10
The Arrest   
TO my extreme annoyance, Poirot was not in, and the old Belgian who answered my knock informed me that he believed he had gone to London.       
  I was dumbfounded. What on earth could Poirot be doing in London! Was it a sudden decision on his part, or had he already made up his mind when he parted from me a few hours earlier?       
  I retraced my steps to Styles in some annoyance. With Poirot away, I was uncertain how to act. Had he foreseen this arrest? Had he not, in all probability, been the cause of it? Those questions I could not resolve. But in the meantime what was I to do? Should I announce the arrest openly at Styles, or not? Though I did not acknowledge it to myself, the thought of Mary Cavendish was weighing on me. Would it not be a terrible shock to her? For the moment, I set aside utterly any suspicions of her. She could not be implicated—otherwise I should have heard some hint of it.       
  Of course, there was no possibility of being able permanently to conceal Dr. Bauerstein's arrest from her. It would be announced in every newspaper on the morrow. Still, I shrank from blurting it out. If only Poirot had been accessible, I could have asked his advice. What possessed him to go posting off to London in this unaccountable way?       
  In spite of myself, my opinion of his sagacity was immeasurably heightened. I would never have dreamt of suspecting the doctor, had not Poirot put it into my head. Yes, decidedly, the little man was clever.      5   
  After some reflecting, I decided to take John into my confidence, and leave him to make the matter public or not, as he thought fit.       
  He gave vent to a prodigious whistle, as I imparted the news.       
  "Great Scot! You were right, then. I couldn't believe it at the time."       
  "No, it is astonishing until you get used to the idea, and see how it makes everything fit in. Now, what are we to do? Of course, it will be generally known to-morrow."       
  John reflected.   10   
  "Never mind," he said at last, "we won't say anything at present. There is no need. As you say, it will be known soon enough."       
  But to my intense surprise, on getting down early the next morning, and eagerly opening the newspapers, there was not a word about the arrest! There was a column of mere padding about "The Styles Poisoning Case", but nothing further. It was rather inexplicable, but I supposed that, for some reason or other, Japp wished to keep it out of the papers. It worried me just a little, for it suggested the possibility that there might be further arrests to come.       
  After breakfast, I decided to go down to the village, and see if Poirot had returned yet; but, before I could start, a well known face blocked one of the windows, and the well known voice said:       
  "Bon jour, mon ami!"       
  "Poirot," I exclaimed, with relief, and seizing him by both hands, I dragged him into the room. "I was never so glad to see anyone. Listen, I have said nothing to anybody but John. Is that right?"   15   
  "My friend," replied Poirot, "I do not know what you are talking about."       
  "Dr. Bauerstein's arrest, of course," I answered impatiently.       
  "Is Bauerstein arrested, then?"       
  "Did you not know it?"       
  "Not the least in the world." But, pausing a moment, he added: "Still, it does not surprise me. After all, we are only four miles from the coast."   20   
  "The coast?" I asked, puzzled. "What has that got to do with it?"       
  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.       
  "Surely, it is obvious!"       
  "Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what the proximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp."       
  "Nothing at all, of course," replied Poirot, smiling. "But we were speaking of the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein."   25   
  "Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp——"       
  "What?" cried Poirot, in apparently lively astonishment. "Dr. Bauerstein arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?"       
  "Yes."       
  "Impossible! That would be too good a farce! Who told you that, my friend?"       
  "Well, no one exactly told me," I confessed. "But he is arrested."   30   
  "Oh, yes, very likely. But for espionage, mon ami."       
  "Espionage?" I gasped.       
  "Precisely."       
  "Not for poisoning Mrs. Inglethorp?"       
  "Not unless our friend Japp has taken leave of his senses," replied Poirot placidly.   35   
  "But—but I thought you thought so too?"       
  Poirot gave me one look, which conveyed a wondering pity, and his full sense of the utter absurdity of such an idea.       
  "Do you mean to say," I asked, slowly adapting myself to the new idea, "that Dr. Bauerstein is a spy?"       
  Poirot nodded.       
  "Have you never suspected it?"   40   
  "It never entered my head."       
  "It did not strike you as peculiar that a famous London doctor should bury himself in a little village like this, and should be in the habit of walking about at all hours of the night, fully dressed?"       
  "No," I confessed, "I never thought of such a thing."       
  "He is, of course, a German by birth," said Poirot thoughtfully, "though he has practised so long in this country that nobody thinks of him as anything but an Englishman. He was naturalized about fifteen years ago. A very clever man."       
  "The blackguard!" I cried indignantly.   45   
  "Not at all. He is, on the contrary, a patriot. Think what he stands to lose. I admire the man myself."       
  But I could not look at it in Poirot's philosophical way.       
  "And this is the man with whom Mrs. Cavendish has been wandering about all over the country!" I cried indignantly.       
  "Yes. I should fancy he had found her very useful," remarked Poirot. "So long as gossip busied itself in coupling their names together, any other vagaries of the doctor's passed unobserved."       
  "Then you think he never really cared for her?" I asked eagerly—rather too eagerly, perhaps, under the circumstances.   50   
  "That, of course, I cannot say, but—shall I tell you my own private opinion, Hastings?"       
  "Yes."       
  "Well, it is this: that Mrs. Cavendish does not care, and never has cared one little jot about Dr. Bauerstein!"       
  "Do you really think so?" I could not disguise my pleasure.       
  "I am quite sure of it. And I will tell you why."   55   
  "Yes?"       
  "Because she cares for some one else, mon ami."       
  "Oh!" What did he mean? In spite of myself, an agreeable warmth spread over me. I am not a vain man where women are concerned, but I remembered certain evidences, too lightly thought of at the time, perhaps, but which certainly seemed to indicate——       
  My pleasing thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of Miss Howard. She glanced round hastily to make sure there was no one else in the room, and quickly produced an old sheet of brown paper. This she handed to Poirot, murmuring as she did so the cryptic words:       
  "On top of the wardrobe." Then she hurriedly left the room.   60   
  Poirot unfolded the sheet of paper eagerly, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He spread it out on the table.       
  "Come here, Hastings. Now tell me, what is that initial—J. or L.?"       
  It was a medium sized sheet of paper, rather dusty, as though it had lain by for some time. But it was the label that was attracting Poirot's attention. At the top, it bore the printed stamp of Messrs. Parkson's, the well known theatrical costumiers, and it was addressed to "—(the debatable initial) Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court, Styles St. Mary, Essex."       
  "It might be T., or it might be L.," I said, after studying the thing for a minute or two. "It certainly isn't a J."       
  "Good," replied Poirot, folding up the paper again. "I, also, am of your way of thinking. It is an L., depend upon it!"   65   
  "Where did it come from?" I asked curiously. "Is it important?"       
  "Moderately so. It confirms a surmise of mine. Having deduced its existence, I set Miss Howard to search for it, and, as you see, she has been successful."       
  "What did she mean by 'On the top of the wardrobe'?"       
  "She meant," replied Poirot promptly, "that she found it on top of a wardrobe."       
  "A funny place for a piece of brown paper," I mused.   70   
  "Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye."       
  "Poirot," I asked earnestly, "have you made up your mind about this crime?"       
  "Yes—that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed."       
  "Ah!"       
  "Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless——" With sudden energy, he caught me by the arm, and whirled me down the hall, calling out in French in his excitement: "Mademoiselle Dorcas, Mademoiselle Dorcas, un moment, s'il vous plait!"   75   
  Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came hurrying out of the pantry.       
  "My good Dorcas, I have an idea—a little idea—if it should prove justified, what magnificent chance! Tell me, on Monday, not Tuesday, Dorcas, but Monday, the day before the tragedy, did anything go wrong with Mrs. Inglethorp's bell?"       
  Dorcas looked very surprised.       
  "Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don't know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning."       
  With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room.   80   
  "See you, one should not ask for outside proof—no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!"       
  And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window.       
  "What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. "What is it all about?"       
  "Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!"       
  Mary laughed.   85   
  "How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back today?"       
  "I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."       
  "Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?"       
  "I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness."       
  "I see."   90   
  In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad.       
  It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, I thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively.       
  "You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me."       
  I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought—But again she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove Cynthia, and her troubles out of my mind.       
  "Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my husband are happy together?"   95   
  I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it's not being my business to think anything of the sort.       
  "Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your business or not, I will tell you that we are not happy."       
  I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished.       
  She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a little bent, and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as she walked. She stopped suddenly, and looked up at me.       
  "You don't know anything about me, do you?" she asked. "Where I come from, who I was before I married John—anything, in fact? Well, I will tell you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are kind, I think—yes, I am sure you are kind."   100   
  Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. I remembered that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the same way. Besides, a father confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the rôle for a young man.       
  "My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish, "but my mother was a Russian."       
  "Ah," I said, "now I understand—"       
  "Understand what?"       
  "A hint of something foreign—different—that there has always been about you."   105   
  "My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, because I never saw her. She died when I was quite a little child. I believe there was some tragedy connected with her death—she took an overdose of some sleeping draught by mistake. However that may be, my father was broken-hearted. Shortly afterwards, he went into the Consular Service. Everywhere he went, I went with him. When I was twenty-three, I had been nearly all over the world. It was a splendid life—I loved it."       
