"From what you have told me, I gather
that Sir Charles and Miss Lytton Gore went
together to interview Mrs. Babbington."
"Yes."
"You did not accompany them?"
"No. Three would have been rather a
crowd."
Poirot smiled.
"And also, perhaps, your inclinations led
you elsewhere. You had, as they say, different
fish to fry. Where did you go, Mr.
Satterthwaite?"
"I had tea with Lady Mary Lytton Gore,"
said Mr. Satterthwaite stiffly.
"And what did you talk about?"
"She was so good as to confide in me
some of the troubles of her early married
life."
He repeated the substance of Lady Mary's
story. Poirot nodded his head sympathetically.

"That is so true to life--the idealistic young
girl who marries the bad hat and will listen
to nobody. But did you talk of nothing else?
Did you, for instance, not speak of Mr.
Oliver Manders?"
"As a matter of fact, we did."
"And you learned about him--what?"
Mr. Satterthwaite repeated what Lady
Mary had told him. Then he said:
"What made you think we had talked of
him?"
"Because you went there for that reason.
. . . Oh, yes, do not protest. You may hope
that Mrs. Dacres or her husband committed
the crime, but you think that young Manders
did."
He stilled Mr. Satterthwaite's protests:
"Yes, yes, you have the secretive nature.
You have your ideas, but you like keeping
them to yourself. I have sympathy with you.
I do the same myself."
"I don't suspect him--that's absurd. But I
just wanted to know more about him."
"That is as I say. He is your instinctive
choice. I, too, am interested in that young
man. I was interested in him on the night of
the dinner here, because I saw--"
"What did you see?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite
eagerly.
"I saw that there were two people at least--
perhaps more--who were playing a part. One
was Sir Charles." He smiled. "He was playing
the naval officer; am I not right? That is
quite natural. A great actor does not cease to
act because he is not on the stage any more.
But young Manders, he, too, was acting. He
was playing the part of the bored and blase
young man, but in reality he was neither
bored nor blase; he was very keenly alive.
And tnprpfnrp. my friend. I noticed him."
"How did you know I'd been wondering
about him?"
"In many little ways. You had been interested
in that accident of his that brought him
to Melfort Abbey that night. You had not
gone with Sir Charles and Miss Lytton Gore
to see Mrs. Babbington. Why? Because you
wanted to follow out some line of your own
unobserved. You went to Lady Mary's to
find out about someone. Who? It could only
be someone local. Oliver Manders. And
then--most characteristic--you put down his
name at the bottom of the list. Who are
really the most unlikely suspects in your
mind--Lady Mary and Mademoiselle Egg?--
but you put young Manders' name after
theirs, because he is your dark horse and you
want to keep him to yourself."
"Dear me," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Am
I really that kind of man?"
"Precisement. You have shrewd judgment
and observation, and you like keeping its
results to yourself. Your opinions of people
are your private collection. You do not display
them for all the world to see."
"I believe--" began Mr. Satterthwaite, but
he was interrupted by the return of Sir
Charles.
FR1;The actor came in with a springing buoyant
step.
"Br-r-r," he said. "Ifs a wild night."
He poured himself out a whisky and soda.
Mr. Satterthwaite and Poirot both declined.

"Well," said Sir Charles, "lets map out
our plan of campaign. . . . Where's that list, Satterthwaite? . . . Ah, thanks. . . . Now,
M. Poirot, counsel's opinion, if you please.
How shall we divide up the spade work?"
"How would you suggest, yourself. Sir
Charles?"
"Well, we might divide these people up--
division of labor, eh? First, here's Mrs.
Dacres. Egg seems rather keen to take her
on. She seems to think that anyone so perfectly
turned out won't get impartial treatment
from mere males. It seems quite a
good idea to approach her through the professional
side. Satterthwaite and I might work
the other gambit as well, if it seemed advisable.
Then there's Dacres. I know some of
his racing pals. I dare say I could pick up
something that way. Then there's Angela
Sutcliffe."
"That also seems to be your work, Cartwright," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "You
know her nrettv well. don't YOU?"
"Yes. That's why I'd rather somebody else
tackled her. Firstly"--he smiled ruefully--"I
shall be accused of not putting my back into
the job and, secondly--well, she's a friend.
You understand?"
"Parfaitement, parfaitement. You feel the
natural delicacy. It is most understandable.
This good Mr. Satterthwaite--he will replace
you in the task."
"Lady Mary and Egg--they don't count, of course. What about young Manders? His
presence on the night of Tollie's death was
an accident; still, I suppose we ought to
include him."
"Mr. Satterthwaite will look after young
Manders," said Poirot. "But I think. Sir
Charles, you have missed out a name on
your list. You have passed over Miss Muriel
Wills."
"So I have. Well, if Satterthwaite takes on Manders, I'll take on Miss Wills. Is that
settled? Any suggestions, M. Poirot?"
"No, no, I do not think so. I shall be
interested to hear your results."
"Of course; that goes without saying. Another
idea. If we procured photographs of
I these people, we might use them in making
inquiries in Gilling."
| "Excellent," approved Poirot. "There was
something--Ah, yes, your friend, Sir
Bartholomew, he did not drink cocktails, but
he did drink the port?"
"Yes, he had a particular weakness for
??
port."
"It seems odd to me that he did net taste
anything unusual. Pure nicotine has ? most
pungent and unpleasant taste."
"You've got to remember," said Sir
Charles, "that there probably wasn't any nicotine
in the port. The contents of th£ glass
were analyzed, remember."
"Ah, yes; foolish of me. But however it
was administered, nicotine has a very disagreeable
taste."
"I don't know that that would matter,"
said Sir Charles slowly. "ToUie had a very
bad go of influenza last spring and it left
him with his sense of taste and smell a good
deal impaired."
"Ah, yes," said Poirot thoughtfully "That
might account for it. That simplifies things
considerably."
Sir Charles went to the window and looked
out.
"Still blowing a gale. I'll send fw your
things, M. Poirot. The Rose and Crown is
n ----. ,,,^n f^ orti-l-mdastip artiste but I
think you'd prefer proper sanitation and a
comfortable bed."
"You are extremely amiable. Sir Charles."
"Not at all. I'll see to it now."
He left the room.
Poirot looked at Mr. Satterthwaite.
"If I may permit myself a suggestion."
"Yes?"
Poirot leaned forward and said in a low
voice:
"Ask young Manders why he faked an
accident. Tell him the police suspect him,
and see what he says."
"You think—"
"I think nothing as yet, but there was the
entry in the diary: "Am worried about M.' It
might conceivably stand for Manders. It
might equally well be nothing whatever to
do with the case."
"We shall see," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Yes, we shall see."
Eighteen
the showrooms of Ambrosine, Ltd., were
very pure in appearance. The walls were a
shade just off white; the thick pile carpet
was so neutral as to be almost colorless; so
was the upholstery. Chromium gleamed here
and there, and on one wall was a gigantic
geometric design in vivid blue and lemon
yellow. The room had been designed by Mr.
Sydney Sandford, the newest and youngest
decorator of the moment.
Egg Lytton Gore sat in an armchair of
modem design, faintly reminiscent of a dentist's
chair, and watched exquisite snakelike
young women with beautiful bored faces pass
sinuously before her. Egg was principally
concerned with endeavoring to appear as
though fifty or sixty pounds was a mere
bagatelle to pay for a dress.
Mrs. Dacres, looking, as usual, marvelously unreal, was--as Egg put it to herself--
doing her stuff.
"Now, do you like this? Those shoulder
knots--rather amusing, don't you think?
And the waistline's rather penetrating. I
shouldn't have the red-lead color, though; I
should have it in the new color--Espanol--
most attractive--like mustard with a dash of
cayenne in it. How do you like Vin
Ordinaire? Rather absurd, isn't it? Quite
penetrating and ridiculous. Clothes simply
must not be serious nowadays."
"It's very difficult to decide," said Egg.
"You see"-- she became confidential--"I've
never been able to afford any clothes before.
We were always so dreadfully poor. I remembered
how simply marvelous you looked
that night at Crow's Nest, and I thought "Now that I've got money to spend, I shall
go to Mrs. Dacres and ask her to advise me.'
I did admire you so much that night."
"My dear, how charming of you. I simply
adore dressing a young girl. It's so important
that girls shouldn't look raw, if you know
what I mean."
"Nothing raw about you," thought Egg
ungratefully. "Cooked to a turn, you are."
"You've got so much personality," continued
Mrs. Dacres. "You mustn't have anything at all ordinary. Your clothes must be
simple, and penetrating, and just faintly
risable. You understand? Do you want several
things?"
"I thought about four evening frocks, and
a couple of day things, and a sports suit or
two--that sort of thing."
The honey of Mrs. Dacres' manner became
sweeter. It was fortunate that she did
not know that at that moment Egg's bank
balance was exactly fifteen pounds, twelve
shillings, and that the said balance had got to
last her until December.
More girls in gowns filed past Egg. In the
intervals of technical conversation, Egg interspersed
other matters.
"I suppose you've never been to Crow's
Nest since," she said.
"No. My dear, I couldn't. It was so upsetting, and anyway, I always think Cornwall is
rather terribly artisty. I simply cannot bear
artists. Their bodies are always such a curious
shape."
"It was a shattering business, wasn't it?"
said Egg. "Old Mr. Babbington was rather a
pet too."
"Quite a period piece, I should imagine,"
said Mrs. Dacres.
"You'd met him somewhere, hadn't you?"
"That dear old dugout? Had I? I don't
remember."
"I think I remember his saying so," said
Egg. "Not in Cornwall, though. I think it
was at a place called Gilling."
"Was it?" Mrs. Dacres' eyes were vague.
. . . "No, Marcelle, Petite Scandale is what I
want--the Jenny model--and after that the
blue Patou."
"Wasn't it extraordinary," said Egg, "about Sir Bartholomew being poisoned?"
"My dear, it was too penetrating for words!
It's done me a world of good. All sorts of
dreadful women come and order frocks from
me just for the sensation. . . . Now, this
Patou model would be perfect for you. Look
at that perfectly useless and ridiculous frill; it
makes the whole thing adorable. Young without
being tiresome. . . . Yes, poor Sir
Bartholomew's death has been rather a godsend
to me. There's just an off chance, you
see, that I might have murdered him. I've
rather played up to that. Extraordinary fat
women come and positively goggle at me.
Too penetrating. And then, you see--"
But she was interrupted by the advent of a
monumental American, evidently a valued
client.
While the American was unburdening herself of her requirements, which sounded
comprehensive and expensive. Egg managed
to make an unobtrusive exit, telling the young
lady who had succeeded Mrs. Dacres that
she would think it over before making a final
choice.
As she emerged into Bruton Street, Egg
glanced at her watch. It was twenty minutes
to one. Before very long she might be able to
put her second plan into operation.
She walked as far as Berkeley Square and
then slowly back again. At one o'clock she
had her nose glued to a window displaying
Chinese objets d'art.
Miss Doris Sims came rapidly out into
Bruton Street and turned in the direction of
Berkeley Square. Just before she got there, a
voice spoke at her elbow.
"Excuse me," said Egg, "but can I speak
to you a minute?"
The girl turned, surprised.
"You're one of the manikins at
Ambrosine's, aren't you? I noticed you this
morning. I hope you won't be frightfully
offended if I say I think you've got simply
the most perfect figure I've ever seen."
Doris Sims was not offended. She was
merely slightly confused.
"It's very kind of you, I'm sure, madam,"
she said.
"You look frightfully good-natured too,"
said Egg. "That's why I'm going to ask you
a favor. Will you have lunch with me at the
Berkeley or the Ritz and let me tell you
about it?"
After a moment's hesitation, Doris Sims
agreed. She was curious and she liked good
food.
Once established at a table and lunch ordered, Egg plunged into explanations.
"I hope you'll keep this to yourself," she
said. "You see, I've got a job--writing up
various professions for women. I want you to
tell me all about the dressmaking business."
Doris looked slightly disappointed, but she
complied amiably enough, giving bald statements
as to hours, rates of pay, conveniences
and inconveniences of her employment. Egg
entered particulars in a little notebook.
"It's awfully kind of you," she said. "I'm
very stupid at this. It's quite new to me.
You see, I'm frightfully bad off and this little
bit of journalistic work will make all the
difference."
She went on confidentially:
"It was rather nerve on my part walking
into Ambrosine's and pretending I could buy
lots of your models. Really, I've got just a
few pounds of my dress allowance to last me tiU Christmas. I expect Mrs. Dacres would
be simply wild if she knew."
Doris giggled.
"I should say she would."
"Did I do it well?" asked Egg. "Did I
look as though I had money?"
"You did it splendidly. Miss Lytton Gore.
Madam thinks you're going to get quite a lot
of things."
"I'm afraid she'll be disappointed," said
Egg- Doris giggled more. She was enjoying her
lunch and she felt attracted to Egg. "She
may be a society young lady," she thought to
herself, "but she doesn't put on airs. She's as
natural as can be."
These pleasant relations once established, Egg found no difficulty in inducing her companion
to talk freely on the subject of her
employer.
"I always think," said Egg, "Mrs. Dacres
looks a frightful cat. Is she?"
"None of us like her. Miss Lytton Gore, and that's a fact. But she's clever, of course, and she's got a rare head for business. Not
like some society ladies who take up the
dressmaking business and eo bankrupt because their friends get clothes and don't pay.
She's as hard as nails, madam is; though I
will say she's fair enough, and she's got real
taste; she knows what's what, and she's clever
at getting people to have the style that suits
them."
"I suppose she makes a lot of money."
A queer, knowing look came into Doris'
eye.
"It's not for me to say anything, or to
gossip."
"Of course not," said Egg. "Go on."
"But if you ask me, the firm's not far off
Queer Street. There was a Jewish gentleman
came to see madam, and there have been one
or two things-- It's my belief she's been
borrowing to keep going, in the hope that
trade would revive, and that she's got in
deep. Really, Miss Lytton Gore, she looks
terrible sometimes. Quite desperate. I don't
know what she'd look like without her makeup.
I don't believe she sleeps of nights."
"What's her husband like?"
"He's a queer fish. Bit of bad lot, if you
ask me. Not that we ever see much of him.
None of the other girls agree with me, but I
believe she's very keen on him still. Of
course, a lot of nasty things have been said."
"Such as?" asked Egg.
at mention of Gilling or at statement that
Babbington knew her.
"There doesn't seem much there," said
Egg to herself. "A possible motive for the
murder of Sir Bartholomew, but very thin.
M. Poirot may be able to make something of
that. I can't."
Nineteen
but Egg had not yet finished her program
for the day. Her next move was to the apartment
house in which the Dacres had a flat.
The building was a new block of extremely
expensive flats. There were sumptuous window
boxes, and uniformed porters of such magnificence that they looked like foreign
generals.
Egg did not enter the building. She strolled
up and down on the opposite side of the
street. After about an hour of this, she calculated
that she must have walked several miles.
It was half-past five.
Then a taxi drew up at the apartment
house and Captain Dacres alighted from it.
Egg allowed three minutes to elapse, then
she crossed the road and entered the building.

Egg pressed the doorbell of No. 3. Dacres
himself opened the door. He was still engaged
in taking off his overcoat.
"Oh," said Egg. "How do you do. You
do remember me, don't you? We met in
Cornwall and again in Yorkshire."
"Of course--of course. In at the death
both times, weren't we? Come in. Miss
Lytton Gore."
"I wanted to see your wife. Is she in?"
"She's round in Bruton Street, at her
dressmaking place."
"I know. I was there today. I thought
perhaps she'd be back by now and that she
wouldn't mind, perhaps, if I came here.
Only, of course, I suppose I'm being a frightful
bother."
Egg paused appealingly.
Freddie Dacres said to himself:
"Nice-looking filly. Damned pretty girl, in fact."
Aloud he said:
"Cynthia won't be back till well after six.
I've just come back from Newbury. Had a
rotten day and left early. Come round to the
club and have a cocktail."
Egg accepted, though she had a shrewd
suspicion that Dacres had already had quite
as much alcohol as was good for him.
o-^-^-^---- _-- a'l.-» ---~^-l^«.*»»./fii»-»<-l /-li»->-»n^»oc f\f tr\f^
club) and sipping a Martini, Egg said: "This
is great fun. I've never been here before."
Freddie Dacres smiled indulgently. He
liked a young and pretty girl. Not, perhaps, as much as he liked some other things, but
well enough.
"Upsettin' sort of time, wasn't it?" he said.
"Up in Yorkshire, I mean. Something rather
amusin' about a doctor being poisoned--you
see what I mean--wrong way about. A doctor's
a chap who poisons other people."
He laughed uproariously at his own remark
and ordered another pink gin.
"That's rather clever of you," said Egg. "I
never thought of it that way before."
"Only a joke, of course," said Freddie
Dacres.
"It's odd, isn't it," said Egg, "that when we meet, it's always at a death?"
"Bit odd," admitted Captain Dacres. "You
mean the old clergyman chap at what's-hisname's--the
actor fellow's place?"
"Yes. It was very queer, the way he died
so suddenly."
"Damn disturbin'," said Dacres. "Makes
you feel a bit gruey, fellows popping off all
over the place. You know, you think, 'my turn next,' and it gives you the shivers."
"You knew Mr. Babbington before, didn't
you? At Gilling."
"Don't know the place. No, I never set
eyes on the old chap before. Funny thing is, he popped off just the same way as old
Strange did. Bit odd, that. Can't have been
bumped off, too, I suppose?"
"Well, what do you think?"
Dacres shook his head.
"Can't have been," he said decisively.
"Nobody murders parsons. Doctors are different."

"Yes," said Egg, "I suppose doctors are
different."
"Course they are. Stands to reason. Doctors
are interfering devils." He slurred the
words a little. He leaned forward. "Won't let
well alone. Understand?"
"No," said Egg.
"They monkey about with fellows' lives.
They've got too much power. Oughtn't to be
allowed."
"I don't quite see what you mean?"
"M'dear girl, I'm telling you. Get a fellow
shut up--that's what I mean--put him in
hell. They're cruel! Shut him up and keep
the stuff from him, and however much you
beg and pray, they won't give it you. Don't
~~-^ „ /i^.w, MTl-toi- 1-rM-i-nr^ xmn'rp in- That's
doctors for you. I'm telling you--and I
know."
His face twitched painfully. His little pinpoint
pupils stared past her.
"It's hell, I tell you--hell! And they call it
curing you! Pretend they're doing a decent
action. Swine!"
"Did Sir Bartholomew Strange--" began
Egg cautiously.
He took the words out of her mouth.
"Sir Bartholomew Strange. Sir Barthol.omew
Humbug. I'd like to know what goes
on in that precious sanatorium of his. Nerve
cases. That's what they say. You're in there
and you can't get out. And they say you've
gone of your own free will. Free will. Just
because they get hold of you when you've
got the horrors."
He was shaking now. His mouth drooped
suddenly.
"I'm all to pieces," he said apologetically.
"All to pieces." He called to the waiter, pressed Egg to have another drink and, when
she refused, ordered one himself.
"That's better," he said as he drained the
glass.
"Got my nerve back now. Nasty business
losing your nerve. Mustn't make Cynthia angry.
She told me not to talk." He nodded his
head once or twice. "Wouldn't <do to tell the police all this," he said. "They might think
I'd bumped old Strange off. Eh? You realize, don't you, that someone must have done
it? One of us must have killed him. That's a
funny thought. Which of us?--that's the
question."
"Perhaps you know which," said Egg.
"What d'you say that for? Why should I
know?"
He looked at her angrily and suspiciously.
"I don't know anything about it, I tell
you. I wasn't going to take that damnable
cure of his. No matter what Cynthia said, I
wasn't going to take it. He was up to something--they
were both up to something. But
they couldn't fool me."
He drew himself up.
"I'm a shtrong man, Mish Lytton Gore."
"I'm sure you are," said Egg. "Tell me,
do you know anything of a Mrs. de
Rushbridger who is at the sanatorium?"
"Rushbridger? Rushbridger? Old Strange
said something about her. Now, what was it?
Can't remember. Can't remember anything."
He sighed, shook his head.
"Memory's going, that's what it is. And
I've got enemies--a lot of enemies. They <
may be spying on me now."
He looked round uneasily. Then he leaned
across the table to Egg.
"What was that woman doing in my room
that day?"
"What woman?"
"Rabbit-faced woman. Writes plays. It was
the morning after—after he died. I'd just
come up from breakfast. She came out of my
room and went through the baize door at the
end of the passage—went through into the
servants' quarters. Odd, eh? Why did she go
into my room? What did she think she'd
find there? What did she want to go nosing
about for, anyway? What's it got to do with
her?" He leaned forward confidentially. "Or
do you think it's true, what Cynthia says?"
"What does Mrs. Dacres say?"
"Says I imagined it. Says I was 'seeing
things.' " He laughed uncertainly. "I do see
things now and again. Pink mice, snakes—
all that sort of thing. But seem' a woman's
different. I did see her. She's a queer fish,
that woman. Nasty sort of eye she's got.
Goes through you."
He leaned back on the soft couch. He
seemed to be dropping asleep.
Egg got up.
"I must be going. Thank you very much,
Captain Dacres."
"Don't thank me. Delighted. Absolutely
delighted." His voice trailed off.
"I'd better go before he passes out altogether,"
thought Egg.
She emerged from the smoky atmosphere
of the club into the cool evening air.
Beatrice, the housemaid, had said that
Miss Wills poked and pried. Now came this
story from Freddie Dacres. What had Miss
Wills been looking for? What had she found?
Was it possible that Miss Wills knew something?

Was there anything in this rather muddled
story about Sir Bartholomew Strange? Had
Freddie Dacres secretly feared and hated
him?
It seemed possible.
But in all this no hint of any guilty knowledge
in the Babbington case.
"How odd it would be," said Egg to herself, "if he wasn't murdered, after all."
And then she caught her breath sharply as
she caught sight of the words on a newspaper
placard a few feet away: cornish exhumation
case. result.
Hastily, she held out a penny and snatched
a paper. As she did so she collided with
another woman doing the same thing. As
Egg apologized she recognized Sir Charles5 secretary, the efficient Miss Milray.
Standing side by side, they both sought
the stop-press news. Yes, there it was.
result of cornish exhumation. The
words danced before Egg's eyes. Analysis of
the organs. . . . Nicotine. . . .
"So he was murdered," said Egg.
"Oh, dear," said Miss Milray. "This is
terrible--terrible."
Her rugged countenance was distorted with
emotion. Egg looked at her in surprise. She
had always regarded Miss Milray as something
less than human.
"It upsets me," said Miss Milray, in explanation.
"You see, I've known him all my
life."
"Mr. Babbington?"
"Yes. You see, my mother lives at Gilling, where he used to be vicar. Naturally, it's
upsetting."
"Oh, of course."
"The fact of the matter is," said Sir
Charles' secretary, "I don't know what to
do."
She flushed a little before Egg's look of
astonishment.
"I'd like to write to Mrs. Babbington,"
she said quickly. "Only it doesn't seem
quite—well, quite—I don't know what I had
better do about it."
Somehow, to Egg, the explanation was not
quite satisfying.
Twenty
"now, are you a friend, or are you a sleuth? I
simply must know."
Miss Sutcliffe flashed a pair of mocking
eyes as she spoke. She was sitting in a
straight-backed chair, her gray hair becomingly
arranged, her legs were crossed, and
Mr. Satterthwaite admired the perfection of
her beautifully shod feet and her slender ankles.
Miss Sutcliffe was a very fascinating
woman, mainly owing to the fact that she
seldom took anything seriously.
"Is that quite fair?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.

"My dear man, of course it's fair. Have
you come here for the sake of my beautiful
eyes, as the French say so charmingly, or
have you, you nasty man, come just to pump
me about murders?"
"Can you doubt that your first alternative
is the correct one?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite, with a little bow.
"I can and I do," said the actress with
energy. "You are one of those people who
look so mild and really wallow in blood."
"No, no."
"Yes, yes. The only thing I can't make up
my mind about is whether it is an insult or a
compliment to be considered a potential murderess.
On the whole, I think it's a compliment."

She cocked her head a little on one side
and smiled that slow bewitching smile that
never failed.
Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself:
"Adorable creature."
Aloud he said: "I will admit, dear lady, that the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange
has interested me considerably. I have, as
you perhaps know, dabbled in such things
before."
He paused modestly, perhaps hoping that
Miss Sutcliffe would show some knowledge
of his activities. However, she merely asked:
"Tell me one thing. Is there anything in
what that girl said?"
"Which girl and what did she say?"
"The Lytton Gore girl. The one who is so
fascinated by Charles. . . . What a wretch
Charles is; he will do it! ... She thinks that
that nice old man down in Cornwall was
murdered too."
"What do you think?"
"Well, it certainly happened just the same
way. She's an intelligent girl, you know. . . .
Tell me; is Charles serious?"
"I expect your views on the subject are
likely to be much more valuable than mine,"
said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"What a tiresomely discreet man you are!"
cried Miss Sutcliffe. "Now, I"—she sighed—
"am appallingly indiscreet."
She fluttered an eyelash at him.
"I know Charles pretty well. I know men
pretty well. He seems to me to display all
the signs of settling down. There's an air of
virtue about him. He'll be handing round
the plate and founding a family in record
time—that's my view. How dull men are
when they decide to settle down! They lose
all their charm."
"I've often wondered why Sir Charles has
never married," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"My dear, he never showed any signs of
wanting to marry. He wasn't what they call a
marrying man. But he was a very attractive
man." She sighed. A slight twinkle showed
in her eves as she looked at Mr. Satterthwaite.
"He and I were once--well, why deny what
everybody knows? It was very pleasant while
it lasted, and we're still the best of friends. I
suppose that's the reason the Lytton Gore
child looks at me so fiercely. She suspects I
still have a tendresse for Charles. Have I?
Perhaps I have. But at any rate I haven't yet
written my memoirs, describing all my affairs
in detail, as most of my friends seem to
have done. If I did, you know, the girl
wouldn't like it. She'd be shocked. Modem
girls are easily shocked. Her mother wouldn't
be shocked at all. You can't really shock a
sweet mid-Victorian. They say so little, but
always think the worst."
Mr. Satterthwaite contented himself with
saying:
<<I think you are right in suspecting that
Egg Lytton Gore mistrusts you."
Miss Sutcliffe frowned.
"I'm not at all sure that I'm not a little
jealous of her. . . . We women are such cats, aren't we? Scratch, scratch, miauw, miauw, purr, purr."
She laughed.
"Why didn't Charles come and catechize
me on this business? Too much nice feeling, t^- <-^qr» mmt think me guilty.
She stood up and stretched out a hand.
"All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten
this little hand."
She broke off:
"No, I'm no Lady Macbeth. Comedy's
my line."
"There seems also a certain lack of
motive," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"True. I liked Bartholomew Strange. We
were friends. I had no reason for wishing
him out of the way. Because we were friends, I'd rather like to take an active part in hunting
down his murderer. Tell me if \ can help
in any way."
"I suppose. Miss Sutcliffe, you didn't see
or hear anything that might have a bearing
on the crime."
"Nothing that I haven't already told the
police. The house party had only just arrived, you know. His death occurred on that
first evening."
"The butler?"
"I hardly noticed him."
"Any peculiar behavior on the part of the
guests?"
((xt,. r\c /,/y,,^(,^ tliai hov--what's his
name?--Manders--turned up rather unexpectedly."