  There was a smile on her face, and her head was thrown back. She seemed living in the memory of those old glad days.       
  "Then my father died. He left me very badly off. I had to go and live with some old aunts in Yorkshire." She shuddered. "You will understand me when I say that it was a deadly life for a girl brought up as I had been. The narrowness, the deadly monotony of it, almost drove me mad." She paused a minute, and added in a different tone: "And then I met John Cavendish."       
  "Yes?"       
  "You can imagine that, from my aunts' point of view, it was a very good match for me. But I can honestly say it was not this fact which weighed with me. No, he was simply a way of escape from the insufferable monotony of my life."   110   
  I said nothing, and after a moment, she went on:       
  "Don't misunderstand me. I was quite honest with him. I told him, what was true, that I liked him very much, that I hoped to come to like him more, but that I was not in any way what the world calls 'in love' with him. He declared that that satisfied him, and so—we were married."       
  She waited a long time, a little frown had gathered on her forehead. She seemed to be looking back earnestly into those past days.       
  "I think—I am sure—he cared for me at first. But I suppose we were not well matched. Almost at once, we drifted apart. He—it is not a pleasing thing for my pride, but it is the truth—tired of me very soon." I must have made some murmur of dissent, for she went on quickly: "Oh, yes, he did! Not that it matters now—now that we've come to the parting of the ways."       
  "What do you mean?"   115   
  She answered quietly:       
  "I mean that I am not going to remain at Styles."       
  "You and John are not going to live here?"       
  "John may live here, but I shall not."       
  "You are going to leave him?"   120   
  "Yes."       
  "But why?"       
  She paused a long time, and said at last:       
  "Perhaps—because I want to be—free!"       
  And, as she spoke, I had a sudden vision of broad spaces, virgin tracts of forests, untrodden lands—and a realization of what freedom would mean to such a nature as Mary Cavendish. I seemed to see her for a moment as she was, a proud wild creature, as untamed by civilization as some shy bird of the hills. A little cry broke from her lips:   125   
  "You don't know, you don't know, how this hateful place has been prison to me!"       
  "I understand," I said, "but—but don't do anything rash."       
  "Oh, rash!" Her voice mocked at my prudence.       
  Then suddenly I said a thing I could have bitten out my tongue for:       
  "You know that Dr. Bauerstein has been arrested?"   130   
  An instant coldness passed like a mask over her face, blotting out all expression.       
  "John was so kind as to break that to me this morning."       
  "Well, what do you think?" I asked feebly.       
  "Of what?"       
  "Of the arrest?"   135   
  "What should I think?, Apparently he is a German spy; so the gardener had told John."       
  Her face and voice were absolutely cold and expressionless. Did she care, or did she not?       
  She moved away a step or two, and fingered one of the flower vases.       
  "These are quite dead. I must do them again. Would you mind moving—thank you, Mr. Hastings." And she walked quietly past me out of the window, with a cool little nod of dismissal.       
  No, surely she could not care for Bauerstein. No woman could act her part with that icy unconcern.   140   
  Poirot did not make his appearance the following morning, and there was no sign of the Scotland Yard men.       
  But, at lunch-time, there arrived a new piece of evidence—or rather lack of evidence. We had vainly tried to trace the fourth letter, which Mrs. Inglethorp had written on the evening preceding her death. Our efforts having been in vain, we had abandoned the matter, hoping that it might turn up of itself one day. And this is just what did happen, in the shape of a communication, which arrived by the second post from a firm of French music publishers, acknowledging Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque, and regretting they had been unable to trace a certain series of Russian folk-songs. So the last hope of solving the mystery, by means of Mrs. Inglethorp's correspondence on the fatal evening, had to be abandoned.       
  Just before tea, I strolled down to tell Poirot of the new disappointment, but found, to my annoyance, that he was once more out.       
  "Gone to London again?"       
  "Oh, no, monsieur, he has but taken the train to Tadminster. 'To see a young lady's dispensary,' he said."   145   
  "Silly ass!" I ejaculated. "I told him Wednesday was the one day she wasn't there! Well, tell him to look us up tomorrow morning, will you?"       
  "Certainly, monsieur."       
  But, on the following day, no sign of Poirot. I was getting angry. He was really treating us in the most cavalier fashion.       
  After lunch, Lawrence drew me aside, and asked if I was going down to see him.       
  "No, I don't think I shall. He can come up here if he wants to see us."   150   
  "Oh!" Lawrence looked indeterminate. Something unusually nervous and excited in his manner roused my curiosity.       
  "What is it?" I asked. "I could go if there's anything special."       
  "It's nothing much, but—well, if you are going, will you tell him—" he dropped his voice to a whisper—"I think I've found the extra coffee-cup!"       
  I had almost forgotten that enigmatical message of Poirot's, but now my curiosity was aroused afresh.       
  Lawrence would say no more, so I decided that I would descend from my high horse, and once more seek out Poirot at Leastways Cottage.   155   
  This time I was received with a smile. Monsieur Poirot was within. Would I mount? I mounted accordingly.       
  Poirot was sitting by the table, his head buried in his hands. He sprang up at my entrance.       
  "What is it?" I asked solicitously. "You are not ill, I trust?"       
  "No, no, not ill. But I decide an affair of great moment."       
  "Whether to catch the criminal or not?" I asked facetiously.   160   
  But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely.       
  "'To speak or not speak,' as your so great Shakespeare says, 'that is the question.'"       
  I did not trouble to correct the quotation.       
  "You are not serious, Poirot?"       
  "I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs in the balance."   165   
  "And that is?"       
  "A woman's happiness, mon ami," he said gravely.       
  I did not quite know what to say.       
  "The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I do not know what to do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which I play. No one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!" And he tapped himself proudly on the breast.       
  After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil his effect, I gave him Lawrence's message.   170   
  "Aha!" he cried. "So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That is good. He has more intelligence than would appear, this long-faced Monsieur Lawrence of yours!"       
  I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's intelligence; but I forebore to contradict Poirot, and gently took him to task for forgetting my instructions as to which were Cynthia's days off.       
  "It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However, the other young lady was most kind. She was sorry for my disappointment, and showed me everything in the kindest way."       
  "Oh, well, that's all right, then, and you must go to tea with Cynthia another day."       
  I told him about the letter.   175   
  "I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had hopes of that letter. But no, it was not to be. This affair must all be unravelled from within." He tapped his forehead. "These little grey cells. It is 'up to them'—as you say over here." Then, suddenly, he asked: "Are you a judge of finger-marks, my friend?"       
  "No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that there are no two finger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes."       
  "Exactly."       
  He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laid on the table.       
  "I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?"   180   
  I studied the proofs attentively.       
  "All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man's finger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are much smaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3"—I paused for some time—"there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No. 1's."       
  "Overlapping the others?"       
  "Yes."       
  "You recognize them beyond fail?"   185   
  "Oh, yes; they are identical."       
  Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again.       
  "I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?"       
  "On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated."       
  "Yes?"   190   
  "It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints on any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks—it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left."       
  "Go on—I am really excited."       
  "Eh bien! Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster—which sounds like the house that Jack built!"       
  "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there?"       
  "Oh, yes, he did!"   195   
  "Impossible! We were all together the whole time."       
  Poirot shook his head.       
  "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony."       
  "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment."       
  "Long enough."   200   
  "Long enough for what?"       
  Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical.       
  "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity."       
  Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously.       
  "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?"   205   
  Poirot looked out of the window.       
  "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum.       
  "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer.       
  "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little—only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then."       
  "How did you manage to take this photograph?"   210   
  "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me."       
  "Then you knew what you were going to find?"       
  "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated."       
  "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery."       
  "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too."   215   
  "What is that?"       
  "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion."       
  Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in.       
  "There is a lady below, asking for Mr. Hastings."       
  "A lady?"   220   
  I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway.       
  "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you."       
  "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!"       
  "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling.       
  "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame"—she started ever so slightly—"remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service."   225   
  She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away.       
  "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?"       
  "Enchanted, madame."       
  All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes.       
  The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing.   230   
  We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong.       
  Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears.       
  "Oh, m'am; oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you—"       
  "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once."       
  "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him—they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!"   235   
  "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped.       
  I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes.       
  "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence—Mr. John."       
  Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes.

11
The Case for the Prosecution   
THE trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later.       
  Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail.       
  I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully.       
  "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have—"       
  "Jealousy?" I queried.      5   
  "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him."       
  He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or no to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands.       
  "Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!"       
  Poirot grinned.       
  "I know you did."   10   
  "But John! My old friend John!"       
  "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically. "You cannot mix up sentiment and reason."       
  "I must say I think you might have given me a hint."       
  "Perhaps, mon ami, I did not do so, just because he was your old friend."       
  I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future.   15   
  I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be acquitted.       
  "But, Poirot—" I protested.       
  "Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link—" He shook his head gravely.       
  "When did you first suspect John Cavendish?" I asked, after a minute or two.       