"Did Sir Bartholomew Strange seem
surprised?"
"Yes, I think he was. He said to me, just
before we went in to dinner, that it was an
odd business--'a new method of gate crashing,'
he called it. 'Only,' he said, 'it's my
wall he's crashed, not my gate.' "
"Sir Bartholomew was in good spirits?"
"Very good spirits!"
"What about this secret passage you mentioned
to the police?"
"I believe it led out of the library. Sir
Bartholomew promised to show it to me, but
of course the poor man died."
"How did the subject come up?"
"We were discussing a recent purchase of
his--an old walnut bureau. I asked if it had
a secret drawer in it. I told him I adored
secret drawers. It's a passion of mine. And
he said, no, there wasn't a secret drawer that
he knew of, but he had got a secret passage
in the house."
"Sir Bartholomew didn't mention a patient
of his--a Mrs. de Rushbridger?"
"No."
"Gilling? Gilling? No, I don't think I do.
Why?"
"Well, you knew Mr. Babbington before,
didn't you?"
"Who is Mr. Babbington?"
"The man who died, or who was killed, at
Crow's Nest."
"Oh, the clergyman. I'd forgotten his
name. No, I'd never seen him before in my
life. Who told you I knew him?"
"Someone who ought to know," said Mr.
Satterthwaite boldly.
Miss Sutcliffe seemed amused.
"Dear old man, did they think I'd had an
affair with him? I must clear the poorman's
memory. I'd never seen him before in my
life."
And with that statement Mr. Satterthwaite
was forced to rest content.
Twenty-One
five Upper Cathcart Road, Tooting, seemed
an incongruous home for a satiric playwright.
The room into which Sir Charles was shown
had walls of a rather drab oatmeal color with
a frieze of laburnum round the top. The
curtains were of rose-colored velvet; there
were a lot of photographs and china dogs;
the telephone was coyly hidden by a lady
with ruffled skirts; there were a great many
little tables and some suspicious-looking
brasswork from Birmingham via the Far
East.
Miss Wills entered the room so noiselessly
that Sir Charles, who was at the moment
examining a ridiculously elongated pierrot
doll lying across the sofa, did not hear her.
Her thin voice, saying, "How d'you do. Sir
Charles. This is really a great pleasure," made
i • • .i
- -—~ —^»«», —/-»i'i't"»ri
gl suit which hung disconsolately on her angular
form. Her stockings were slightly wrin1
kled and she had on very high-heeled, | patent-leather slippers. I Sir Charles shook hands, accepted a ciga}
rette, and sat down on the sofa by the pierrot
| doll. Miss Wills sat opposite him. The light 1 from the window caught her pince-nez and
made them give off little flashes.
"Fancy you finding me out here," said
Miss Wills. "My mother will be ever so excited.
She just adores the theater--especially
anything romantic. That play where you were
a prince at a university--she's often talked of
it. She goes to matinees, you know, and eats
chocolates--she's one of that kind. And she
does love it."
"How delightful," said Sir Charles. "You
don't know how charming it is to be remembered.
The public memory is short."
He sighed.
"She'll be thrilled at meeting you," said
Miss Wills. "Miss Sutcliffe came the other
day and mother was thrilled at meeting her."
"Angela was here?"
"Yes. She's putting on a play of mine, you
know. Little Dog Laughed."
"Of course," said Sir Charles. "I've read
"I'm so glad you think so. Miss Sutcliffe
likes it too. It's a kind of modern version of
the nursery rime--a lot of froth and nonsense--hey-diddle-diddle
and the dish-andthe-spoon
scandal. Of course, it all revolves
round Miss Sutcliffe's part--everyone dances
to her fiddling--that's the idea."
Sir Charles said:
"Not bad. The world nowadays is rather
like a mad nursery rime. 'The little dog
laughed to see such sport,' eh?" And he
thought suddenly: "Of course, this woman's
the little dog. She looks on and laughs."
The light shifted from Miss Wills' pincenez
and he saw her pale-blue eyes regarding
him intelligently through them.
"This woman," thought Sir Charles, "has
a fiendish sense of humor."
Aloud he said:
"I wonder if you can guess what errand
has brought me here."
"Well," said Miss Wills archly, "I don't
suppose it was only to see poor little me."
Sir Charles registered for a moment the
difference between the spoken and the written
word. On paper Miss Wills was witty
and cynical, in speech she was arch.
"Ti was rea11v Satterthwaite DUt the idea
into my head," said Sir Charles. "He fancies
himself as txeing a good judge of character."
"He's ver^ clever about people," said Miss
Wills. "It's lather his hobby, I should say."
"And he ds strongly of the opinion that if
there were anything worth noticing that night
at Melfort Abbey, you would have noticed
it."
"Is that wtiat he said?"
"Yes."
"I was v"ery interested, I must admit,"
said Miss Wills slowly. "You see, I'd never
seen a murder at close hand before. A writer's
got to lake everything as copy, hasn't
she?"
"I believe that's a well-known axiom."
"So naturally," said Miss Wills, "I tried to
notice everything I could."
This was obviously Miss Wills' version of
Beatrice's "poking and prying."
"About the guests?"
"About the guests."
"And what, exactly, did you notice?"
The pince-nez shifted.
"I didn't really find out anything; if I had, I'd have told the police, of course," she added
virtuously.
| "But you noticed things."
"I always do notice things. I can't help it.
I'm funny that way." She giggled.
"And you noticed—what?"
"Oh, nothing—that is, nothing that you'd
call anything. Just little odds and ends about
people's characters. I find people so very
interesting. So typical, if you know what I
mean."
"Typical of what?"
"Of themselves. Oh, I can't explain. I'm
ever so silly at saying things."
She giggled again.
"Your pen is deadlier than your tongue,"
said Sir Charles, smiling.
"I don't think it's very nice of you to say
deadlier. Sir Charles."
"My dear Miss Wills, admit that with a
pen in your hand you're quite merciless."
"I think you're horrid. Sir Charles. It's
you who are merciless to me."
"I must get out of this bog of badinage,"
said Sir Charles to himself. He said aloud:
"So you didn't find out anything concrete,
Miss Wills?"
"No, not exactly. At least, there was one
thing. Something I noticed and ought to have
told the police about, only I forgot."
"What was that?"
"The butler. He had a kind of strawberry
mark on his left wrist. I noticed it when he
was handing me vegetables. I suppose that's
the sort of thing might come in useful."
"I should say very useful indeed. The police
are trying hard to track down that man
Ellis. Really, Miss Wills, you are a very remarkable
woman. Not one of the servants or
guests mentioned such a mark."
"Most people don't use their eyes much, do they?" said Miss Wills.
"Where, exactly, was the mark? And what
size was it?"
"If you'll just stretch out your own
wrist--" Sir Charles extended his arm.
"Thank you. It was here." Miss Wills placed
an unerring finger on the spot. "It was about
the size, roughly, of a sixpence, and rather
the shape of Australia."
"Thank you; that's very clear," said Sir
Charles, removing his hands and pulling
down his cuffs again.
"You think I ought to write to the police
and tell them?"
"Certainly I do. It might be most valuable
in tracing the man. Dash it all," went on Sir
Charles, with feeling, "in detective stories
there's always some identifying mark on the
villain. I thought it was a bit hard that real
life should prove so lamentably behind
hand."
"It's usually a scar in stories," said Miss
Wills thoughtfully.
"A birthmark's just as good," said Sir
Charles.
He looked boyishly pleased.
"The trouble is," he went on, "most people
are so indeterminate. There's nothing
about them to take hold of."
Miss Wills looked inquiringly at him.
"Old Babbington, for instance," went on
Sir Charles; "he had a curiously vague personality.
Very difficult to lay hold of."
"His hands were very characteristic," said
Miss Wills. "What I call a scholar's hands. A
little crippled with arthritis, but very refined
fingers and beautiful nails."
"What an observer you are. Ah, but--of
course, you knew him before."
"Knew Mr. Babbington?"
"Yes, I remember his telling me so. Where
was it he said he had known you?"
Miss Wills shook her head decisively.
"Not me. You must have been mixing me
up with someone else--or he was. I'd never
met him before."
"It must be my mistake. I thought--at
He looked at her keenly. Miss Wills appeared
quite composed.
"No," she said.
"Did it ever occur to you. Miss Wills, that
he might have been murdered too?"
"I know you and Miss Lytton Gore think
so--or, rather, you think so."
"Oh--and--er--just what do you think?"
"It doesn't seem likely," said Miss Wills.
A little baffled by Miss Wills' clear lack of
interest in the subject. Sir Charles started on
another tack.
"Did Sir Bartholomew mention a Mrs. de
Rushbridger at all?"
"No, I don't think so."
"She was a patient in his home. Suffering
from nervous breakdown and loss of memory."

"He mentioned a case of lost memory,"
said Miss Wills. "He said you could hypnotize
a person and bring their memory back."
"Did he, now? I wonder-- Could that be
significant?"
Sir Charles frowned and remained lost in
thought. Miss Wills said nothing.
"There's nothing else you could tell me?
Nothing about any of the guests?"
It seemed to him that there was just the
slightest pause before Miss Wills answered.
"No."
"About Mrs. Dacres? Or Captain Dacres? 3r Miss Sutcliffe? Or Mr. Manders?"
He watched her very intently as he pronounced
each name.
Once he thought he saw the pincenez
flicker, but he could not be sure.
"I'm afraid there's nothing I can tell you,
Sir Charles."
"Oh, welll" He stood up. "Satterthwaite
will be disappointed."
"I'm so sorry," said Miss Wills primly.
"I'm sorry, too, for disturbing you. I expect
you were busy writing."
"I was, as a matter of fact."
"Another play?"
"Yes. To tell you the truth, I thought of
using some of the characters at the house
party at Melfort Abbey."
"What about libel?"
"That's quite all right. Sir Charles. I find
people never recognize themselves." She giggled.
"Not if, as you said just now, one is
really merciless."
"You mean," said Sir Charles, "that we all
have an exaggerated idea of our own personalities
and don't recognize the truth if it's sufficiently brutally portrayed? I was quite
^ woman."
Miss Wills tittered.
"You needn't be afraid. Sir Charles.
Women aren't usually cruel to men--unless
it's some particular man; they're only cruel
to other women."
"Meaning you've got your analytical knife
into some unfortunate female. Which one?
Well, perhaps I can guess. Cynthia's not beloved
by her own sex."
Miss Wills said nothing. She continued to
smile, rather a catlike smile.
"Do you write your stuff or dictate it?"
"Oh, I write it and send it to be typed."
"You ought to have a secretary."
"Perhaps. Have you still got that clever
Miss--Miss Milray, wasn't it?"
"Yes, I've got Miss Milray. She went away
for a time to look after her mother in the
country, but she's back again now. Most
efficient woman."
"So I should think. Perhaps a little impulsive."

"Impulsive? Miss Milray?"
Sir Charles stared. Never in his wildest
flights of fancy had he associated impulse
with Miss Milray.
"Only on occasions, perhaps," said Miss
Wills.
Sir Charles shook his head.
"Miss Milray's the perfect robot. Goodby,
Miss Wills. Forgive me for bothering
you, and don't forget to let the police know
about that thingummybob."
"The mark on the butler's right wrist?
No, I won't forget."
"Well, good-by. . . . Half a sec. Did you
say "right wrist'? You said left just now."
"Did I? How stupid of me."
"Well, which was it?"
Miss Wills frowned and half closed her
eyes.
"Let me see. I was sitting so—and he—
Would you mind. Sir Charles, handing me
that brass plate as though it was a vegetable
dish? Left side."
Sir Charles presented the beaten-brass
atrocity as directed.
"Cabbage, madam?"
"Thank you," said Miss Wills. "I'm quite
sure now. It was the left wrist, as I said first.
Stupid of me."
"No, no," said Sir Charles. "Left and right
are always puzzling."
He said good-by for the third time.
As he closed the door, he looked back.
Miss Wills was not looking at him. She was
^^^/4^r, wi-»^r^ hf> had left tier. She was
gazing at the fire and on her lips was a smile
of satisfied malice.
Sir Charles was startled.
"That woman knows something," he said
to himself. "I'll swear she knows something.
And she won't say—But what the devil is it
she knows?"
Twenty-Two
at the office of Messrs. Speier & Ross, Mr.
Satterthwaite asked for Mr. Oliver Manders
and sent in his card.
Presently he was ushered into a small room
where Oliver was sitting at a writing table.
The young man got up and shook hands.
"Good of you to look me up, sir," he said.
His tone implied:
"I have to say that, but really it's a damned
bore."
Mr. Satterthwaite, however, was not easily
put off.
He sat down, blew his nose thoughtfully,
and peering over the top of his handkerchief,
said:
"Seen the news this morning?"
"You mean the new financial situation?
Well, the dollar—"
"Not dollars," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"n^-ath Tbp result of the Loomouth exhu-
mation. Babbington was poisoned. By nicotine."

"Oh, that; yes, I saw that. Our energetic
Egg will be pleased. She always insisted it
was murder."
"But it doesn't interest you?"
"My tastes aren't so crude. After all, murder--"
He shrugged his shoulders. "So violent
and inartistic."
"Not always inartistic," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

"No? Well, perhaps not."
"It depends, does it not, on who commits
the murder? You, for instance, would, I am
sure, commit a murder in a very artistic
manner."
"Nice of you to say so," drawled Oliver.
"But frankly, my dear boy, I don't think
much of the accident you faked. No more do
the police, I understand."
There was a moment's silence; then a pen
dropped to the floor.
Oliver said:
"Excuse me, I don't quite understand
you."
"That rather inartistic performance of
yours at Melfort Abbey. I should be interested
to know just why you did it."
There was another silence, then Oliver
said:
"You say the police suspect?"
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.
"It looks a little suspicious, don't you
think?" he asked pleasantly. "But perhaps
you have a perfectly good explanation."
"I've got an explanation," said Oliver slowly. "Whether ifs a good one or not, I
don't know."
"Will you let me judge?"
There was a pause, then Oliver said:
"I came there the way I did, at Sir
Bartholomew's own suggestion."
"What?" Mr. Satterthwaite was astonished.

"A bit odd, isn't it? But it's true. I got a
letter from him suggesting that I should have
a sham accident and claim hospitality. He
said he couldn't put his reasons in writing, but he would explain them to me at the first
opportunity."
"And did he explain?"
"No, he didn't. I got there just before
dinner. I didn't see him alone. At the end of
dinner he--he died."
The weariness had gone out of Oliver's
--------,-. tjt;^ /-irt«4r wTf^c \x7f»rp fiYed on .Mr.
Satterthwaite. He seemed to be studying attentively
the reactions aroused by his words.
"You've got this letter?"
"No, I tore it up."
"A pity," said Mr. Satterthwaite dryly.
"And you said nothing to the police?"
"No, it all seemed--well, rather fantastic."

"It is fantastic."
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. Had
Bartholomew Strange written such a letter?
It seemed highly uncharacteristic. The story
had a melodramatic touch most unlike the
physician's cheerful common sense.
He looked up at the young man. Oliver
was still watching him. Mr. Satterthwaite
thought: "He's looking to see if I swallow
this story."
He said: "And Sir Bartholomew gave absolutely
no reason for his request?"
"None whatever."
"An extraordinary story."
Oliver did not speak.
"Yet you obeyed the summons?"
Something of the weary manner returned.
"Yes, it seemed refreshingly out of the
way to a somewhat jaded palate. I was curious, I must confess."
"Is there anything else?" asked Mr.
Satterthwaite.
"What do you mean, sir--anything else?"
Mr. Satterthwaite did not really know what
he meant. He was led by some obscure instinct.

"I mean," he said, "is there anything else
that might tell against you?"
There was a pause. Then the young man
shrugged his shoulders.
"I suppose I might as well make a clean
breast of it. The woman isn't likely to hold
her tongue about it."
Mr. Satterthwaite looked a question.
"It was the morning after the murder stuff.
I was talking to the Anthony Astor woman. I
took out my pocketbook, and something fell
out of it. She picked it up and handed it
back to me."
"And this something?"
"Unfortunately, she glanced at it before
returning it to me. It was a cutting from a
newspaper about nicotine--what a deadly
poison it was, and so on.
"How did you come to have such an interest
in the subject?"
"I didn't. I suppose I must have put that
cuttine in my wallet sometime or other, but
I can't remember doing so. Bit awkward, eh?"
Mr. Satterthwaite thought: "A thin story."
"I suppose," went on Oliver Manders, "she went to the police about it."
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head.
"I don't think so. I fancy she's a woman
who likes--well, to keep things to herself.
She's a collector of knowledge."
Oliver Manders leaned forward suddenly.
"I'm innocent, sir--absolutely innocent."
"I haven't suggested that you are guilty,"
said Mr. Satterthwaite mildly.
"But someone has--someone must have
done. Someone has put the police onto me."
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head.
"No, no."
"Then why did you come here today?"
"Partly as the result of my--er--investigations
on the spot." Mr. Satterthwaite spoke a
little pompously. "And partly at the suggestion
of a friend."
"What friend?"
"Hercule Poirot."
"That man!" The expression burst from
Oliver. "Is he back in England?"
"Yes."
"Why has he come back?"
Mr. Satterthwaite rose.
"Why does a dog go hunting?" he inquired.

And rather pleased with his retort, he left
the room.
Twenty-Three
sitting in a comfortable armchair in his
slightly florid suite at the Ritz, Hercule Poirot
listened.
Egg was perched on the arm of a chair, Sir Charles stood in front of the fireplace, Mr. Satterthwaite sat a little farther away, observing the group.
"It's a failure all along the line," said Egg.
Poirot shook his head gently.
"No, no, you exaggerate. As regards a
link with Mr. Babbington, you have drawn
the blank, yes, but you have collected other
suggestive information."
"The Wills woman knows something,"
said Sir Charles. "I'll swear she knows something."