  "Did you not suspect him at all?"   20   
  "No, indeed."       
  "Not after that fragment of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law, and her subsequent lack of frankness at the inquest?"       
  "No."       
  "Did you not put two and two together, and reflect that if it was not Alfred Inglethorp who was quarrelling with his wife—and you remember, he strenuously denied it at the inquest—it must be either Lawrence or John. Now, if it was Lawrence, Mary Cavendish's conduct was just as inexplicable. But if, on the other hand, it was John, the whole thing was explained quite naturally."       
  "So," I cried, a light breaking in upon me, "it was John who quarrelled with his mother that afternoon?"   25   
  "Exactly."       
  "And you have known this all along?"       
  "Certainly. Mrs. Cavendish's behaviour could only be explained that way."       
  "And yet you say he may be acquitted?"       
  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.   30   
  "Certainly I do. At the police court proceedings, we shall hear the case for the prosecution, but in all probability his solicitors will advise him to reserve his defence. That will be sprung upon us at the trial. And—ah, by the way, I have a word of caution to give you, my friend. I must not appear in the case."       
  "What?"       
  "No. Officially, I have nothing to do with it. Until I have found that last link in my chain, I must remain behind the scenes. Mrs. Cavendish must think I am working for her husband, not against him."       
  "I say, that's playing it a bit low down," I protested.       
  "Not at all. We have to deal with a most clever and unscrupulous man, and we must use any means in our power—otherwise he will slip through our fingers. That is why I have been careful to remain in the background. All the discoveries have been made by Japp, and Japp will take all the credit. If I am called upon to give evidence at all"—he smiled broadly—"it will probably be as a witness for the defence."   35   
  I could hardly believe my ears.       
  "It is quite en règle," continued Poirot. "Strangely enough, I can give evidence that will demolish one contention of the prosecution."       
  "Which one?"       
  "The one that relates to the destruction of the will. John Cavendish did not destroy that will."       
  Poirot was a true prophet. I will not go into the details of the police court proceedings, as it involves many tiresome repetitions. I will merely state baldly that John Cavendish reserved his defence, and was duly committed for trial.   40   
  September found us all in London. Mary took a house in Kensington, Poirot being included in the family party.       
  I myself had been given a job at the War Office, so was able to see them continually.       
  As the weeks went by, the state of Poirot's nerves grew worse and worse. That "last link" he talked about was still lacking. Privately, I hoped it might remain so, for what happiness could there be for Mary, if John were not acquitted?       
  On September 15th John Cavendish appeared in the dock at the Old Bailey, charged with "The Wilful Murder of Emily Agnes Inglethorp," and pleaded "Not Guilty."       
  Sir Ernest Heavywether, the famous K. C., had been engaged to defend him.   45   
  Mr. Philips, K. C., opened the case for the Crown.       
  The murder, he said, was a most premeditated and cold-blooded one. It was neither more nor less than the deliberate poisoning of a fond and trusting woman by the stepson to whom she had been more than a mother. Ever since his boyhood, she had supported him. He and his wife had lived at Styles Court in every luxury, surrounded by her care and attention. She had been their kind and generous benefactress.       
  He proposed to call witnesses to show how the prisoner, a profligate and spendthrift, had been at the end of his financial tether, and had also been carrying on an intrigue with a certain Mrs. Raikes, a neighbouring farmer's wife. This having come to his stepmother's ears, she taxed him with it on the afternoon before her death, and a quarrel ensued, part of which was overheard. On the previous day, the prisoner had purchased strychnine at the village chemist's shop, wearing a disguise by means of which he hoped to throw the onus of the crime upon another man—to wit, Mrs. Inglethorp's husband, of whom he had been bitterly jealous. Luckily for Mr. Inglethorp, he had been able to produce an unimpeachable alibi.       
  On the afternoon of July 17th, continued Counsel, immediately after the quarrel with her son, Mrs. Inglethorp made a new will. This will was found destroyed in the grate of her bedroom the following morning, but evidence had come to light which showed that it had been drawn up in favour of her husband. Deceased had already made a will in his favour before her marriage, but—and Mr. Philips wagged an expressive forefinger—the prisoner was not aware of that. What had induced the deceased to make a fresh will, with the old one still extant, he could not say. She was an old lady, and might possibly have forgotten the former one; or—this seemed to him more likely—she may have had an idea that it was revoked by her marriage, as there had been some conversation on the subject. Ladies were not always very well versed in legal knowledge. She had, about a year before, executed a will in favour of the prisoner. He would call evidence to show that it was the prisoner who ultimately handed his stepmother her coffee on the fatal night. Later in the evening, he had sought admission to her room, on which occasion, no doubt, he found an opportunity of destroying the will which, as far as he knew, would render the one in his favour valid.       
  The prisoner had been arrested in consequence of the discovery, in his room, by Detective Inspector Japp—a most brilliant officer—of the identical phial of strychnine which had been sold at the village chemist's to the supposed Mr. Inglethorp on the day before the murder. It would be for the jury to decide whether or no these damning facts constituted an overwhelming proof of the prisoner's guilt.   50   
  And, subtly implying that a jury which did not so decide, was quite unthinkable, Mr. Philips sat down and wiped his forehead.       
  The first witnesses for the prosecution were mostly those who had been called at the inquest, the medical evidence being again taken first.       
  Sir Ernest Heavywether, who was famous all over England for the unscrupulous manner in which he bullied witnesses, only asked two questions.       
  "I take it, Dr. Bauerstein, that strychnine, as a drug, acts quickly?"       
  "Yes."   55   
  "And that you are unable to account for the delay in this case?"       
  "Yes."       
  "Thank you."       
  Mr. Mace identified the phial handed him by Counsel as that sold by him to "Mr. Inglethorp." Pressed, he admitted that he only knew Mr. Inglethorp by sight. He had never spoken to him. The witness was not cross-examined.       
  Alfred Inglethorp was called, and denied having purchased the poison. He also denied having quarrelled with his wife. Various witnesses testified to the accuracy of these statements.   60   
  The gardeners' evidence, as to the witnessing of the will was taken, and then Dorcas was called.       
  Dorcas, faithful to her "young gentlemen," denied strenuously that it could have been John's voice she heard, and resolutely declared, in the teeth of everything, that it was Mr. Inglethorp who had been in the boudoir with her mistress. A rather wistful smile passed across the face of the prisoner in the dock. He knew only too well how useless her gallant defiance was, since it was not the object of the defence to deny this point. Mrs. Cavendish, of course, could not be called upon to give evidence against her husband.       
  After various questions on other matters, Mr. Philips asked:       
  "In the month of June last, do you remember a parcel arriving for Mr. Lawrence Cavendish from Parkson's?"       
  Dorcas shook her head.   65   
  "I don't remember, sir. It may have done, but Mr. Lawrence was away from home part of June."       
  "In the event of a parcel arriving for him whilst he was away, what would be done with it?"       
  "It would either be put in his room or sent on after him."       
  "By you?"       
  "No, sir, I should leave it on the hall table. It would be Miss Howard who would attend to anything like that."   70   
  Evelyn Howard was called and, after being examined on other points, was questioned as to the parcel.       
  "Don't remember. Lots of parcels come. Can't remember one special one."       
  "You do not know if it was sent after Mr. Lawrence Cavendish to Wales, or whether it was put in his room?"       
  "Don't think it was sent after him. Should have remembered it if it was."       
  "Supposing a parcel arrived addressed to Mr. Lawrence Cavendish, and afterwards it disappeared, should you remark its absence?"   75   
  "No, don't think so. I should think some one had taken charge of it."       
  "I believe, Miss Howard, that it was you who found this sheet of brown paper?" He held up the same dusty piece which Poirot and I had examined in the morning-room at Styles.       
  "Yes, I did."       
  "How did you come to look for it?"       
  "The Belgian detective who was employed on the case asked me to search for it."   80   
  "Where did you eventually discover it?"       
  "On the top of—of—a wardrobe."       
  "On top of the prisoner's wardrobe?"       
  "I—I believe so."       
  "Did you not find it yourself?"   85   
  "Yes."       
  "Then you must know where you found it?"       
  "Yes, it was on the prisoner's wardrobe."       
  "That is better."       
  An assistant from Parkson's, Theatrical Costumiers, testified that on June 29th, they had supplied a black beard to Mr. L. Cavendish, as requested. It was ordered by letter, and a postal order was enclosed. No, they had not kept the letter. All transactions were entered in their books. They had sent the beard, as directed, to "L. Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court."   90   
  Sir Ernest Heavywether rose ponderously.       
  "Where was the letter written from?"       
  "From Styles Court."       
  "The same address to which you sent the parcel?"       
  "Yes."   95   
  "And the letter came from there?"       
  "Yes."       
  Like a beast of prey, Heavywether fell upon him:       
  "How do you know?"       
  "I—I don't understand."   100   
  "How do you know that letter came from Styles? Did you notice the postmark?"       
  "No—but—"       
  "Ah, you did not notice the postmark! And yet you affirm so confidently that it came from Styles. It might, in fact, have been any postmark?"       
  "Y—es."       
  "In fact, the letter, though written on stamped notepaper, might have been posted from anywhere? From Wales, for instance?"   105   
  The witness admitted that such might be the case, and Sir Ernest signified that he was satisfied.       
  Elizabeth Wells, second housemaid at Styles, stated that after she had gone to bed she remembered that she had bolted the front door, instead of leaving it on the latch as Mr. Inglethorp had requested. She had accordingly gone downstairs again to rectify her error. Hearing a slight noise in the West wing, she had peeped along the passage, and had seen Mr. John Cavendish knocking at Mrs. Inglethorp's door.       
  Sir Ernest Heavywether made short work of her, and under his unmerciful bullying she contradicted herself hopelessly, and Sir Ernest sat down again with a satisfied smile on his face.       
  With the evidence of Annie, as to the candle grease on the floor, and as to seeing the prisoner take the coffee into the boudoir, the proceedings were adjourned until the following day.       
  As we went home, Mary Cavendish spoke bitterly against the prosecuting counsel.   110   
  "That hateful man! What a net he has drawn around my poor John! How he twisted every little fact until he made it seem what it wasn't!"       
  "Well," I said consolingly, "it will be the other way about to-morrow."       
  "Yes," she said meditatively; then suddenly dropped her voice. "Mr. Hastings, you do not think—surely it could not have been Lawrence— Oh, no, that could not be!"       
  But I myself was puzzled, and as soon as I was alone with Poirot I asked him what he thought Sir Ernest was driving at.       
  "Ah!" said Poirot appreciatively. "He is a clever man, that Sir Ernest."   115   
  "Do you think he believes Lawrence guilty?"       
  "I do not think he believes or cares anything! No, what he is trying for is to create such confusion in the minds of the jury that they are divided in their opinion as to which brother did it. He is endeavouring to make out that there is quite as much evidence against Lawrence as against John—and I am not at all sure that he will not succeed."       
  Detective Inspector Japp was the first witness called when the trial was reopened, and gave his evidence succinctly and briefly. After relating the earlier events, he proceeded:       
  "Acting on information received, Superintendent Summerhaye and myself searched the prisoner's room, during his temporary absence from the house. In his chest of drawers, hidden beneath some underclothing, we found: first, a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez similar to those worn by Mr. Inglethorp"—these were exhibited—"secondly, this phial."       
  The phial was that already recognized by the chemist's assistant, a tiny bottle of blue glass, containing a few grains of a white crystalline powder, and labelled: "Strychnine Hydro-chloride. POISON."   120   
  A fresh piece of evidence discovered by the detectives since the police court proceedings was a long, almost new piece of blotting-paper. It had been found in Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque book, and on being reversed at a mirror, showed clearly the words: "...erything of which I die possessed I leave to my beloved husband Alfred Ing..." This placed beyond question the fact that the destroyed will had been in favour of the deceased lady's husband. Japp then produced the charred fragment of paper recovered from the grate, and this, with the discovery of the beard in the attic, completed his evidence.       
  But Sir Ernest's cross-examination was yet to come.       
  "What day was it when you searched the prisoner's room?"       
  "Tuesday, the 24th of July."       
  "Exactly a week after the tragedy?"   125   
  "Yes."       
  "You found these two objects, you say in the chest of drawers. Was the drawer unlocked?"       
  "Yes."       
  "Does it not strike you as unlikely that a man who had committed a crime should keep the evidence of it in an unlocked drawer for anyone to find?"       
  "He might have stowed them there in a hurry."   130   
  "But you have just said it was a whole week since the crime. He would have had ample time to remove them and destroy them."       
  "Perhaps."       
  "There is no perhaps about it. Would he, or would he not have had plenty of time to remove and destroy them?"       
  "Yes."       
  "Was the pile of underclothes under which the things were hidden heavy or light?"   135   
  "Heavyish."       
  "In other words, it was winter underclothing. Obviously, the prisoner would not be likely to go to that drawer?"       
  "Perhaps not."       
  "Kindly answer my question. Would the prisoner, in the hottest week of a hot summer, be likely to go to a drawer containing winter underclothing. Yes, or no?"       
  "In that case, is it not possible that the articles in question might have been put there by a third person, and that the prisoner was quite unaware of their presence?"   140   
  "I should not think it likely."       
  "But it is possible?"       
  "Yes."       
  "That is all."       
  More evidence followed. Evidence as to the financial difficulties in which the prisoner had found himself at the end of July. Evidence as to his intrigue with Mrs. Raikes—poor Mary, that must have been bitter hearing for a woman of her pride. Evelyn Howard had been right in her facts, though her animosity against Alfred Inglethorp had caused her to jump to the conclusion that he was the person concerned.   145   
  Lawrence Cavendish was then put into the box. In a low voice, in answer to Mr. Philips's questions, he denied having ordered anything from Parkson's in June. In fact, on June 29th, he had been staying away, in Wales.       
  Instantly, Sir Ernest's chin was shooting pugnaciously forward.       
  "You deny having ordered a black beard from Parkson's on June 29th?"       
  "I do."       
  "Ah! In the event of anything happening to your brother, who will inherit Styles Court?"   150   
  The brutality of the question called a flush to Lawrence's pale face. The judge gave vent to a faint murmur of disapprobation, and the prisoner in the dock leant forward angrily.       
  Heavywether cared nothing for his client's anger.       
  "Answer my question, if you please."       
  "I suppose," said Lawrence quietly, "that I should."       
  "What do you mean by you 'suppose'? Your brother has no children. You would inherit it, wouldn't you?"   155   
  "Yes."       
  "Ah, that's better," said Heavywether, with ferocious geniality. "And you'd inherit a good slice of money too, wouldn't you?"       
  "Really, Sir Ernest," protested the Judge, "these questions are not relevant."       
  Sir Ernest bowed, and having shot his arrow proceeded.       
  "On Tuesday, the 17th July, you went, I believe, with another guest, to visit the dispensary at the Red Cross Hospital in Tadminster?"   160   
  "Yes."       
  "Did you—while you happened to be alone for a few seconds—unlock the poison cupboard, and examine some of the bottles?"       
  "I—I—may have done so."       
  "I put it to you that you did do so?"       
  "Yes."   165   
  Sir Ernest fairly shot the next question at him.       
  "Did you examine one bottle in particular?"       
  "No, I do not think so."       
  "Be careful, Mr. Cavendish. I am referring to a little bottle of Hydro-chloride of Strychnine."       
  Lawrence was turning a sickly greenish colour.   170   
  "N—o—I am sure I didn't."       
  "Then how do you account for the fact that you left the unmistakable impress of your finger-prints on it?"       
  The bullying manner was highly efficacious with a nervous disposition.       
  "I—I suppose I must have taken up the bottle."       
  "I suppose so too! Did you abstract any of the contents of the bottle?"   175   
  "Certainly not."       
  "Then why did you take it up?"       
  "I once studied to be a doctor. Such things naturally interest me."       
  "Ah! So poisons 'naturally interest' you, do they? Still, you waited to be alone before gratifying that 'interest' of yours?"       
  "That was pure chance. If the others had been there, I should have done just the same."   180   
  "Still, as it happens, the others were not there?"       
  "No, but——"       
  "In fact, during the whole afternoon, you were only alone for a couple of minutes, and it happened—I say, it happened—to be during those two minutes that you displayed your 'natural interest' in Hydro-chloride of Strychnine?"       
  Lawrence stammered pitiably.       
  "I—I——"   185   
  With a satisfied and expressive countenance, Sir Ernest observed:       
  "I have nothing more to ask you, Mr. Cavendish."       
  This bit of cross-examination had caused great excitement in court. The heads of the many fashionably attired women present were busily laid together, and their whispers became so loud that the judge angrily threatened to have the court cleared if there was not immediate silence.       
  There was little more evidence. The hand-writing experts were called upon for their opinion of the signature of "Alfred Inglethorp" in the chemist's poison register. They all declared unanimously that it was certainly not his hand-writing, and gave it as their view that it might be that of the prisoner disguised. Cross-examined, they admitted that it might be the prisoner's hand-writing cleverly counterfeited.       
  Sir Ernest Heavywether's speech in opening the case for the defence was not a long one, but it was backed by the full force of his emphatic manner. Never, he said, in the course of his long experience, had he known a charge of murder rest on slighter evidence. Not only was it entirely circumstantial, but the greater part of it was practically unproved. Let them take the testimony they had heard and sift it impartially. The strychnine had been found in a drawer in the prisoner's room. That drawer was an unlocked one, as he had pointed out, and he submitted that there was no evidence to prove that it was the prisoner who had concealed the poison there. It was, in fact, a wicked and malicious attempt on the part of some third person to fix the crime on the prisoner. The prosecution had been unable to produce a shred of evidence in support of their contention that it was the prisoner who ordered the black beard from Parkson's. The quarrel which had taken place between prisoner and his stepmother was freely admitted, but both it and his financial embarrassments had been grossly exaggerated.   190   
  His learned friend—Sir Ernest nodded carelessly at Mr. Philips—had stated that if prisoner were an innocent man, he would have come forward at the inquest to explain that it was he, and not Mr. Inglethorp, who had been the participator in the quarrel. He thought the facts had been misrepresented. What had actually occurred was this. The prisoner, returning to the house on Tuesday evening, had been authoritatively told that there had been a violent quarrel between Mr. and Mrs. Inglethorp. No suspicion had entered the prisoner's head that anyone could possibly have mistaken his voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. He naturally concluded that his stepmother had had two quarrels.       