"And Captain Dacres, he, too, has not the
clear conscience. And Mrs. Dacres was desperately
in want of money, and Sir
FR1;Bartholomew spoiled her chance of laying
hold of some."
"What do you think of young Manders" story?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
"It strikes me as peculiar and as being
highly uncharacteristic of the late Sir
Bartholomew Strange."
"You mean it's a lie?" asked Sir Charles
bluntly.
"There are so many kinds of lies," said
Hercule Poirot.
He was silent for a minute of two; then he
said:
"This Miss Wills--she has written a play
for Miss Sutcliffe?"
"Yes. The first night is Wednesday next."
"Ah!"
He was silent again. Egg said:
"Tell us, what shall we do now?"
The little man smiled at her.
"There is only one thing to do--think."
"Think?" cried Egg. Her voice was disgusted.

Poirot beamed on her.
"But yes, exactly that. Think! With
thought, all problems can be solved."
"Can't we do something?"
"For you the action, eh, mademoiselle?
nm- <-^i-riinh7 i-1-i^rp arp still things you can
do. There is, for instance, this place, Gilling, where Mr. Babbington lived for so many
years. You can make inquiries there. You
say that this Miss Milray's mother lives at
Gilling and is an invalid. An invalid knows
everything. She hears everything and forgets
nothing. Make your inquiries of her. It may
lead to something. Who knows?"
"Aren't you going to do anything?" demanded
Egg persistently.
Poirot twinkled.
"You insist that I, too, shall be active? Eh
bien, it shall be as you wish. Only me, I shall
not leave this place. I am very comfortable
here. But I will tell you what I will do. I will
give the party--the sherry party. That is
fashionable, is it not?"
"A sherry party?"
"Precisement, and to it I will ask, Mrs.
Dacres, Captain Dacres, Miss Sutcliffe, Miss
Wills, Mr. Manders and your charming
mother, mademoiselle."
"And me?"
"Naturally, and you. The present company
is included."
"Hurrah," said Egg. "You can't deceive
me, M. Poirot. Something will happen at
that party. It will, won't it?"
"We shall see," said Poirot. "But do not
expect too much, mademoiselle. Now leave
me with Sir Charles, for there are a few
things about which I want to ask his advice."
As Egg and Mr. Satterthwaite stood waiting
for the lift. Egg said ecstatically:
"It's lovely--just like detective stories. All
the people will be there and then he'll tell us
which of them did it."
"I wonder," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
The sherry party took place on Monday
evening. The invitation had been accepted
by all.
The charming and indiscreet Miss Sutcliffe
laughed mischievously as she glanced round.
"Quite the spider's parlor, M. Poirot. And
here all we poor little flies have walked in.
I'm sure you're going to give us the most
marvelous resume of the case, and then suddenly
you'll point at me and say Thou art
the woman,' and everyone will say 'She done
it,' and I shall burst into tears and confess, because I'm too terribly suggestible for
words. Oh, M. Poirot, I'm so frightened of
you."
"Quelle histoire," cried Poirot. He was busy
with a decanter and glasses. He handed her a
glass of sherry with a bow. "This is a friendly
little Dartv. Do not let us talk of murders
and bloodshed and poison. La, la! These
things, they spoil the palate."
He handed a glass to the grim Miss Milray, who had accompanied Sir Charles and was
standing with a forbidding expression on her
face.
"Voila," said Poirot as he finished dispensing
hospitality. "Let us forget the grim
occasion on which we first met. Let us have
the party spirit. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. Ah, malheur, I have
again mentioned death. Madame"--he bowed
to Mrs. Dacres--"may I be permitted to
wish you good luck and congratulate you on
your very charming gown?"
"Here's to you. Egg," said Sir Charles.
"Cheerio," said Freddie Dacres.
Everybody murmured something. There
was an air of forced gayety about the proceedings.
Everyone was determined to appear
gay and unconcerned. Only Poirot
himself seemed naturally so. He rambled on
happily:
"The sherry, I prefer it to the cocktail, and a thousand thousand times to the whisky. Ah, quelle horreur, the whisky. But drinking
the whisky, you ruin--absolutely ruin--the
palate. The delicate wines of France, to appredate them, you must never, never--Ah, qu'est-ce qu'ily a?"
A strange sound had interrupted him--a
kind of choking cry. Every eye went to Sir
Charles, as he stood swaying, his face convulsed.
The glass dropped from his hand
onto the carpet; he took a few steps blindly, then collapsed.
There was a moment's stupefied silence.
Then Angela Sutcliffe screamed and Egg
started forward.
"Charles!" cried Egg. "Charles!"
She fought her way blindly forward. Mr.
Satterthwaite gently held her back.
"Oh, dear God!" cried Lady Mary. "Not
another!"
Angela Sutcliffe cried out:
"He's been poisoned too! This is awful!
Oh, my God, this is too awful!"
And suddenly collapsing onto a sofa, she
began to sob and laugh--a horrible sound.
Poirot had taken charge of the situation.
He was kneeling by the prostrate man. The
others drew back while he made his examination.
He rose to his feet, mechanically
dusting the knees of his trousers. He looked
round at the assembly. There was complete
silence, except for the smothered sobs of
Angela Sutcliffe.
"My friend--" began Hercule Poirot.
He got no further, for Egg spat out at
him:
"You fool! You absurd play-acting little
fool! Pretending to be so great and so wonderful
and to know all about everything! And
now you let this happen! Another murder!
Under your very nose! If you'd let the whole
thing alone, this wouldn't have happened!
It's you who have murdered Charles--you--
you--you--"
She stopped, unable to get out the words.
Poirot nodded his head gravely and sadly.
"It is true, mademoiselle. I confess it. It is
I who have murdered Sir Charles. But I, mademoiselle, am a very special kind of murderer.
I can kill--and I can restore to life."
He turned and in a different tone of voice, an apologetic everyday voice, he said:
"A magnificent performance. Sir Charles.
I congratulate you. Perhaps you would now
like to take your curtain."
With a laugh the actor sprang to his feet
and bowed mockingly.
Egg gave a great gasp.
"M. Poirot, you--you beast!"
"Charles!" cried Angela Sutcliffe. "You
complete devil!"
"But why--"
predate them, you must never, never--Ah, qu'est-ce qu'il y a?"
A strange sound had interrupted him--a
kind of choking cry. Every eye went to Sir
Charles, as he stood swaying, his face convulsed.
The glass dropped from his hand
onto the carpet; he took a few steps blindly, then collapsed.
There was a moment's stupefied silence.
Then Angela Sutcliffe screamed and Egg
started forward.
"Charles!" cried Egg. "Charles!"
She fought her way blindly forward. Mr.
Satterthwaite gently held her back.
"Oh, dear God!" cried Lady Mary. "Not
another!"
Angela Sutcliffe cried out:
"He's been poisoned too! This is awful!
Oh, my God, this is too awful!"
And suddenly collapsing onto a sofa, she
began to sob and laugh--a horrible sound.
Poirot had taken charge of the situation.
He was kneeling by the prostrate man. The
others drew back while he made his examination.
He rose to his feet, mechanically
dusting the knees of his trousers. He looked
round at the assembly. There was complete
silence, except for the smothered sobs of
"My friend--" began Hercule Poirot.
He got no further, for Egg spat out at
him:
"You fool! You absurd play-acting little
fool! Pretending to be so great and so wonderful
and to know all about everything! And
now you let this happen! Another murder!
Under your very nose! If you'd let the whole
thing alone, this wouldn't have happened!
It's you who have murdered Charles--you--
you--you--"
She stopped, unable to get out the words.
Poirot nodded his head gravely and sadly.
"It is true, mademoiselle. I confess it. It is
I who have murdered Sir Charles. But I, mademoiselle, am a very special kind of murderer.
I can kill--and I can restore to life."
He turned and in a different tone of voice,
an apologetic everyday voice, he said:
"A magnificent performance. Sir Charles.
I congratulate you. Perhaps you would now
like to take your curtain."
With a laugh the actor sprang to his feet
and bowed mockingly.
Egg gave a great gasp.
"M. Poirot, you--you beast!"
"Charles!" cried Angela Sutcliffe. "You
complete devil!"
"T^n- wlw__??
"How--"
"What on earth--"
By means of his upraised hand, Poirot
Obtained silence.
"Messieurs, mesdames. I demand pardon of you all. This little farce was necessary to (prove to you all, and, incidentally, to prove
to myself, a fact which my reason already
told me is true.
"Listen. On this^tray of glasses I placed in
one glass a teaspoonful of plain water. That \vater represented pure nicotine. These
glasses are of the same kind as those possessed
by Sir Charles Cartwright and by Sir fiartholomew Strange. Owing to the heavy
cut glass, a small quantity of colorless liquid
is quite undetectable. Imagine then the port
,glass of Sir Bartholomew Strange. After it
was put on the table, somebody introduced
into it a sufficient quantity of pure nicotine.
That might have been done by anybody--
the butler, the parlormaid or one of the guests
who slipped into the dining room on his or
her way downstairs. Dessert arrives, the port
is taken round, the glass is filled. Sir
Bartholomew drinks, and dies.
"Tonight we have played a third tragedy--
a sham tragedy. I asked Sir Charles to play
*l<^ .-^r,,^- ^,-T 4-tA iTi/->i-ii->-» Tliic tip. r\\f\ mflOTilfl-
cently. Now suppose for a minute that this
was not a farce, but truth. Sir Charles is
dead. What will be the steps taken by the
police?"
Miss Sutcliffe cried:
"Why, the glass, of course." She nodded
to where the glass lay on the floor as it had
fallen from Sir Charles' hand. "You only put
water in, but if it had been nicotine--"
"Let us suppose it was nicotine." Poirot
touched the glass gently with his toe. "You
are of the opinion that the police would analyze
the glass and that traces of nicotine would
be found?"
"Certainly."
Poirot shook his head gently.
"You are wrong. No nicotine would be
found."
They stared at him.
"You see"--he smiled--"that is not the
glass from which Sir Charles drank." With
an apologetic grin, he extracted a glass from
the tail pocket of his coat. "This is the glass
that he used."
He went on.
"It is, you see, the simple theory of the
conjuring trick. The attention cannot be in
two places at once. To do my conjuring trick
I need the attention focused elsewhere. Well,
there is a moment, a psychological moment.
When Sir Charles falls dead, every eye in the
room is on his dead body. Everyone crowds
forward to get near him. And no one--no
one at all--looks at Hercule Poirot. And in
that moment I exchange the glasses and no
one sees.
"So, you see, I prove my point. There was
such a moment at Crow's Nest, there was
such a moment at Melfort Abbey--and so, there was nothing in the cocktail glass and
nothing in the port glass."
22 pounds " cried i
"Who changed them?"
Looking at her, Poirot replied:
"That we have still to find out."
"You don't know?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
Rather uncertainly, the guests made signs
of departure. Their manner was a little cold.
They felt they had been badly fooled.
With a gesture of the hand, Poirot arrested
them.
"One little moment, I pray of you. There
is one thing more that I have to say. Tonight, admittedly, we have played the comedy.
But that comedy may be played in
earnest; it may become a tragedy. Under
--^--4-^,;., /»<-»»>/^i<-^/-»,-»o i-l-t^t rr»nrrlf»rf»r mav Strike a
third time. I speak now to all of you here
present. If any one of you knows something--something
that may bear in any way
on this crime, I implore that person to speak
now. To keep knowledge to oneself at this
juncture may be dangerous--so dangerous
that death may be the result of silence.
Therefore, I beg again, if anyone knows anything, let that person speak now before it is
too late."
It seemed to Sir Charles that Poirofs appeal
was addressed especially to Miss Wills.
If so, it had no result. Nobody spoke or
answered.
Poirot sighed. His hand fell.
"Be it so, then. I have given warning. I
can do no more. Remember, to keep silence
is dangerous."
But still nobody spoke.
Awkwardly, the guests departed.
Egg, Sir Charles and Mi. Satterthwaite
were left.
Egg had not yet forgiven Poirot. She sat
very still, her cheeks flushed and her eyes
angry. She wouldn't look at Sir Charles.
"That was a clever bit of work, Poirot,"
said Sir Charles appreciatively.
"Amazing," said Mr. Satterthwaite with a
chuckle. "I wouldn't have believed that I
wouldn't have seen you do that exchange."
"That is why," said Poirot, "I could take
no one into my confidence. The experiment
could only be fair this way."
"Was that the only reason you planned
this--to see whether it could be done unnoticed?"

"Well, not quite, perhaps. I had one other
aim."
"Yes?"
"I wanted to watch the expression on one
person's face when Sir Charles fell dead."
"Which person's?" said Egg sharply.
"Ah, that is my secret."
"And you did watch that person's face?"
said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Yes." "Well?"
Poirot did not reply. He merely shook his
head.
"Won't you tell us what you saw there?"
Poirot said slowly:
"I saw an expression of the utmost
surprise."
Egg drew her breath in sharply.
"You mean," she said, "that you know
who the murderer is?"
FR1;"You can put it that way if you like, mademoiselle."
"But then--but then, you know everything."