  The prosecution averred that on Monday, July 16th, the prisoner had entered the chemist's shop in the village, disguised as Mr. Inglethorp. The prisoner, on the contrary, was at that time at a lonely spot called Marston's Spinney, where he had been summoned by an anonymous note, couched in blackmailing terms, and threatening to reveal certain matters to his wife unless he complied with its demands. The prisoner had, accordingly, gone to the appointed spot, and after waiting there vainly for half an hour had returned home. Unfortunately, he had met with no one on the way there or back who could vouch for the truth of his story, but luckily he had kept the note, and it would be produced as evidence.       
  As for the statement relating to the destruction of the will, the prisoner had formerly practised at the Bar, and was perfectly well aware that the will made in his favour a year before was automatically revoked by his stepmother's remarriage. He would call evidence to show who did destroy the will, and it was possible that that might open up quite a new view of the case.       
  Finally, he would point out to the jury that there was evidence against other people besides John Cavendish. He would direct their attention to the fact that the evidence against Mr. Lawrence Cavendish was quite as strong, if not stronger than that against his brother.       
  He would now call the prisoner.   195   
  John acquitted himself well in the witness-box. Under Sir Ernest's skilful handling, he told his tale credibly and well. The anonymous note received by him was produced, and handed to the jury to examine. The readiness with which he admitted his financial difficulties, and the disagreement with his stepmother, lent value to his denials.       
  At the close of his examination, he paused, and said:       
  "I should like to make one thing clear. I utterly reject and disapprove of Sir Ernest Heavywether's insinuations against my brother. My brother, I am convinced, had no more to do with the crime than I have."       
  Sir Ernest merely smiled, and noted with a sharp eye that John's protest had produced a very favourable impression on the jury.       
  Then the cross-examination began.   200   
  "I understand you to say that it never entered your head that the witnesses at the inquest could possibly have mistaken your voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. Is not that very surprising?"       
  "No, I don't think so. I was told there had been a quarrel between my mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and it never occurred to me that such was not really the case."       
  "Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the conversation—fragments which you must have recognized?"       
  "I did not recognize them."       
  "Your memory must be unusually short!"   205   
  "No, but we were both angry, and, I think, said more than we meant. I paid very little attention to my mother's actual words."       
  Mr. Philips's incredulous sniff was a triumph of forensic skill. He passed on to the subject of the note.       
  "You have produced this note very opportunely. Tell me, is there nothing familiar about the hand-writing of it?"       
  "Not that I know of."       
  "Do you not think that it bears a marked resemblance to your own hand-writing—carelessly disguised?"   210   
  "No, I do not think so."       
  "I put it to you that it is your own hand-writing!"       
  "No."       
  "I put it to you that, anxious to prove an alibi, you conceived the idea of a fictitious and rather incredible appointment, and wrote this note yourself in order to bear out your statement!"       
  "No."   215   
  "Is it not a fact that, at the time you claim to have been waiting about at a solitary and unfrequented spot, you were really in the chemist's shop in Styles St. Mary, where you purchased strychnine in the name of Alfred Inglethorp?"       
  "No, that is a lie."       
  "I put it to you that, wearing a suit of Mr. Inglethorp's clothes, with a black beard trimmed to resemble his, you were there—and signed the register in his name!"       
  "That is absolutely untrue."       
  "Then I will leave the remarkable similarity of hand-writing between the note, the register, and your own, to the consideration of the jury," said Mr. Philips, and sat down with the air of a man who has done his duty, but who was nevertheless horrified by such deliberate perjury.   220   
  After this, as it was growing late, the case was adjourned till Monday.       
  Poirot, I noticed, was looking profoundly discouraged. He had that little frown between the eyes that I knew so well.       
  "What is it, Poirot?" I inquired.       
  "Ah, mon ami, things are going badly, badly."       
  In spite of myself, my heart gave a leap of relief. Evidently there was a likelihood of John Cavendish being acquitted.   225   
  When we reached the house, my little friend waved aside Mary's offer of tea.       
  "No, I thank you, madame. I will mount to my room."       
  I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to the desk and took out a small pack of patience cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table, and, to my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses!       
  My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once:       
  "No, mon ami, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves, that is all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I needed that more than now!"   230   
  "What is the trouble?" I asked.       
  With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built up edifice.       
  "It is this, mon ami! That I can build card houses seven stories high, but I cannot"—thump—"find"—thump—"that last link of which I spoke to you."       
  I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so.       
  "It is done—so! By placing—one card—on another—with mathematical—precision!"   235   
  I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring trick.       
  "What a steady hand you've got," I remarked. "I believe I've only seen your hand shake once."       
  "On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt," observed Poirot, with great placidity.       
  "Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when you discovered that the lock of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom had been forced. You stood by the mantelpiece, twiddling the things on it in your usual fashion, and your hand shook like a leaf! I must say——"       
  But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony.   240   
  "Good heavens, Poirot!" I cried. "What is the matter? Are you taken ill?"       
  "No, no," he gasped. "It is—it is—that I have an idea!"       
  "Oh!" I exclaimed, much relieved. "One of your 'little ideas'?"       
  "All, ma foi, no!" replied Poirot frankly. "This time it is an idea gigantic! Stupendous! And you—you, my friend, have given it to me!"       
  Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks, and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room.   245   
  Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.       
  "What is the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out: 'A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!' And, before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street."       
  I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the street, hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a gesture of despair.       
  "He'll be stopped by a policeman in another minute. There he goes, round the corner!"       
  Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one another.   250   
  "What can be the matter?"       
  I shook my head.       
  "I don't know. He was building card houses, when suddenly he said he had an idea, and rushed off as you saw."       
  "Well," said Mary, "I expect he will be back before dinner."       
  But night fell, and Poirot had not returned.   255

12
The Last Link   
POIROT'S abrupt departure had intrigued us all greatly. Sunday morning wore away, and still he did not reappear. But about three o'clock a ferocious and prolonged hooting outside drove us to the window, to see Poirot alighting from a car, accompanied by Japp and Summerhaye. The little man was transformed. He radiated an absurd complacency. He bowed with exaggerated respect to Mary Cavendish.       
  "Madame, I have your permission to hold a little réunion in the salon? It is necessary for every one to attend."       
  Mary smiled sadly.       
  "You know, Monsieur Poirot, that you have carte blanche in every way."       
  "You are too amiable, madame."      5   
  Still beaming, Poirot marshalled us all into the drawing-room, bringing forward chairs as he did so.       
  "Miss Howard—here. Mademoiselle Cynthia. Monsieur Lawrence. The good Dorcas. And Annie. Bien! We must delay our proceedings a few minutes until Mr. Inglethorp arrives. I have sent him a note."       
  Miss Howard rose immediately from her seat.       
  "If that man comes into the house, I leave it!"       
  "No, no!" Poirot went up to her and pleaded in a low voice.   10   
  Finally Miss Howard consented to return to her chair. A few minutes later Alfred Inglethorp entered the room.       
  The company once assembled, Poirot rose from his seat with the air of a popular lecturer, and bowed politely to his audience.       
  "Messieurs, mesdames, as you all know, I was called in by Monsieur John Cavendish to investigate this case. I at once examined the bedroom of the deceased which, by the advice of the doctors, had been kept locked, and was consequently exactly as it had been when the tragedy occurred. I found: first, a fragment of green material; secondly, a stain on the carpet near the window, still damp; thirdly, an empty box of bromide powders.       
  "To take the fragment of green material first, I found it caught in the bolt of the communicating door between that room and the adjoining one occupied by Mademoiselle Cynthia. I handed the fragment over to the police who did not consider it of much importance. Nor did they recognize it for what it was—a piece torn from a green land armlet."       
  There was a little stir of excitement.   15   
  "Now there was only one person at Styles who worked on the land—Mrs. Cavendish. Therefore it must have been Mrs. Cavendish who entered deceased's room through the door communicating with Mademoiselle Cynthia's room."       
  "But that door was bolted on the inside!" I cried.       
  "When I examined the room, yes. But in the first place we have only her word for it, since it was she who tried that particular door and reported it fastened. In the ensuing confusion she would have had ample opportunity to shoot the bolt across. I took an early opportunity of verifying my conjectures To begin with, the fragment corresponds exactly with a tear in Mrs. Cavendish's armlet. Also, at the inquest, Mrs. Cavendish declared that she had heard, from her own room, the fall of the table by the bed. I took an early opportunity of testing that statement, by stationing my friend Monsieur Hastings, in the left wing of the building, just outside Mrs. Cavendish's door. I myself, in company with the police, went to the deceased's room, and whilst there I, apparently accidentally, knocked over the table in question, but found that, as I had expected, Monsieur Hastings had heard no sound at all. This confirmed my belief that Mrs. Cavendish was not speaking the truth when she declared that she had been dressing in her room at the time of the tragedy. In fact, I was convinced that, far from having been in her own room, Mrs. Cavendish was actually in the deceased's room when the alarm was given."       