Poirot shook his head.
"No, on the contrary, I know nothing at
all. For, you see, I do not know why Stephen
Babbington was killed. Until I know that, I
can prove nothing. I can know nothing. It all
hinges on that--the motive for Stephen
Babbington's death."
There was a knock at the door and a page
entered with a telegram on a tray.
Poirot opened it. His face changed. He
handed the telegram to Sir Charles. Leaning
over Sir Charles" shoulder. Egg read it aloud:
PLEASE COME AND SEE ME AT ONCE STOP CAN
GIVE YOU VALUABLE INFORMATION AS TO BARTHOLOMEW
STRANGE'S DEATH
MARGARET DE RUSHBRIDGER
"Airs. de Rushbridger!" cried Sir Charles.
"We were right, after all! She has got something
to do with the case." And he added:
"Margaret--M. The initial in Tollie's diary.
At last we're getting somewhere."
Twenty-Four
at once an excited discussion sprang up. An A.B.C. was produced. It was decided that an
early train would be better than going by
car.
"At last," said Sir Charles, "we're going
to get that particular part of the mystery
cleared up."
"What do you think the mystery is?" asked
Egg.
"I can't imagine. But it can't fail to throw
some light on the Babbington affair. If Tollie
got those people together on purpose, as I
feel pretty sure he did, then the 'surprise' he
talked of springing on them had something
to do with this Rushbridger woman. I think
we can assume that, don't you, M. Poirot?"
Poirot shook his head in a perplexed manner.

t<'T'i<;^ <-.Q,i^rr».m-r» ^rn-nnlipatps the affair," he
murmured. "But we must be quick--extremely
quick."
Mr. Satterthwaite did not see the need for
extreme haste, but he agreed politely.
"Certainly, we will go by the first train in
the morning. Er--that is to say, is it necessary
for us all to go?"
"Sir Charles and I had arranged to go
down to Gilling," said Egg.
"We can postpone that," said Sir Charles.
"I don't think we ought to postpone
anything," said Egg. "There is no need for
all four of us to go to Yorkshire. It's absurd.
Mass formation. M. Poirot and Mr.
Satterthwaite go to Yorkshire and Sir Charles
and I go to Gilling."
"I'd rather like to look into this Rushbridger business," said Sir Charles, with
a trace of wistfulness. "You see, I--er--
talked to the matron before--got my foot in, so to speak."
"That's just why you'd better keep away,"
said Egg. "You involved yourself in a lot of
lies, and now that this Rushbridger woman
has come to herself, you'll be exposed as a
thorough-paced liar. It's far, far more important
that you should come to Gilling. If we
want to see Miss Milray's mother, she'll open
out to you far more than she would to any-
one else. You're her daughter's employer and
she'll have confidence in you."
Sir Charles looked into Egg's glowing earnest
face
"I'll come to Gilling," he said. "I think
you're quite right."
"I know I'm right," said Egg.
"In my opinion, an excellent arrangement,"
said Poirot briskly. "As mademoiselle
says. Sir Charles is preeminently the
person to interview this Mrs. Milray. Who
knows, you may learn from her facts of much
more importance than we shall learn in
Yorkshire?"
Matters were arranged on this basis, and
the following morning Sir Charles picked up
Egg in his car at a quarter to ten. Poirot and
Mr. Satterthwaite had already left for London
by train.
It was a lovely crisp morning, with just a
touch of frost in the air. Egg felt her spirits
rising as they turned and twisted through the
various short cuts which Sir Charles' experience
had discovered south of the Thames.
At last, however, they were flying
smoothly along the Folkestone road. After
passing through Maidstone, Sir Charles consulted
a map and they turned off from the
rnoin rnad and were shortly winding through
country lanes. It was about a quarter to twelve
when they at last reached their objective.
Gilling was a village which the world had
left behind. It had an old church, a vicarage, two or three shops, a row of cottages, three
or four new council houses and a very attractive
village green.
Miss Milray's mother lived in a tiny house
on the other side of the green from the
church.
As the car drew up. Egg asked:
"Does Miss Milray know you are going to
see her mother?"
"Oh, yes. She wrote to prepare the old
lady."
"Do you think that was a good thing?"
"My dear child, why not?"
"Oh, I don't know. You didn't bring her
down with you, though."
"As a matter of fact, I thought she might
cramp my style. She's so much more efficient
than I am; she'd probably try to prompt
me."
Egg laughed.
Mrs. Milray turned out to be almost
ludicrously unlike her daughter. Where Miss
Milray was hard, she was soft; where Miss
Milray was angular, she was round. Mrs. Milray
was an immense dumpling of a woman,
immovably fixed in an armchair conveniently
placed, so tha she would, from the window, observe all that went on in the world outside.

She seemed pleasurably excited by the arrival
of her visitors.
"This is very nice of you, I'm sure, Sir
Charles. I've heard so much about you from
my Violet." Violet--singularly incongruous
name for Miss Milray. "You don't know
how much she admires you. It's been most
interesting for her, working with you all these
years. . . . Won't you sit down, Miss Lytton
Gore? You'll excuse my not getting up. I've
lost the use of my limbs for many years now.
The Lord's will, and I don't complain, and
what I say is, one can get used to anything.
Perhaps you'd like a little refreshment after
your drive down?"
Both Sir Charles and Egg disclaimed the
need of refreshment, but Mrs. Milray paid
no attention. She clapped her hands in an
Oriental manner, and tea and biscuits made
their appearance. As they nibbled and sipped, Sir Charles came to the object of their visit.
"I expect you've heard, Mrs. Mitray, all
about the tragic death of Mr. Babbington,
wi^ nc^d in he vicar here?"
The dumpling nodded its head in vigorous
assent.
"Yes, indeed. I've read all about the exhumation
in the paper. And whoever can have
poisoned him I can't imagine. A very nice
man, he was; everyone liked him here--and
her too. And their little children and all."
"It is indeed a great mystery," said Sir
Charles. "We're all in despair about it. In
fact, we wondered if you could possibly throw
any light upon the matter."
"Me? But I haven't seen the Babbingtons--
Let me see. It must be over fifteen
years."
"I know, but some of us have the idea
that there might be something in the past to
account for his death."
"I'm sure I don't know what there could
be. They led very quiet lives. Very badly off, poor things, with all those children."
Mrs. Milray was willing enough to reminisce, but her reminiscences seemed to shed
little light on the problem they had set out to
solve.
Sir Charles showed her the enlargement of
a snapshot which included the Dacres, also
an early portrait of Angela Sutcliffe and a
somewhat blurred reproduction of Miss
Wills, cut from a newspaper.
Mrs. Milray surveyed them all with great
interest, but with no signs of recognition.
"I can't say I remember any of them. Of
course, it's a long time ago. But this is a
small place. There's not much coming and
going. The Agnew girls--the doctor's daughters--they're
all married and out in the
world; and our present doctor's a bachelor;
he's got a new young partner. Then there
were the old Miss Cayleys--sat in the big
pew--they're all dead many years back. And
the Richardsons--he died and she went to
Wales--and the village people, of course.
But there's not much change there. Violet, I
expect, could tell you as much as I could.
She was a young girl then, and often over at
the vicarage."
Sir Charles tried to envisage Miss Violet
Milray as a young girl, and failed.
He asked Mrs. Milray if she remembered
anyone of the name of Rushbridger, but the
name failed to evoke any response.
Finally they took their leave.
Their next move was a scratch lunch in the baker's shop. Sir Charles had hankerings
for fleshpots elsewhere, but Egg pointed out
that they might get hold of some local gossip.

"And boiled eggs and scones will do you
no harm for once," she said severely. "Men
are so fussy about their food."
"I always find eggs so depressing," said
Sir Charles meekly.
The woman who served them was communicative
enough. She, too, had read of the
exhumation in the paper and had been proportionately
thrilled by its being "old vicar."
"I were a child at the time," she explained, "but I remember him."
She could not, however, tell them much
about him. After lunch they went to the
church and looked through the register of
births, marriages and deaths. Here again, there seemed nothing hopeful or suggestive.
They came out into the churchyard and
lingered. Egg read the names on the tombstones.

"What queer names there are," she said.
"Listen, here's a whole family of Stavepennys,
and here's a Mary Arm Sticklepath."
"None of them so queer as mine," murmured
Sir Charles.
"Cartwright? I don't think that's a queer
name at all."
"I didn't mean Cartwright. Cartwright's
my acting name and I finally adopted it legally."

"What's your real name?"
"I couldn't possibly tell you. It's my guilty
secret."
'Is it as terrible as all that?"
"It's not so much terrible as humorous."
"Oh, tell it to me."
"Certainly not," said Sir Charles firmly.
"Please."
"No."
"Why not?"
"You'd laugh."
"I wouldn't."
"You wouldn't be able to help laughing."
"Oh, please tell me. Please, please, please."
"What a persistent creature you are. Egg.
Why do you want to know?"
"Because you won't tell me."
"You adorable child," said Sir Charles.
"I'm not a child."
"Aren't you? I wonder."
"Tell me," whispered Egg softly.
A humorous and rueful smile twisted Sir
Charles' mouth.
"Very well, here goes. My father's name
was Mugg."
"Not really?"
"Really and truly."
"H'm," said Egg. "That is a bit catastrophic.
To go through life as Mugg."
"w/rMiirln'r have taken me far in my career, I agree. I remember," went on Sir
Charles dreamily, "I played with the idea--I
was young then--of calling myself Ludovic
Castiglione, but I eventually compromised
on British alliteration as Charles Cartwright."
"Are you really Charles?"
"Yes, my godfathers and godmothers saw
to that." He hesitated, then said: "Why don't
you say Charles, and drop the Sir?"
"I might."
"You did yesterday. When--when you
thought I was dead."
"Oh, then."
Egg tried to make her voice sound nonchalant.
For some reason or other, she felt it
was imperative to change the subject. She
hurried on:
"I wonder what Oliver is doing today?"
"Manders? Why do you want to think
about him?"
Egg said: "I'm very fond of Oliver."
Somehow, it pleased her to say that. She
stole a glance sideways at Sir Charles. Would
he look at all jealous? Certainly he was frowning.

Then suddenly Egg felt a twinge of remorse.
Poor Oliver. It was a shame dragging
him in like that.
She said: "It's getting cold; let's go."
FR1;She shivered as she spoke. The sun had
gone in.
She thought: "What a funny feeling I've
got. It might be a premonition."
She shivered again.
"I wonder," she said, "if the others have
found out anything?"
Sir Charles seemed absentminded.
"The others? What others?"
"In Yorkshire."
"Somehow," said Sir Charles, "today I
don't feel as though I cared."
"Charles, you used to be so keen."
But Sir Charles was no longer playing the
part of the great detective.
"Well, it was my own show. Now I've
handed it over to Mustachios. It's his business."
"Do you think he really knows who committed
the crimes? He said he did."
"Probably hasn't the faintest idea, but he's
got to keep up his professional reputation."
Egg was silent. Sir Charles said:
"What are you thinking about?"
"I was thinking about Miss Milray. She
was so odd in her manner that evening I told
you about. She had just bought the paper
about the exhumation and she said she didn't know what to do."
"Nonsense," said Sir Charles cheerfully.
"That woman always knows what to do."
"Do be serious, Charles. She sounded
worried."
"Egg, my dear, what do I care for Miss
Milray's worries? What do I care for anything
but today? Let murder go hang."
They arrived back at Sir Charles5 flat for
tea. Miss Milray came out to meet them.
"There is a telegram for you. Sir Charles."
"Thank you. Miss Milray."
He tore it open and swung round with a
quick exclamation: "Egg, look at this! It's
from Satterthwaite!"
He shoved the telegram into her hands.
Egg read it and her eyes opened wide.
Twenty-Five
before catching their train, Hercule Poirot
and Mr. Satterthwaite had had a brief interview
with Miss Lyndon, the late Sir
Bartholomew Strange's secretary. Miss
Lyndon had been very willing to help, but
had had nothing of importance to tell them.
Mrs. de Rushbridger was only mentioned in
Sir Bartholomew's case book in a purely professional
fashion. Sir Bartholomew had never
spoken of her save in medical terms.
The two men arrived at the sanatorium
about twelve o'clock. The maid who opened
the door looked excited and flushed. Mr.
Satterthwaite asked first for the matron.
<<I don't know whether she can see you
this morning," said the girl doubtfully.
Mr. Satterthwaite extracted a card and
wrote a few words on it.
"Please take her this."
Tiwr werp shown into a small waiting
room. In about five minutes the door opened
and the matron came in. She was looking
quite unlike her usual brisk efficient self.
Mr. Satterthwaite rose.
"I hope you remember me," he said. "I
came here with Sir Charles Cartwright just
after the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange."
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Satterthwaite, of course
I remember, and Sir Charles asked after poor
Mrs. de Rushbridger then, and it seems such
a coincidence."
"Let me introduce M. Hercule Poirot."
Poirot bowed and the matron responded
absently. She went on:
"I can't understand how you can have had
a telegram, as you say. The whole thing
seems most mysterious. Surely it can't be
connected with the poor doctor's death in
any way. There must be some madman
about--that's the only way I can account for
it. Having the police here and everything.
It's really been terrible."
"The police?" said Mr. Satterthwaite, surprised.

"Yes, since ten o'clock they've been here."
"The police?" said Hercule Poirot.
"Perhaps we could see Mrs. de Rushbridger
now," suggested Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Since she asked us to come."
The matron interrupted him:
"Oh, Mr. Satterthwaite, then you don't
know!"
"Know what?" demanded Poirot sharply.
"Poor Mrs. de Rushbridger. She's dead."
"Dead?" cried Poirot. "Milk tonneres! That
explains it. Yes, that explains it. I should
have seen--" He broke off. "How did she
die?"
"It's most mysterious. A box of chocolates
came for her--liqueur chocolates--by post.
She ate one; it must have tasted horrible, but
she was taken by surprise, I suppose, and
she swallowed it. One doesn't like spitting a
thing out."
"Oui, oui, and if a liquid runs suddenly
down your throat, it is difficult."
"So she swallowed it and called out, and
nurse came rushing, but we couldn't do anything.
She died in about two minutes. Then
doctor sent for the police, and they came and
examined the chocolates. All the top layer
had been tampered with; the underneath ones
were all right."
"And the poison employed?"
"They think it's nicotine."
"Yes," said Poirot. "Again nicotine. What
a stroke! What an audacious stroke!"
"We are too late," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"We shall never know now what she had to
tell us. Unless--unless she confided in someone?"
He glanced interrogatively at the matron.

Poirot shook his head. "There will have
been no confidence, you will find."
"We can ask," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"One of the nurses, perhaps?"
"By all means ask," said Poirot, but he
did not sound hopeful.
Mr. Satterthwaite turned to the matron, who immediately sent for the two nurses, on day and night duty respectively, who
had been in attendance on Mrs. de Rushbridger,
but neither of them could add any
information to that already given. Mrs. de
Rushbridger had never mentioned Sir
Bartholomew's death, and they did not even
know of the dispatching of the telegram.
On a request from Poirot, the two men
were taken to the dead woman's room. They
found Superintendent Crossfield in charge, and Mr. Satterthwaite introduced him to
Poirot.
Then the two men moved over to the bed
and stood looking down on the dead woman.
She was about forty, dark-haired and pale.
Her face was not peaceful; it still showed the
agony of her death.
Mr. Satterthwaite said slowly:
"Poor soul."
He looked across at Hercule Poirot. There
was a strange expression on the little Belgian's
face. Something about it made Mr.
Satterthwaite shiver.
Mr. Satterthwaite said:
"Someone knew she was going to speak
and killed her. She was killed in order to
prevent her speaking."
Poirot nodded.
"Yes, that is so."
"She was murdered to prevent her telling
us what she knew."
"Or what she did not know. But let us not
waste time. There is much to be done. There
must be no more deaths. We must see to
that."
Mr. Satterthwaite asked curiously:
"Does this fit in with your idea of the
murderer's identity?"
"Yes, it fits. But I realize one thing: The
murderer is more dangerous than I thought.
We must be careful."
Superintendent Crossfield followed them
out of the room and learned from them of
the telegram which had been received by
them. The telegram had been handed in at
M^lfnrt Pnst Offlrp. and nn inauirv there, it
was elicited that it had been handed in by a
small boy. The young lady in charge remembered
it, because the message had excited
her very much, mentioning, as it did. Sir
Bartholomew Strange's death.
After some lunch in company with the
superintendent, and after dispatching a telegram
to Sir Charles, the quest was resumed.
At six o'clock that evening, the small boy
who had handed in the telegram was found.
He told his story promptly. He had been
given the telegram by a man dressed in
shabby clothes. The man told him that the
telegram had been given him by a "loony
lady" in the "house in the park." She had
dropped it out of the window wrapped round
two half crowns. The man was afraid to be
mixed up in some funny business, and was
tramping in the other direction, so he had
given the boy two and six, and told him to
keep the change.
A search would be instituted for the man.
In the meantime there seemed nothing more
to be done, and Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite
returned to London.
It was close on midnight when the two
men arrived back in town. Egg had gone
back to her mother, but Sir Charles met
FR1;them and the three men discussed the situation.