  I shot a quick glance at Mary. She was very pale, but smiling.       
  "I proceeded to reason on that assumption. Mrs. Cavendish is in her mother-in-law's room. We will say that she is seeking for something and has not yet found it. Suddenly Mrs. Inglethorp awakens and is seized with an alarming paroxysm. She flings out her arm, overturning the bed table, and then pulls desperately at the bell. Mrs. Cavendish, startled, drops her candle, scattering the grease on the carpet. She picks it up, and retreats quickly to Mademoiselle Cynthia's room, closing the door behind her. She hurries out into the passage, for the servants must not find her where she is. But it is too late! Already footsteps are echoing along the gallery which connects the two wings. What can she do? Quick as thought, she hurries back to the young girl's room, and starts shaking her awake. The hastily aroused household come trooping down the passage. They are all busily battering at Mrs. Inglethorp's door. It occurs to nobody that Mrs. Cavendish has not arrived with the rest, but—and this is significant—I can find no one who saw her come from the other wing." He looked at Mary Cavendish. "Am I right, madame?"   20   
  She bowed her head.       
  "Quite right, monsieur. You understand that, if I had thought I would do my husband any good by revealing these facts, I would have done so. But it did not seem to me to bear upon the question of his guilt or innocence."       
  "In a sense, that is correct, madame. But it cleared my mind of many misconceptions, and left me free to see other facts in their true significance."       
  "The will!" cried Lawrence. "Then it was you, Mary, who destroyed the will?"       
  She shook her head, and Poirot shook his also.   25   
  "No," he said quietly. "There is only one person who could possibly have destroyed that will—Mrs. Inglethorp herself!"       
  "Impossible!" I exclaimed. "She had only made it out that very afternoon!"       
  "Nevertheless, mon ami, it was Mrs. Inglethorp. Because, in no other way can you account for the fact that, on one of the hottest days of the year, Mrs. Inglethorp ordered a fire to be lighted in her room."       
  I gave a gasp. What idiots we had been never to think of that fire as being incongruous! Poirot was continuing:       
  "The temperature on that day, messieurs, was 80° in the shade. Yet Mrs. Inglethorp ordered a fire! Why? Because she wished to destroy something, and could think of no other way. You will remember that, in consequence of the War economies practised at Styles, no waste paper was thrown away. There was therefore no means of destroying a thick document such as a will. The moment I heard of a fire being lighted in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, I leaped to the conclusion that it was to destroy some important document—possibly a will. So the discovery of the charred fragment in the grate was no surprise to me. I did not, of course, know at the time that the will in question had only been made that afternoon, and I will admit that, when I learnt that fact, I fell into a grievous error. I came to the conclusion that Mrs. Inglethorp's determination to destroy her will arose as a direct consequence of the quarrel she had that afternoon, and that therefore the quarrel took place after, and not before the making of the will.   30   
  "Here, as we know, I was wrong, and I was forced to abandon that idea. I faced the problem from a new standpoint. Now, at 4 o'clock, Dorcas overheard her mistress saying angrily: 'You need not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal between husband and wife will deter me.' I conjectured, and conjectured rightly, that these words were addressed, not to her husband, but to Mr. John Cavendish. At 5 o'clock, an hour later, she uses almost the same words, but the standpoint is different. She admits to Dorcas, 'I don't know what to do; scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing.' At 4 o'clock she has been angry, but completely mistress of herself. At 5 o'clock she is in violent distress, and speaks of having had 'a great shock.'       
  "Looking at the matter psychologically, I drew one deduction which I was convinced was correct. The second 'scandal' she spoke of was not the same as the first—and it concerned herself!       
  "Let us reconstruct. At 4 o'clock, Mrs. Inglethorp quarrels with her son, and threatens to denounce him to his wife—who, by the way, overheard the greater part of the conversation. At 4.30, Mrs. Inglethorp, in consequence of a conversation on the validity of wills, makes a will in favour of her husband, which the two gardeners witness. At 5 o'clock, Dorcas finds her mistress in a state of considerable agitation, with a slip of paper—'a letter,' Dorcas thinks—in her hand, and it is then that she orders the fire in her room to be lighted. Presumably, then, between 4.30 and 5 o'clock, something has occurred to occasion a complete revolution of feeling, since she is now as anxious to destroy the will, as she was before to make it. What was that something?       
  "As far as we know, she was quite alone during that half-hour. Nobody entered or left that boudoir. What then occasioned this sudden change of sentiment?       
  "One can only guess, but I believe my guess to be correct. Mrs. Inglethorp had no stamps in her desk. We know this, because later she asked Dorcas to bring her some. Now in the opposite corner of the room stood her husband's desk—locked. She was anxious to find some stamps, and, according to my theory, she tried her own keys in the desk. That one of them fitted I know. She therefore opened the desk, and in searching for the stamps she came across something else—that slip of paper which Dorcas saw in her hand, and which assuredly was never meant for Mrs. Inglethorp's eyes. On the other hand, Mrs. Cavendish believed that the slip of paper to which her mother-in-law clung so tenaciously was a written proof of her own husband's infidelity. She demanded it from Mrs. Inglethorp who assured her, quite truly, that it had nothing to do with that matter. Mrs. Cavendish did not believe her. She thought that Mrs. Inglethorp was shielding her stepson. Now Mrs. Cavendish is a very resolute woman, and, behind her mask of reserve, she was madly jealous of her husband. She determined to get hold of that paper at all costs, and in this resolution chance came to her aid. She happened to pick up the key of Mrs. Inglethorp's despatch-case, which had been lost that morning. She knew that her mother-in-law invariably kept all important papers in this particular case.   35   
  "Mrs. Cavendish, therefore, made her plans as only a woman driven desperate through jealousy could have done. Some time in the evening she unbolted the door leading into Mademoiselle Cynthia's room. Possibly she applied oil to the hinges, for I found that it opened quite noiselessly when I tried it. She put off her project until the early hours of the morning as being safer, since the servants were accustomed to hearing her move about her room at that time. She dressed completely in her land kit, and made her way quietly through Mademoiselle Cynthia's room into that of Mrs. Inglethorp."       
  He paused a moment, and Cynthia interrupted:       
  "But I should have woken up if anyone had come through my room?"       
  "Not if you were drugged, mademoiselle."       
  "Drugged?"   40   
  "Mais, oui!"       
  "You remember"—he addressed us collectively again—"that through all the tumult and noise next door Mademoiselle Cynthia slept. That admitted of two possibilities. Either her sleep was feigned—which I did not believe—or her unconsciousness was induced by artificial means.       
  "With this latter idea in my mind, I examined all the coffee-cups most carefully, remembering that it was Mrs. Cavendish who had brought Mademoiselle Cynthia her coffee the night before. I took a sample from each cup, and had them analysed—with no result. I had counted the cups carefully, in the event of one having been removed. Six persons had taken coffee, and six cups were duly found. I had to confess myself mistaken.       
  "Then I discovered that I had been guilty of a very grave oversight. Coffee had been brought in for seven persons, not six, for Dr. Bauerstein had been there that evening. This changed the face of the whole affair, for there was now one cup missing. The servants noticed nothing, since Annie, the housemaid, who took in the coffee, brought in seven cups, not knowing that Mr. Inglethorp never drank it, whereas Dorcas, who cleared them away the following morning, found six as usual—or strictly speaking she found five, the sixth being the one found broken in Mrs. Inglethorp's room.       
  "I was confident that the missing cup was that of Mademoiselle Cynthia. I had an additional reason for that belief in the fact that all the cups found contained sugar, which Mademoiselle Cynthia never took in her coffee. My attention was attracted by the story of Annie about some 'salt' on the tray of coco which she took every night to Mrs. Inglethorp's room. I accordingly secured a sample of that coco, and sent it to be analysed."   45   
  "But that had already been done by Dr. Bauerstein," said Lawrence quickly.       
  "Not exactly. The analyst was asked by him to report whether strychnine was, or was not, present. He did not have it tested, as I did, for a narcotic."       
  "For a narcotic?"       
  "Yes. Here is the analyst's report. Mrs. Cavendish administered a safe, but effectual, narcotic to both Mrs. Inglethorp and Mademoiselle Cynthia. And it is possible that she had a mauvais quart d'heure in consequence! Imagine her feelings when her mother-in-law is suddenly taken ill and dies, and immediately after she hears the word 'Poison'! She has believed that the sleeping draught she administered was perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the coco she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing.       
  "We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."   50   
  Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face.       
  "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now——"       
  "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me."       
  "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged coco, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay."       
  "Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it."   55   
  "What?" The cry of surprise was universal.       
  "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In exactly the same way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee on reaching her room the night before, and the treacherous table had played her the same trick.       
  "What happened next is mere guess work on my part, but I should say that Mrs. Inglethorp picked up the broken cup and placed it on the table by the bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind, she heated up her coco, and drank it off then and there. Now we are faced with a new problem. We know the coco contained no strychnine. The coffee was never drunk. Yet the strychnine must have been administered between seven and nine o'clock that evening. What third medium was there—a medium so suitable for disguising the taste of strychnine that it is extraordinary no one has thought of it?" Poirot looked round the room, and then answered himself impressively. "Her medicine!"       
  "Do you mean that the murderer introduced the strychnine into her tonic?" I cried.       
  "There was no need to introduce it. It was already there—in the mixture. The strychnine that killed Mrs. Inglethorp was the identical strychnine prescribed by Dr. Wilkins. To make that clear to you, I will read you an extract from a book on dispensing which I found in the Dispensary of the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster:   60   
  "The following prescription has become famous in text books:


Strychninae Sulph   gr. 1   
Potass Bromide   zvi   
Aqua ad   zviii   
Fiat Mistura   
This solution deposits in a few hours the greater part of the strychnine salt as an insoluble bromide in transparent crystals. A lady in England lost her life by taking a similar mixture: the precipitated strychnine collected at the bottom, and in taking the last dose she swallowed nearly all of it!

       
  "Now there was, of course, no bromide in Dr. Wilkins's prescription, but you will remember that I mentioned an empty box of bromide powders. One or two of those powders introduced into the full bottle of medicine would effectually precipitate the strychnine, as the book describes, and cause it to be taken in the last dose. You will learn later that the person who usually poured out Mrs. Inglethorp's medicine was always extremely careful not to shake the bottle, but to leave the sediment at the bottom of it undisturbed.       
  "Throughout the case, there have been evidences that the tragedy was intended to take place on Monday evening. On that day, Mrs. Inglethorp's bell wire was neatly cut, and on Monday evening Mademoiselle Cynthia was spending the night with friends, so that Mrs. Inglethorp would have been quite alone in the right wing, completely shut off from help of any kind, and would have died, in all probability, before medical aid could have been summoned. But in her hurry to be in time for the village entertainment Mrs. Inglethorp forgot to take her medicine, and the next day she lunched away from home, so that the last—and fatal—dose was actually taken twenty-four hours later than had been anticipated by the murderer; and it is owing to that delay that the final proof—the last link of the chain—is now in my hands."       
  Amid breathless excitement, he held out three thin strips of paper.       
  "A letter in the murderer's own handwriting, mes amis! Had it been a little clearer in its terms, it is possible that Mrs. Inglethorp, warned in time, would have escaped. As it was, she realized her danger, but not the manner of it."   65   
  In the deathly silence, Poirot pieced together the slips of paper and, clearing his throat, read:


'Dearest Evelyn:
  'You will be anxious at hearing nothing. It is all right—only it will be to-night instead of last night. You understand. There's a good time coming once the old woman is dead and out of the way. No one can possibly bring home the crime to me. That idea of yours about the bromides was a stroke of genius! But we must be very circumspect. A false step——'


   
  "Here, my friends, the letter breaks off. Doubtless the writer was interrupted; but there can be no question as to his identity. We all know this hand-writing and——"       
  A howl that was almost a scream broke the silence.       
  "You devil! How did you get it?"       
  A chair was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement on his part, and his assailant fell with a crash.   70   
  "Messieurs, mesdames," said Poirot, with a flourish, "let me introduce you to the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!"       

13
Poirot Explains   
"POIROT, you old villain," I said, "I've half a mind to strangle you! What do you mean by deceiving me as you have done?"       
  We were sitting in the library. Several hectic days lay behind us. In the room below, John and Mary were together once more, while Alfred Inglethorp and Miss Howard were in custody. Now at last, I had Poirot to myself, and could relieve my still burning curiosity.       
  Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said:       
  "I did not deceive you, mon ami. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself."       
  "Yes, but why?"      5   
  "Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that—enfin, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have—in your so expressive idiom—'smelt a rat'! And then, bon jour to our chances of catching him!"       
  "I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for."       
  "My friend," besought Poirot, "I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause."       
  "Well," I grumbled, a little mollified. "I still think you might have given me a hint."       
  "But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think now, did I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I not, on the contrary, tell you that he would almost certainly be acquitted?"   10   
  "Yes, but——"       
  "And did I not immediately afterwards speak of the difficulty of bringing the murderer to justice? Was it not plain to you that I was speaking of two entirely different persons?"       
  "No," I said, "it was not plain to me!"       
  "Then again," continued Poirot, "at the beginning, did I not repeat to you several times that I didn't want Mr. Inglethorp arrested now? That should have conveyed something to you."       
  "Do you mean to say you suspected him as long ago as that?"   15   
  "Yes. To begin with, whoever else might benefit by Mrs. Inglethorp's death, her husband would benefit the most. There was no getting away from that. When I went up to Styles with you that first day, I had no idea as to how the crime had been committed, but from what I knew of Mr. Inglethorp I fancied that it would be very hard to find anything to connect him with it. When I arrived at the château, I realized at once that it was Mrs. Inglethorp who had burnt the will; and there, by the way, you cannot complain, my friend, for I tried my best to force on you the significance of that bedroom fire in midsummer."       
  "Yes, yes," I said impatiently. "Go on."       
  "Well, my friend, as I say, my views as to Mr. Inglethorp's guilt were very much shaken. There was, in fact, so much evidence against him that I was inclined to believe that he had not done it."       
  "When did you change your mind?"       
  "When I found that the more efforts I made to clear him, the more efforts he made to get himself arrested. Then, when I discovered that Inglethorp had nothing to do with Mrs. Raikes, and that in fact it was John Cavendish who was interested in that quarter, I was quite sure."   20   
  "But why?"       
  "Simply this. If it had been Inglethorp who was carrying on an intrigue with Mrs. Raikes, his silence was perfectly comprehensible. But, when I discovered that it was known all over the village that it was John who was attracted by the farmer's pretty wife, his silence bore quite a different interpretation. It was nonsense to pretend that he was afraid of the scandal, as no possible scandal could attach to him. This attitude of his gave me furiously to think, and I was slowly forced to the conclusion that Alfred Inglethorp wanted to be arrested. Eh bien! from that moment, I was equally determined that he should not be arrested."       
  "Wait a moment. I don't see why he wished to be arrested?"       
  "Because, mon ami, it is the law of your country that a man once acquitted can never be tried again for the same offence. Aha! but it was clever—his idea! Assuredly, he is a man of method. See here, he knew that in his position he was bound to be suspected, so he conceived the exceedingly clever idea of preparing a lot of manufactured evidence against himself. He wished to be suspected. He wished to be arrested. He would then produce his irreproachable alibi—and, hey presto, he was safe for life!"       
  "But I still don't see how he managed to prove his alibi, and yet go to the chemist's shop?"   25   
  Poirot stared at me in surprise.       
  "Is it possible? My poor friend! You have not yet realized that it was Miss Howard who went to the chemist's shop?"       
  "Miss Howard?"       
  "But, certainly. Who else? It was most easy for her. She is of a good height, her voice is deep and manly; moreover, remember, she and Inglethorp are cousins, and there is a distinct resemblance between them, especially in their gait and bearing. It was simplicity itself. They are a clever pair!"       
  "I am still a little fogged as to how exactly the bromide business was done," I remarked.   30   
  "Bon! I will reconstruct for you as far as possible. I am inclined to think that Miss Howard was the master mind in that affair. You remember her once mentioning that her father was a doctor? Possibly she dispensed his medicines for him, or she may have taken the idea from one of the many books lying about when Mademoiselle Cynthia was studying for her exam. Anyway, she was familiar with the fact that the addition of a bromide to a mixture containing strychnine would cause the precipitation of the latter. Probably the idea came to her quite suddenly. Mrs. Inglethorp had a box of bromide powders, which she occasionally took at night. What could be easier quietly than to dissolve one or more of those powders in Mrs. Inglethorp's large sized bottle of medicine when it came from Coot's? The risk is practically nil. The tragedy will not take place until nearly a fortnight later. If anyone has seen either of them touching the medicine, they will have forgotten it by that time. Miss Howard will have engineered her quarrel, and departed from the house. The lapse of time, and her absence, will defeat all suspicion. Yes, it was a clever idea! If they had left it alone, it is possible the crime might never have been brought home to them. But they were not satisfied. They tried to be too clever—and that was their undoing."       
  Poirot puffed at his tiny cigarette, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.       
  "They arranged a plan to throw suspicion on John Cavendish, by buying strychnine at the village chemist's, and signing the register in his hand-writing.       
  "On Monday Mrs. Inglethorp will take the last dose of her medicine. On Monday, therefore, at six o'clock, Alfred Inglethorp arranges to be seen by a number of people at a spot far removed from the village. Miss Howard has previously made up a cock and bull story about him and Mrs. Raikes to account for his holding his tongue afterwards. At six o'clock, Miss Howard, disguised as Alfred Inglethorp, enters the chemist's shop, with her story about a dog, obtains the strychnine, and writes the name of Alfred Inglethorp in John's hand-writing, which she had previously studied carefully.       