^Mon ami," said Poirot, "be guided by
me. Only one thing will solve this case--the
little gray cells of the brain. To rush up and
down England, to hope that this person and
that will tell us what we want to know--all
such methods are amateurish and absurd.
The truth can only be seen from within."
Sir Charles looked slightly skeptical.
"What do you want to do, then?"
"I want to think. I ask of you twenty-four
hours in which to think."
Sir Charles shook his head with a slight
smile.
"Will thinking tell you what it was that
this woman could have said if she lived?"
"I believe so."
"It hardly seems possible. However, M.
Poirot, you must have it your own way. If
you can see through this mystery, it's more
than I can. I'm beaten, and I confess it. In
any case, I've other fish to fry."
Perhaps he hoped to be questioned, but if
so, his expectation was disappointed. Mr.
Satterthwaite did indeed look up alertly, but
Poirot remained lost in thought.
"W^ll T must he off." said the actor. . . .
"Oh, just one thing. I'm rather worried about
Miss Wills."
"What about her?"
"She's gone."
Poirot stared at him.
"Gone? Gone where?"
"Nobody knows. I was thinking things
over after I got your telegram. As I told you
at the time, I felt convinced that that woman
knew something she hadn't told us. I thought
I'd have a last shot at getting it out of her. I
drove out to her house—it was about halfpast
nine when I got there—and asked for
her. It appears she left home this morning—
went up to London for the day—that's what
she said. Her people got a telegram in the
evening, saying she wasn't returning for a
day or so, and not to worry."
"And were they worrying?"
"I gather they were, rather. You see, she
hadn't taken any luggage with her."
"Odd," murmured Poirot.
"I know. It seems as though—I don't
know. I feel uneasy."
"I warned her," said Poirot. "I warned
everyone. You remember, I said to them,
"Speak now.' "
"Yes, yes. Do you think that she too—"
"I have my ideas," said Poirot. "For the
moment, I prefer not to discuss them."
"First the butler, EUis, then Miss Wills.
Where is EUis? It's incredible that the police
have never been able to lay hands on him."
"They have not looked for his body in the
right place," said Poirot.
"Then you agree with Egg. You think
that he is dead?"
"EUis will never be seen alive again."
"It's a nightmare!" burst out Sir Charles.
"The whole thing is utterly incomprehensible!"

"No, no. It is sane and logical, on the
contrary."
Sir Charles stared at him.
"You say that?"
"Certainly. You see, I have the orderly
mind."
"I don't understand you."
Mr. Satterthwaite, too, looked curiously at
the little detective.
"What kind of mind have I?" demanded
Sir Charles, slightly hurt.
"You have the actor's mind. Sir Charles, creative, original, seeing always dramatic values.
Mr. Satterthwaite here, he has the playgoer's
mind; he observes the characters, he
l-»r»o 1-ltct octi-to^ rvF ol-mrtcr^hfrp Rnt mf. T have
the prosaic mind. I see only the facts, without
any dramatic trappings or footlights."
"Then we're to leave you to it?"
"That is my idea. For twenty-four hours."
"Good luck to you, then. Good night."
As they went away together. Sir Charles
said to Mr. Satterthwaite:
"That chap thinks a lot of himself."
He spoke rather coldly.
Twenty-Six
poirot did not have quite the uninterrupted
twenty-four hours for which he had stipulated.

It was a little after ten on the following
morning when Oliver Manders sent up his
card and asked if M. Poirot could spare him
a few moments.
When Manders entered the room, Poirot
was in the act of unwrapping a small parcel.
He laid it aside and looked inquiringly at his
visitor.
"Good morning, M. Manders," he said.
"You wished to see me?"
"Yes."
Oliver hesitated. Poirot drew forward a
chair.
"Sit, I pray of you. . . . Now we can
converse at our ease."
Oliver accented the chair, but he still
seemed a little doubtful as how best to come
to the point of his visit.
"Eh bien?" said Poirot. "What is it that
you seek? Do you come to render me a
service? Or is it that you want me to do you
one?"
"I don't know," said Oliver slowly.
Then suddenly he leaned forward and said
impulsively:
"M. Poirot, you don't like me."
Poirot looked slightly astonished.
"But what an idea--that."
"No, you don't like me. Very few people
do like me. I--I don't know why it is."
All Oliver's languid, supercilious manner
had vanished. He spoke now as boyishly and
naturally as any other young man of his age
might have done. His face, as he leaned
forward, had lost its usual sneering expression.
It showed instead a diffidence and an
eagerness that were somehow a little pathetic.
"But why should you think I do not like
you?" asked Poirot gently.
"Because the day before yesterday, when
you staged that mock murder, it was--it was
a trap for me."
Again Poirot's eyebrows rose.
"How so?"
Oliver replied somberly:
"Because in the bottom of your heart you
believe that it was I who killed old Babbington."

"Quelk idee!"
"No, you think so. I can see that there is
a lot against me, but I'm not a murderer, M.
Poirot. I'm not! I was rude to the old fellow
once--very rude--but if you'll believe me, I
felt miserable about it afterwards. It's as
though there were two of me. One's a hateful
drawling sneering sort of chap, always
posing. The other's npt like that, but he
finds it hard to show himself. Oh, you can't
understand what I mean."
"Yes, yes, I understand very well. Because
I am old, I have not forgotten what it is to
be young." He went on gently: "That is
your complaint, man ami--youth. It is a characteristic
of youth to make itself worse than
it is." With a slightly humorous grimace, he
added: "At my age, one's preoccupation is to
arrange one's goods well in the shop
window."
"You understand, then?" Oliver looked
grateful. A really charming smile came over
his face. "You don't know what a difference
it makes if someone's willing to make the
"You have not had the life very happy,
eh?"
Oliver's face hardened.
"No."
"Listen; now I will give you advice. Your
life is your own, to make of what you will.
Bitterness leads nowhere. It turns back on
itself. It is the eternal cul-de-sac. Put it away
from you now, before it is too late."
"You're right, M. Poirot. I'm going to put
everything behind me and start afresh."
"Good."
Poirot nodded approval, and then went
on: "And the next thing?"
Oliver looked rather surprised.
"The next thing?"
"Mais oui. I fancied you had something
else to say, but perhaps I am wrong."
"No, no, you're right. There is something
more. I want you to let me work with you
over this business. You trust me now. Let
me help you."
"Help me? In what way?"
"I don't know. There must be some way
in which I could be useful. I fancy—I may
be wrong—that you are very hot on the
trail."
He waited rather breathlessly for Poirot's
answer, which was a little slow in coming.
"It is possible," he said, "that you may be
able to help me, soon."
"Oh, I say, that's grand."
Oliver waited a minute or two, but Poirot
said no more.
"If you could just tell me the way your
suspicions are pointing--"
Hercule Poirot shook his head.
"That--not just yet. I am of an unbelievable
secrecy."
Oliver's ear was sensitive enough to catch
the underlying firmness in Poirot's voice. He
insisted no further, but took his leave with a
few further words of thanks.
There was a strange smile on Poirot's face
as young Oliver Manders left the room.
He murmured to himself, "I underrated
that young man."
Then he picked up his half-unwrapped
package.
It was twenty minutes past eleven when
Egg walked in unannounced. To her amazement, she found the great detective engaged
in building card houses.
Her face showed such lively scorn that
Poirot was impelled to defend himself.
"It is not, mademoiselle, that I have become
childish in my old age. No. But the
building of card houses, I have always found
it most stimulating to the mind. It is an old
habit of mine. This morning, first thing, I
go out and buy the pack of cards. Unfortunately, I make an error; they are not real
cards. But they do just as well."
Egg looked more closely at the erection on
the table. She laughed.
"Good heavens, they've sold you Happy
Families."
"What is that you say--the Happy Family?"

"Yes, it's a game. Children play it in the
nursery."
"Ah, well, one can compose the houses
just in the same manner."
Egg had picked up some of the cards from
the table and was looking at them affectionately.

"Master Bun, the baker's son--I always
loved him. And here's Mr. Mug, the milkman.
Oh, dear, I wish Sir Charles were here.
I'd show him his portrait."
"Why is that funny picture Sir Charles, mademoiselle?"
"Because of the name."
Egg laughed at his bewildered face, and
then began explaining. When she had finished, he said:
"Ah, c'est ca. Cartwright, it is the nom de
theatre. Mugg--ah, yes, one says in slang, does not one, you are a mug--a fool? Naturally, you would change your name. One
would not like to be Sir Charles Mugg, eh?"
Egg laughed. She said:
"To be Lady Mugg would be worse."
Poirot looked at her keenly and she
blushed.
"C'est comme §a?"
"Not at all," said Egg. "I don't know
what you mean." She went on quickly: "This
is what I came to see you about. I've been
worrying and worrying about that cutting
from the paper that Oliver dropped from his
wallet. You know, the one Miss Wills picked
up and handed back to him. It seems to me
that either Oliver is telling a downright lie
when he says he doesn't remember its being
there, or else it never was there. He dropped some odd bit of paper and that woman pretended
it was the nicotine cutting."
"Why should she have done that, mademoiselle?"

"Because she wanted to get rid of it. She
planted it on Oliver."
"You mean she is the criminal?"
"Yes."
"What was her motive?"
"It's no eood asking me that. I can only
suggest that she's a lunatic. Clever people
often are rather mad. I can't see any other
reason--in fact, I can't see any motive
anywhere."
"Decidedly, that is the impasse. I should
not ask you to guess at a motive. It is of
myself that I ask that question without ceasing:
What was the motive behind Mr.
Babbington's death? When I can answer that, the case will be solved."
"You don't think just madness--" suggested
Egg.
"There must still be a motive--a mad
motive, if you like, but a motive. That is
what I seek."
"Well, good-by," said Egg. "I'm sorry to
have disturbed you, but the idea just occurred
to me. I must hurry. I'm going with
Charles to the dress rehearsal of Little Dog
Laughed--you know, the play Miss Wills
has written for Angela Sutcliffe. It's the first
night tomorrow."
"Mon Dieu!" cried Poirot.
"WTiat is it? Has anything happened?"
"Yes, indeed, something has happened.
An idea. A superb idea. Oh, but I have been
blind--blind."
Egg stared at him. As though realizing his
eccentricity, Poirot took a hold on himself.
He patted Egg on the shoulder.
"You think I am mad. Not at all. I heard
what you said. You go to see the Little Dog
Laughed and Miss Sutcliffe acts in it. Go
then, and pay no attention to what I have
said."
Rather doubtfully. Egg departed. Left to
himself, Poirot strode up and down the room
muttering under his breath. His eyes shone
green as any cat's.
^Mais oui, that explains everything. A curious
motive--a very curious motive--such a
motive as I have never come across before, and yet it is reasonable and, given the circumstances, natural. Altogether it is a very
curious case."
He passed the table where his card house
still reposed. With a sweep of his hands he
swept the cards from the table.
"The Happy Family, I need it no longer,"
he said. "The problem is solved. It only
remains to act."
He caught up his hat and put on his overcoat.
Then he went downstairs and the
commissionaire called him a taxi. Poirot gave
the address of Sir Charles' flat.
\--:,^ri rk^r^ hp naid off the taxi and
taking up the lift. Poirot walked up the stairs.
Just as he arrived on the second floor, the
door of Sir Charles" flat opened and Miss
Milray came out.
She started when she saw Poirot.
"You!"
Poirot smiled.
"Me! Or is it I? Enfin, mm!"
Miss Milray said:
"I'm afraid you won't find Sir Charles.
He's gone to the Babylon Theater with Miss
Lytton Gore."
"It is not Sir Charles I seek. It is my stick
that I think I have left behind one day."
"Oh, I see. Well, if you'll ring. Temple
will find it for you. I'm sorry I can't stop.
I'm on my way to catch a train. I'm going to
the country to see my mother."
"I comprehend. Do not let me delay you,
mademoiselle."
He stood aside and Miss Milray passed
rapidly down the stairs. She was carrying a
small attache case.
But when she had gone, Poirot seemed to
forget the purpose for which he had come.
Instead of going on up to the landing, he
turned and made his way downstairs again.
He arrived at the front door just in time to
taxi was coming slowly along the curb. Poirot
raised a hand and it came to rest. He got in
and directed the driver to follow the other
taxi.
No surprise showed on his face when the
first taxi went north and finally drew up at
Paddington Station, though Paddington is an
odd station from which to proceed to Gilling.
Poirot went to the first-class booking window
and demanded a return ticket to
Loomouth. The train was due to depart in
five minutes. Pulling up his overcoat well
about his ears, for the day was cold, Poirot
ensconced himself in the corner of a firstclass
carriage.
They arrived at Loomouth about five
o'clock. It was already growing dark. Standing
back a little, Poirot heard Miss Milray
being greeted by the friendly porter at the
little station:
"Well, now, miss, we didn't expect you.
Is Sir Charles coming down?"
Miss Milray replied: (
"I've come down here unexpectedly. I shall
be going back tomorrow morning. I've just
come to fetch some things. No, I don't want
a cab, thank you. I'll walk up by the cliff
path."
»«^---- XA;1,.r>,r
walked briskly up the steep zigzag path. A
good way behind came Hercule Poirot. He
trod softly, like a cat. Miss Milray, on arrival
at Crow's Nest, produced a key from her
bag and passed through the side door, leaving
it ajar. She reappeared a minute or two
later. She had a rusty door key and an electric
torch in her hand. Poirot drew back a
little behind a convenient bush.
Miss Milray passed round behind the house
and up a scrambling, overgrown path.
Hercule Poirot followed. Up and up went
Miss Milray, until she came suddenly to an
old stone tower such as is found often on
that coast. This one was of humble and dilapidated
appearance. There was, however, a
curtain over the dirty window, and Miss
Milray inserted her key in the big wooden
door.
The key turned with a protesting creak.
The door swung with a groan on its hinges.
Miss Milray and her torch passed inside.
With an increase of pace, Poirot caught
up. He passed, in his turn, noiselessly
through the door. The light of Miss Milray's
torch gleamed fitfully on glass--retorts, a
Bunsen burner, various apparatus.
Miss Milray had picked up a crowbar. She had raked it and was holding it over the
glass apparatus when a hand caught her by
the arm. She gasped and turned.
The green, catlike eyes of Hercule Poirot
looked into hers.
"You cannot do that, mademoiselle^ he
said. "For what you seek to destroy is evidence."

Twenty-Seven
hercule poirot sat in a big armchair. The
wall lights had been turned out. Only a roseshaded
lamp shed its glow on the figure in
the armchair. There seemed something symbolic
about it--he alone in the light, and the
other three. Sir Charles, Mr. Satterthwaite
and Egg Lytton Gore--Poirot's audience--
sitting in outer darkness.
Hercule Poirot's voice was dreamy. He
seemed to be addressing himself to space
rather than to his listeners:
"To reconstruct the crime--that is the aim
of the detective. To reconstruct a crime, you
must place one fact upon another just as you
place one card on another in building a house
of cards. And if the facts will not fit--if the
card will not balance--well, you must start
your house again, or else it will fall.
"As I said the other day, there are differ- rwi- i-irr^o r»f minric* rl-ipr^ is the dramatic
mind, the producer's mind, which sees the
effect of reality that can be produced by
mechanical appliances; there is also the mind
that reacts easily to dramatic appearances;
and there is the young romantic mind; and
finally, my friends, there is the prosaic
mind--the mind that sees, not blue sea and
mimosa trees, but the painted backcloth of
stage scenery.
"So I come, mes amis, to the murder of
Stephen Babbington in August last. On that
evening. Sir Charles Cartwright advanced the
theory that Stephen Babbington had been
murdered. I did not agree with that theory. I
could not believe (A) that such a man as
Stephen Babbington was likely to have been
murdered, and (B) that it was possible to
administer poison to a particular person under
the circumstances that had obtained that
evening.
"Now, here I admit that Sir Charles was
right and I was wrong. I was wrong because
I was looking at the crime from an entirely
false angle. It is only twenty-four hours ago
that I suddenly perceived the proper angle of
vision--and let me say that from that angle
of vision, the murder of Stephen Babbington
is both reasonable and possible.
"But I will pass from that point for the
moment and take you step by step along the
path I myself have trodden. The death of
Stephen Babbington I may call the first act
of our drama. The curtain fell on that act
when we all departed from Crow's Nest.
"What I might call the second act of the
drama began in Monte Carlo, when Mr.
Satterthwaite showed me the newspaper account
of Sir Bartholomew's death. It was
at once clear that I had been wrong and Sir
Charles had been right. Both Stephen
Babbington and Sir Bartholomew Strange had
been murdered, and the two murders formed
part of one and the same crime. Later a
third murder completed the series--the murder
of Mrs. de Rushbridger.
"What we need, therefore, is a reasonable
common-sense theory which will link those
three deaths together--in other words, those
three crimes were committed by one and the
same person and were to the advantage and
benefit of that particular person.
"Now, I may say at once that the principal
thing that worried me was the fact that
the murder of Sir Bartholomew Strange came
after that of Stephen Babbington. Looking at
those three murders without distinction of
time and place, the probabilities pointed to
the murder of Sir Bartholomew Strange being what one might call the central or principal
crime, and the two other murders as
secondary in character--that is, arising from
the connection of those two people with Sir
Bartholomew Strange. However, as I remarked
before, one cannot have one^s crime
as one would like to have it. Stephen
Babbington had been murdered first and Sir
Bartholomew Strange some time later. It
seemed, therefore, as though the second
crime must necessarily arise out of the first, and that, accordingly, it was the first crime
we must examine for the clue to the whole.
"I did indeed so far incline to the theory
of probability that I seriously considered the
idea of a mistake having arisen. Was it possible
that Sir Bartholomew Strange was intended
as the first victim and that Mr.
Babbington was poisoned by mistake? I was
forced, however, to abandon that idea. Anybody
who knew Sir Bartholomew Strange
with any degree of intimacy knew that he
disliked the cocktail habit.
"Another suggestion: Had Stephen Babbington
been poisoned in mistake for any
other member of the original party? I could
not find any evidence of such a thing. I was
therefore forced back to the conclusion that
the murder of Steohen Babbineton had been
definitely intended, and at once I came up
against a complete stumbling-block--the apparent
impossibility of such a thing having happened.
"One should always start an investigation
with the simplest and most obvious theories.
Granting that Stephen Babbington had drunk
a poisoned cocktail, who had had the opportunity
of poisoning that cocktail? At first
sight, it seemed to me that the only two
people who could have done so--for example, those who handled the drinks--were Sir
Charles Cartwright himself and the parlormaid,
Temple. But though either of them
could presumably have introduced the poison
into the glass, neither of them had had
any opportunity of directing that particular
glass into Mr. Babbington's hand. Temple
might have done so by adroit handing of the
tray so as to offer him the one remaining
glass--not easy, but it might have been done.
Sir Charles could have done so by deliberately
picking up the particular glass and
handing it to him. But neither of these things
occurred. It looked as though chance, and
chance alone, directed that particular glass to
Stephen Babbington.
"Sir Charles Cartwright and Temple had
the handling of the cocktails. Were either of
those two at Melfort Abbey? They were not.
Who had the best chance of tampering with
Sir Bartholomew's port glass? The absconding
butler, Ellis, and his helper, the
parlormaid. But here, however, the possibility
that one of the guests had done so could
not be laid aside. It was risky, but it was
possible, for any of the house party to have
slipped into the dining room and put the
nicotine into the port glass.
"When I joined you at Crow's Nest, you
already had a list drawn up of the people
who had been at Crow's Nest and at Melfort
Abbey. I may say now, that the four names
which headed the list--Captain and Mrs.
Dacres, Miss Sutcliffe and Miss Wills--I discarded
immediately.
"It was impossible that any of those four
people should have known beforehand that
they were going to meet Stephen Babbington
at dinner. The employment of nicotine as a
poison showed a carefully thought-out plan, not one that could be put into operation on
the spur of the moment. There were three
other names on that list--Lady Mary Lytton
Gore, Miss Lytton Gore and Mr. Oliver
Manders. Although not probable, those three
were possible. They were local people, they
' -1-1-- l-,,,,^ <-»t,/-ft-iiTCtt? -Trvr I'hf^ TP-
moval of Stephen Babbington and have chosen
the evening of the dinner party for putting
their plans into operation.
"On the other hand, I could find no evidence
whatsoever that any one of them had
actually done such a thing.
"Mr. Satterthwaite, I think, reasoned on
much the same lines as I had done, and he
fixed his suspicions on Oliver Manders. I
may say that young Manders was by far the
most possible suspect. He displayed all the
signs of high nervous tension on that evening
at Crow's Nest; he had a somewhat distorted
view of life owing to his private troubles; he
had a strong inferiority complex, which is a
frequent cause of crime; he was at an unbalanced
age; he had actually had a quarrel, or
shall we say, had displayed animosity against
Mr. Babbington. Then there were the curious
circumstances of his arrival at Melfort
Abbey. And later we had his somewhat incredible
story of the letter from Sir Bartholomew
Strange and the newspaper cutting
on the subject of nicotine poisoning in his
possession. There was also the reference to
M in sir Bartholomew's diary.
"Oliver Manders, then, was clearly the
person who should be placed at the head of
the list of those seven suspects.
"But then, my friends, I was visited by a
curious sensation. It seemed clear and logical
enough that the person who had committed
the crimes must have been a person who had
been present on both occasions--in other
words, a person on that list of seven--but I
had the feeling that that obviousness was an
arranged obviousness. It was what any sane
and logical person would be expected to
think. That I was, in fact, looking not at
reality but at an artfully painted bit of scenery.
A really clever criminal would have realized
that anyone whose name was on that list
would necessarily be suspect, and therefore
he or she would arrange for it not to be
there.
"In other words, the murderer of Stephen
Babbington and Sir Bartholomew Strange was
present on both occasions, but was not apparently
so.
"Who had been present on the first occasion
and not on the second? Sir Charles
Cartwright, Mr. Satterthwaite, Miss Milray
and Mrs. Babbington.
"Could any of those four have been present
on the second occasion in some capacity other
than their own? Sir Charles and Mr.
Satterthwaite had been in the South of
France, Miss Milray had been in London,
Mrs. Babbington had been in Loomouth. Of
the four, then, Miss Milray and Mrs.
Babbington seemed indicated. But could Miss
Milray have been present at Melfort Abbey
unrecognized by any of the company? Miss
Milray has very striking features, not easily
disguised and not easily forgotten. I decided
that it was impossible that Miss Milray could
have been at Melfort Abbey unrecognized.
The same applied to Mrs. Babbington.
"For the matter of that, could Mr.
Satterthwaite or Sir Charles Cartwright have
been at Melfort Abbey and not been recognized?
Mr. Satterthwaite just possibly, but
when we come to Sir Charles Cartwright, we
come to a very different matter. Sir Charles
is an actor accustomed to playing a part. But
what part could he have played?
"And then I came to the consideration of
the butler, Ellis.
"A very mysterious person, Ellis. A person
who appears from nowhere a fortnight
before the crime and vanishes afterward with
complete success. Why was Ellis so successful?
Because Ellis did not really exist. Ellis, again, was a thing of pasteboard and paint
and stagecraft, Ellis was not real.
"But was it possible? After all, the servants
at Melfort Abbey knew Sir Charles
Cartwright, and Sir Bartholomew was an intimate
friend of his. The servants I got over
easily enough. The impersonation of the butler
risked nothing; if the servants recognized
him--why, no harm would be done--the
whole thing could be passed off as a joke. If, on the other hand, a fortnight passed without
any suspicion being aroused--well, the
thing was safe as houses. And I recalled what
I had been told of the servants5 remarks
about the butler. He was 'quite the gentleman" and had been 'in good houses' and
knew several interesting scandals. That was
easy enough. But a very significant statement
was made by the parlormaid, Doris. She
said, 'He arranged the work different from
any butler I ever knew before.5 When that
remark was repeated to me, it became a
confirmation of my theory.
"But Sir Bartholomew Strange was another
matter. It is hardly to be supposed that his
friend could take him in. He must have
known of the impersonation. Had we any
evidence of that? Yes. The acute Mr.
Satterthwaite pounced on one point quite
early in the proceedings--the facetious remark
of Sir Bartholomew; totally uncharacteristic
of his manner to servants: 'You're a
first-class butler, aren't you, Ellis?' A perfectly understandable remark if the butler
were Sir Charles Cartwright and Sir
Bartholomew was in on the joke.
"Because that is undoubtedly how Sir
Bartholomew saw the matter. The impersonation
of Ellis was a joke, possibly even a
wager; its culmination was designed to be
the successful spoofing of the house party;
hence Sir Bartholomew's remark about a surprise
and his cheerful humor. Note, too, that
there was still time to draw back. If any of
the house party had spotted Charles Cartwright
that first evening at the dinner table, nothing irrevocable had yet occurred. The
whole thing could have been passed off as a
joke. But nobody noticed the stooping, middle-aged butler, with his belladonnadarkened
eyes, and his whiskers, and the
painted birthmark on his wrist. A very subtle
identifying touch, that--which completely
failed, owing to the lack of observation of
most human beings. The birthmark was intended
to bulk largely in the description of
Ellis--and in all that fortnight no one noticed
it! The only person who did was the
sharp-eyed Miss Wills, to whom we shall
come presently.
"What happened next? Sir Bartholomew
died. This time the death was not put down
to natural causes. The police came. They
questioned Ellis and the others. Later that
night Ellis left by the secret passage, resumed
his own personality, and two days
later was strolling about at Monte Carlo, ready to be shocked and surprised by the
news of his friend's death.
"This, mind you, was all theory. I had no
actual proof, but everything that arose supported
that theory. My house of cards was
well and truly built. The blackmailing letters
discovered in Ellis' room? But it was Sir
Charles himself who discovered them!
"And what of the supposed letter from Sir
Bartholomew Strange asking young Manders
to arrange an accident? Well, what could be
easier than for Sir Charles to write that letter
in Sir Bartholomew's name? If Manders had
not destroyed that letter himself. Sir Charles, in the role of Ellis, can easily do so when he
valets the young gentleman. In the same way
the newspaper cutting is easily introduced by
Ellis into Oliver Manders' wallet.
"And now we come to the third victim--
Mrs. de Rushbridger. When do we first hear
of Mrs. de Rushbridger? Immediately after
that very awkward, chaffing reference to Ellis being the perfect butler--that extremely uncharacteristic
utterance of Sir Bartholomew
Strange. At all costs, attention must be drawn
away from Sir Bartholomew's manner to his
butler. Sir Charles quickly asks what was the
message the butler had brought. It is about
this woman--this patient of the doctor's. And
immediately Sir Charles throws all his personality
into directing attention to this unknown
woman and away from the butler. He
goes to the sanatorium and questions the
matron. He runs Mrs. de Rushbridger for all
he is worth as a red herring.
"We must now examine the part played
by Miss Wills in the drama. Miss Wills has a
curious personality. She is one of those people
who are quite unable to impress themselves
on their surroundings. She is neither
good-looking, nor witty, nor clever, nor even
particularly sympathetic. She is nondescript.
But she is extremely observant and extremely
intelligent. She takes her revenge on the
world with her pen. She has the great art of
being able to reproduce character on paper. I
do not know if there was anything about the
butler that struck Miss Wills as unusual, but
I do think that she was the only person at
the table who noticed him at all. On the
morning after the murder, her insatiable curiosity
led her to poke and pry, as the housemaid
put it. She went into Dacres5 room;
she went through the baize door into the
servants' quarters; led, I think, by the mongoose
instinct for finding out.
"She was the only person who occasioned
Sir Charles any uneasiness. That is why he
was anxious to be the one to tackle her. He
was fairly reassured by his interview and
distinctly gratified that she had noticed the
birthmark. But after that came catastrophe. I
don't think that until that minute Miss Wills
had connected Ellis, the butler, with Sir
Charles Cartwright. I think she had only
been vaguely struck by some resemblance to
someone in Ellis. But she was an observer.
When dishes were handed to her, she had
automatically noted, not the face but the
hands that held the dishes.
"It did not occur to her that Ellis was Sir
Charles. But when Sir Charles was talking to
her, it did suddenly occur to her that Sir
Charles was Ellis! And so she asked him to
pretend to hand her a dish of vegetables. But
it was not whether the birthmark was on the
right or left wrist that interested her. She
wanted a pretext to study his hands--hands
held in the same position as those of Ellis, the butler.
"And so she leaped to the truth. But she
was a peculiar woman. She enjoyed knowl-
edge for its own sake. Besides, she was by
no means sure that Sir Charles had murdered
his friend. He had masqueraded as a
butler, yes; but that did not necessarily make
him a murderer. Many an innocent man has
kept silence because speech would place him
in an awkward position.
"So Miss Wills kept her knowledge to
herself, and enjoyed it. But Sir Charles was
worried. He did not like that expression of
satisfied malice on her face that he saw as he
left the room. She knew something. What?
Did it affect him? He could not be sure. But
he felt that it was something connected with
Ellis, the butler. First Mr. Satterthwaite, now
Miss Wills. Attention must be drawn away
from that vital point. It must be focused
away from that vital point. It must be focused
definitely elsewhere. And he thought
of a plan--simple, audacious and, as he fancied, definitely mystifying.
"On the day of my sherry party, I imagine
Sir Charles rose very early, went to Yorkshire,
and, disguised in shabby clothes, gave
the telegram to a small boy to send off. Then
he returned to town in time to act the part I
had indicated in my little drama. He did one
more thing. He posted a box of chocolates to
a woman he had never seen and of whom he
knew nothing.
"You know what happened that evening.
For Sir Charles' uneasiness, I was fairly sure
that Miss Wills had certain suspicions. When
Sir Charles did his death scene, I watched
Miss Wills' face. I saw the look of astonishment
that showed on it. I knew then that
Miss Wills definitely suspected Sir Charles of
being the murderer. WTien he appeared to
die, poisoned, like the other two, she thought
her deductions must be wrong.
"But if Miss Wills suspected Sir Charles,
then Miss Wills was in serious danger. A
man who has killed twice will kill again. I
uttered a very solemn warning. Later that
night I communicated with Miss Wills by
telephone, and on my advice she left home
suddenly the next day. Since then she has
been living here in this hotel. That I was
wise is proved by the fact that Sir Charles
went out to Tooting on the following evening
after he had returned from Gilling. He was
too late. The bird had flown.
"In the meantime, from his point of view, the plan had worked well. Mrs. de Rushbridger
had something of importance to tell
us. Mrs. de Rushbridger was killed before
she could speak. How dramatic! How like
the detective stories, the plays, the films!
Again the cardboard and the tinsel and the
painted cloth.
"But I, Hercule Poirot, was not deceived.
Mr. Satterthwaite said to me that she was
killed in order that she should not speak. I
agreed. He went on to say that she was
killed before she could tell us what she knew.
I said: 'Or what she did not know.' I think
he was puzzled. But he should have seen, then, the truth. Mrs. de Rushbridger was
killed because she could, in actual fact, have
told us nothing at all. Because she had no
connection with the crime. If she were to be
Sir Charles' successful red herring, she could
only be so, dead. And so Mrs. de Rushbridger,
a harmless stranger, was murdered.
"Yet even in that seeming triumph. Sir
Charles made a colossal--a childish error!
The telegram was addressed to me, Hercule
Poirot, at the Ritz Hotel. But Mrs. de
Rushbridger had never heard of my connection
with the case! No one up in that part of
the world knew of it. It was an unbelievably
childish error.
"Eh bien, then, I had reached a certain
stage. I knew the identity of the murderer.
But I did not know the motive for the original
crime.
"I reflected.
"And once again, more clearly than ever, I
saw the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange as
the original and purposeful murder. What
reason could Sir Charles Cartwright have for
the murder of his friend? Could I imagine a
motive? I thought I could."
There was a deep sigh. Sir Charles
Cartwright rose slowly to his feet and strolled
to the fireplace. He stood there, his hand on
his hip, looking down at Poirot. His attitude, Mr. Satterthwaite could have told you, was
that of Lord Englemount as he looks scornfully
at the rascally solicitor who has succeeded
in fastening an accusation of fraud
upon him. He radiated nobility and disgust.
He was the aristocrat looking down at the
ignoble canaille.
"You have an extraordinary imagination, M. Poirot," he said. "It's hardly worth while
saying that there's not one single word of
truth in your story. How you have the
damned impertinence to dish up such an
absurd fandangle of lies, I don't know. But
go on; I am interested. What was my motive
for murdering a man whom I had known
ever since boyhood?"
Hercule Poirot, the little bourgeois, looked
up at the aristocrat. He spoke quietly, but
firmly:
"Sir Charles, there are not so very many
motives for murder. There is fear, there is
gain, there is--a woman. In your case. Sir
Charles, we need not look beyond the first of
these. Your motive for murdering Sir Bartholomew
Strange was fear."
Sir Charles shrugged a disdainful shoulder.

"And why had I any reason to fear my old
friend?"
"Because," said Hercule Poirot, "Sir
Bartholomew was a mental specialist."
He paused for a moment, then went on in
a gentle, remote voice:
"Since this idea came to me, I have made
inquiries. I have looked up the files of newspapers.
Perhaps, Sir Charles, you remember
mentioning before Mr. Satterthwaite that you
had abandoned your career after a nervous
breakdown occasioned by overwork. That
statement fell somewhat short of the real
truth. I note that in the last two years of
your stage career you acted in three plays--
one a dramatized version of the life of Napoleon, the second a religious pastoral play in
which your part was that of the Deity dimly
disguised, and the third a crook play in which
you acted the role of a super-dictator who
mastered the world. In your public speeches
at that time there are undoubted traces of
egomania. As to your actual breakdown, the
details are very vague. It was announced in
the press that you had gone on a cruise. But
I failed to find your name in any of the
passenger lists of likely shipping companies.
"Unwittingly, at this stage Miss Lytton
Gore came to my help. She let fall the fact
that your real name was Mugg, and immediately
a sentence sprang into my mind--that
sentence penciled in Sir Bartholomew's diary:
'Am worried about M. Don't like the
look of things.' M stood not for Manders, nor for Margaret de Rushbridger, nor for
some person unknown. M stood for Mugg--
the name under which Sir Bartholomew knew
you as a young man. And very speedily I
found confirmation of my theory. On the
date on which Sir Charles was supposed to
have set off on a cruise, a patient named
Charles Mugg was admitted to a private mental
home in Lincolnshire. I can understand
the reasons for such a procedure--Sir Charles
Cartwright was well known to the staff of Sir
Bartholomew's sanatorium at the abbey. This
method avoided all publicity. Charles Mugg
was discharged from the home in question
after a stay of four months, but I can imagine
that the doctor was not wholly satisfied
about his friend's mental condition. And no
doubt his watchful attitude precipitated the
tragedy.
"Sir Charles' malady was not cured; he
merely concealed it very cunningly from the
world. But he was less sure of concealing it
from the anxious and experienced eyes of his
friend. And so, while Sir Bartholomew was
no more than vaguely dissatisfied with his
friend's mental condition. Sir Charles was
laying his plans with the cunning natural to
his state of mind.
"In Sir Bartholomew he saw a menace to
his freedom. He was convinced that Sir
Bartholomew was planning to put him under
restraint. And so he planned a careful and
extremely cunning murder.
"One thing had puzzled me all along--the
relations between Sir Charles and Miss
Lytton Gore. To Mr. Satterthwaite, he pretended
to be the dense lover who cannot
recognize his mistress5 answering passion. He
pretended to think that Miss Lytton Gore
was in love with Mr. Oliver Manders. But I
say that a man like Sir Charles--a man with
a great knowledge of the world, and an experienced
man where women are concerned--
could not possibly have been so deceived.
He must have known that he had a clear
field. How, then, explain his attitude?
"Very simply. Sir Charles wanted an excuse
to leave Loomouth and go abroad. He
wanted an excuse that would reasonably explain
his avoiding his friends for a while.
And with that genius for dramatic effect
which is undoubtedly his, he saw that nothing
would be so effective as a romantic reason.
It made him stand out at once as a
sympathetic figure. It gave him, too, an excuse
for returning to England after the death
of Sir Bartholomew Strange and for taking
part in the investigation. It was vital to him
to know just how things were going."
Hercule Poirot paused.
Sir Charles laughed. It was a hearty, deeply
amused laugh.
"My dear fellow," he said. "Really, my
dear fellow."
And had there been an audience sitting in
the stalls, they would have felt that really
this absurd foreigner's ideas were too ridiculous.
Sir Charles fairly radiated sanity.
"So I'm mad, am I?" said Sir Charles, with great good humor. "My dear M. Poirot, are you sure the boot is not on the other leg?
We won't say senile decay, but"--he touched
his forehead--"just a shade ga-ga, in my
opinion. I admit my nerves were all to pieces, and on Tollie's advice I went to a private
nursing home for a bit. But to regard me as
a homicidal maniac--well, that's a bit too
much."
He paused and then went on, still in the
same tone of good-humored amusement:
"And Babbington--that dear old clergyman?
Was he, too, an authority on insanity?"

"No," said Hercule Poirot. "The reason
for the removal of Mr. Babbington was quite
a different one. There was, in fact, no
reason."
"Just a little homicidal fun, in fact?"
"No, there was more to it than that. All
along I have been held up by the fact that
though on that evening you had a full opportunity
for putting the nicotine into the cocktail
glass, you could not have insured its
reaching one particular person. Yesterday, through a chance remark, I saw light. The
poison was not intended specially for Stephen
Babbington. It was intended for anyone
present, with the exception of two people--
yourself and Sir Bartholomew, who, you
knew, did not drink cocktails."
Mr. Satterthwaite cried out:
"But that's nonsense! What's the point of
it? There isn't any."
Poirot turned toward him. Triumph came
into his voice:
"Oh, yes, there is. A queer point--a very
queer point. The only time I have come
across such a motive for murder. The murder
of Stephen Babbington was neither more
nor less than a dress rehearsal."
"What?"
"Yes, Sir Charles was an actor. He obeyed
his actor's instinct. He tried out his murder
before committing it. No suspicion could
possibly attach to him. Not one of those
people's deaths could benefit him in any way
and, moreover, as everyone has found, he
could not have been proved to have poisoned
any particular person. And, my friends, the
dress rehearsal went well. Mr. Babbington
dies, and foul play is not even suspected. It
is left to Sir Charles to urge that suspicion, and he is highly gratified at our refusal to
take it seriously. The substitution of the glass, too--that has gone without a hitch. In fact, he can be sure that, when the real performance
comes, it will be 'all right on the
night.'
"As you know, events took on a slightly
different turn. On the second occasion a doctor was present who immediately suspected
poison. It was then to Sir Charles" interests
to stress the death of Babbington. Sir
Bartholomew's death must be presumed to
be the outcome of that earlier death. Attention
must be focused on the motive for
Babbington's murder, not on any motive that might exist for Sir Bartholomew's removal.
"But there was one thing that Sir Charles
failed to realize. The efficient watchfulness
of Miss Milray. Miss Milray knew that her
employer dabbled in chemical experiments
in the tower in the garden. Miss Milray paid
bills for rose-spraying solution and realized
that quite a lot of it had unaccountably disappeared.
When she read that Mr. Babbington
had died of nicotine poisoning, her
clever brain leaped at once to the conclusion
that Sir Charles had extracted the pure alkaloid
from the rose solution.
"And Miss Milray did not know what to
do, for she had known Mr. Babbington as a
little girl, and she was in love, deeply and
devotedly as an ugly woman can be, with her
fascinating employer.
"In the end she decided to destroy Sir
Charles" apparatus. Sir Charles himself had
been so cocksure of his success that he had
never thought it necessary. She went down
to Cornwall and I followed."
Again Sir Charles laughed. More than ever
he looked a fine gentleman disgusted by a
rat.
"Is some old chemical apparatus all your
evidence?" he demanded contemptuously.
"No," said Poirot. "There is your passport
showing the dates when you returned to
and left England. They coincide with the
period during which the butler, Ellis, was in
Sir Bartholomew's service.
Egg had so far sat silent--a frozen figure.
But now she stirred. A little cry, almost a
moan, came from her.
Sir Charles turned superbly.
"Egg, you don't believe a word of this
absurd story, do you?"
He laughed. His hands were outstretched.
Egg came slowly forward as though hypnotized.
Her eyes gazed into his. And then,
just before she reached him, she wavered,
her glance fell, went this way and that, as
though seeking for reassurance.
Then, with a cry, she fell on her knees by
Poirot.
"Is this true? Is this true?"
He put both hands on her shoulders, a
firm, kindly touch.
«t^ ^ true, mademoiselle."
ggg said:
"Tb^ otner day, when we were in the
country--all the tmle ^ ^t afraid. I didn't know why. I was just afraid of something.
Was that because--because--"
"Woman's intuition, my dear Egg," said
Sir Charles, with a sneer.
He was still calm.
"This won't do, Poirot," he said. <<I can
explain the passport. It looks rather badly, I
admit, but--well, there were reasons."
Hercule Poirot spoke in a brisk businesslike
tone.
"In the next room. Sir Charles," he said, "are a Scotland Yard inspector and two doctors--eminent
specialists in diseases of the
brain."
"You've done that?" Sir Charles started
forward. His face seemed to dissolve and
reform itself. It was now a leering mask of
impotent fury. His voice rang shrill and
cracked:
"You've trapped me! Yes, you've trapped
me! I won't see them! This is a plot! It's a
conspiracy! It's been closing round me! But
they can't touch me--no one can touch me!"
He drew himself up. "I'm above you all--
above your silly man-made laws! Those three
people had to be killed; it was a necessity! I
regret their deaths, but it was necessary! It
had to be! For my safety!"
He stopped and stared at Poirot, his jaw
working.
"It's not true. It's a plant. A lie. There's
no one there."
"See for yourself," said Hercule Poirot.
Sir Charles strode to the door, flung it
open and passed through. They heard him
give a shrill, high-pitched scream, and the
low murmur of men's voices. Poirot went to
the door, looked through and shut it carefully.

"It is all over, mademoiselle," he said.
"He will be taken care of. And now, here is
a friend to take you home."
He opened a second door and Oliver
Manders came in. He went quickly over to
Egg and she made a faltering step toward
him.
"Oliver, I've been such a beast to you.
Such a beast. Take me to mother! Oh, take
me to mother!"
He put an arm round her and drew her
toward the door.
"Yes, dear, I'll take you. Come."
"It's been so awful--so awful."
"I know. But it's all over now. You need
never think of it again."
"I can't forget. I shall never forget."
"Yes, you will. You'll forget very soon.
Come now."
She went with him obediently. At the door
she took a hold on herself and disengaged
herself from his arm. "I'm all right now."
Poirot made a gesture and Oliver Manders
came back into the room.
"Be very good to her," said Poirot.
"I will, sir. She's all I care about in the
world; you know that. Love for her made
me bitter and cynical. But I shall be different
now. I'm ready to stand by. And some
day, perhaps--"
"I think so," said Poirot. "I think she was
beginning to care for you when he came
along and dazzled her. Hero worship is a real
and terrible danger to the young. Some day
Egg will fall in love with a friend and build
her happiness upon a rock."
He looked kindly after the young man as
he left the room.
Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward in his
chair.
"M. Poirot," he said, "you have been
wonderful--absolutely wonderful."
Poirot put on his modest look.
"It is nothing--nothing. A tragedy in three
acts, and now the curtain has fallen."
"You^U excuse me," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Yes, there is some point you want explained
to you?"
"There is one thing I want to know."
"Ask, then."
"Why do you sometimes speak perfectly
good English and at other times not?"
Poirot laughed.
"Ah, I will explain. It is true that I can
speak the exact, the idiomatic English. But, my friend, to speak the broken English is an
enormous asset. It leads people to despise
you. They say 'A foreigner; he can't even
speak English properly." It is not my policy
to terrify people; instead, I invite their gentle
ridicule. Also I boast! An Englishman he
says often, 'A fellow who thinks as much of
himself as that cannot be worth much.' That
is the English point of view. It is not at all
true. And so, you see, I put people off their
guard. Besides," he added, "it has become a
habit."
"Dear me," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Quite
the cunning of the serpent, M. Poirot."
;1^^i- f^.v n, »v»<-kt-r»^r»1- nr twn- tllinic-
"Pm afraid I have not shone over this
matter," he said vexedly.
"On the contrary. You appreciated that
important point--Sir Bartholomew's remark
about the butler--you realized the astute observation
of Miss Wills. In fact, you could
have solved the whole thing if it had not
been for your playgoer's reaction to dramatic
effect."
Mr. Satterthwaite looked cheered.
Suddenly an idea struck him. His jaw fell.
"My goodness," he cried, "I've only just
realized it! That rascal, with his poisoned
cocktail! Anyone might have drunk it! It
might have been me!"
"There is an even more terrible possibility
that you have not considered," said Poirot.
"Eh?"
"It might have been me," said Hercule
Poirot.
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