  "But, as it will never do if John, too, can prove an alibi, she writes him an anonymous note—still copying his hand-writing—which takes him to a remote spot where it is exceedingly unlikely that anyone will see him.   35   
  "So far, all goes well. Miss Howard goes back to Middlingham. Alfred Inglethorp returns to Styles. There is nothing that can compromise him in any way, since it is Miss Howard who has the strychnine, which, after all, is only wanted as a blind to throw suspicion on John Cavendish.       
  "But now a hitch occurs. Mrs. Inglethorp does not take her medicine that night. The broken bell, Cynthia's absence—arranged by Inglethorp through his wife—all these are wasted. And then—he makes his slip.       
  "Mrs. Inglethorp is out, and he sits down to write to his accomplice, who, he fears, may be in a panic at the non-success of their plan. It is probable that Mrs. Inglethorp returned earlier than he expected. Caught in the act, and somewhat flurried he hastily shuts and locks his desk. He fears that if he remains in the room he may have to open it again, and that Mrs. Inglethorp might catch sight of the letter before he could snatch it up. So he goes out and walks in the woods, little dreaming that Mrs. Inglethorp will open his desk, and discover the incriminating document.       
  "But this, as we know, is what happened. Mrs. Inglethorp reads it, and becomes aware of the perfidy of her husband and Evelyn Howard, though, unfortunately, the sentence about the bromides conveys no warning to her mind. She knows that she is in danger—but is ignorant of where the danger lies. She decides to say nothing to her husband, but sits down and writes to her solicitor, asking him to come on the morrow, and she also determines to destroy immediately the will which she has just made. She keeps the fatal letter."       
  "It was to discover that letter, then, that her husband forced the lock of the despatch-case?"   40   
  "Yes, and from the enormous risk he ran we can see how fully he realized its importance. That letter excepted, there was absolutely nothing to connect him with the crime."       
  "There's only one thing I can't make out, why didn't he destroy it at once when he got hold of it?"       
  "Because he did not dare take the biggest risk of all—that of keeping it on his own person."       
  "I don't understand."       
  "Look at it from his point of view. I have discovered that there were only five short minutes in which he could have taken it—the five minutes immediately before our own arrival on the scene, for before that time Annie was brushing the stairs, and would have seen anyone who passed going to the right wing. Figure to yourself the scene! He enters the room, unlocking the door by means of one of the other doorkeys—they were all much alike. He hurries to the despatch-case—it is locked, and the keys are nowhere to be seen. That is a terrible blow to him, for it means that his presence in the room cannot be concealed as he had hoped. But he sees clearly that everything must be risked for the sake of that damning piece of evidence. Quickly, he forces the lock with a penknife, and turns over the papers until he finds what he is looking for.   45   
  "But now a fresh dilemma arises: he dare not keep that piece of paper on him. He may be seen leaving the room—he may be searched. If the paper is found on him, it is certain doom. Probably, at this minute, too, he hears the sounds below of Mr. Wells and John leaving the boudoir. He must act quickly. Where can he hide this terrible slip of paper? The contents of the wastepaper-basket are kept and in any case, are sure to be examined. There are no means of destroying it; and he dare not keep it. He looks round, and he sees—what do you think mon ami?"       
  I shook my head.       
  "In a moment, he has torn the letter into long thin strips, and rolling them up into spills he thrusts them hurriedly in amongst the other spills in the vase on the mantelpiece."       
  I uttered an exclamation.       
  "No one would think of looking there," Poirot continued. "And he will be able, at his leisure, to come back and destroy this solitary piece of evidence against him."   50   
  "Then, all the time, it was in the spill vase in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom, under our very noses?" I cried.       
  Poirot nodded.       
  "Yes, my friend. That is where I discovered my 'last link,' and I owe that very fortunate discovery to you."       
  "To me?"       
  "Yes. Do you remember telling me that my hand shook as I was straightening the ornaments on the mantelpiece?"   55   
  "Yes, but I don't see——"       
  "No, but I saw. Do you know, my friend, I remembered that earlier in the morning, when we had been there together, I had straightened all the objects on the mantelpiece. And, if they were already straightened, there would be no need to straighten them again, unless, in the meantime, some one else had touched them."       
  "Dear me," I murmured, "so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?"       
  "Yes, and it was a race for time."       
  "But I still can't understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to leave it there when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it."   60   
  "Ah, but he had no opportunity. I saw to that."       
  "You?"       
  "Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my confidence on the subject?"       
  "Yes."       
  "Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then if Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."   65   
  "But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."       
  "Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice."       
  "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?"       
  "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp."       
  "Why, what was there to lie about?"   70   
  "You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?"       
  "Yes—more or less."       
  "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look at the date at the top of the letter you will notice that 'July 17th' is quite different in this respect. Do you see what I mean?"       
  "No," I confessed, "I don't."       
  "You do not see that that letter was not written on the 17th, but on the 7th—the day after Miss Howard's departure? The '1' was written in before the '7' to turn it into the '17th'."   75   
  "But why?"       
  "That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does Miss Howard suppress the letter written on the 17th, and produce this faked one instead? Because she did not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again? And at once a suspicion dawned in my mind. You will remember my saying that it was wise to beware of people who were not telling you the truth."       
  "And yet," I cried indignantly, "after that, you gave me two reasons why Miss Howard could not have committed the crime!"       
  "And very good reasons too," replied Poirot. "For a long time they were a stumbling-block to me until I remembered a very significant fact: that she and Alfred Inglethorp were cousins. She could not have committed the crime single-handed, but the reasons against that did not debar her from being an accomplice. And, then, there was that rather over-vehement hatred of hers! It concealed a very opposite emotion. There was, undoubtedly, a tie of passion between them long before he came to Styles. They had already arranged their infamous plot—that he should marry this rich, but rather foolish old lady, induce her to make a will leaving her money to him, and then gain their ends by a very cleverly conceived crime. If all had gone as they planned, they would probably have left England, and lived together on their poor victim's money.       
  "They are a very astute and unscrupulous pair. While suspicion was to be directed against him, she would be making quiet preparations for a very different dénouement. She arrives from Middlingham with all the compromising items in her possession. No suspicion attaches to her. No notice is paid to her coming and going in the house. She hides the strychnine and glasses in John's room. She puts the beard in the attic. She will see to it that sooner or later they are duly discovered."   80   
  "I don't quite see why they tried to fix the blame on John," I remarked. "It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence."       
  "Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against him arose out of pure accident. It must, in fact, have been distinctly annoying to the pair of schemers."       
  "His manner was unfortunate," I observed thoughtfully.       
  "Yes. You realize, of course, what was at the back of that?"       
  "No."   85   
  "You did not understand that he believed Mademoiselle Cynthia guilty of the crime?"       
  "No," I exclaimed, astonished. "Impossible!"       
  "Not at all. I myself nearly had the same idea. It was in my mind when I asked Mr. Wells that first question about the will. Then there were the bromide powders which she had made up, and her clever male impersonations, as Dorcas recounted them to us. There was really more evidence against her than anyone else."       
  "You are joking, Poirot!"       
  "No. Shall I tell you what made Monsieur Lawrence turn so pale when he first entered his mother's room on the fatal night? It was because, whilst his mother lay there, obviously poisoned, he saw, over your shoulder, that the door into Mademoiselle Cynthia's room was unbolted."   90   
  "But he declared that he saw it bolted?" I cried.       
  "Exactly," said Poirot dryly. "And that was just what confirmed my suspicion that it was not. He was shielding Mademoiselle Cynthia."       
  "But why should he shield her?"       
  "Because he is in love with her."       
  I laughed.   95   
  "There, Poirot, you are quite wrong! I happen to know for a fact that, far from being in love with her, he positively dislikes her."       
  "Who told you that, mon ami?"       
  "Cynthia herself."       
  "La pauvre petite! And she was concerned?"       
  "She said that she did not mind at all."   100   
  "Then she certainly did mind very much," remarked Poirot. "They are like that—les femmes!"       
  "What you say about Lawrence is a great surprise to me," I said.       
  "But why? It was most obvious. Did not Monsieur Lawrence make the sour face every time Mademoiselle Cynthia spoke and laughed with his brother? He had taken it into his long head that Mademoiselle Cynthia was in love with Monsieur John. When he entered his mother's room, and saw her obviously poisoned, he jumped to the conclusion that Mademoiselle Cynthia knew something about the matter. He was nearly driven desperate. First he crushed the coffee-cup to powder under his feet, remembering that she had gone up with his mother the night before, and he determined that there should be no chance of testing its contents. Thenceforward, he strenuously, and quite uselessly, upheld the theory of 'Death from natural causes.'"       
  "And what about the 'extra coffee-cup?'"       
  "I was fairly certain that it was Mrs. Cavendish who had hidden it, but I had to make sure. Monsieur Lawrence did not know at all what I meant; but, on reflection, he came to the conclusion that if he could find an extra coffee-cup anywhere his lady love would be cleared of suspicion. And he was perfectly right."   105   
  "One thing more. What did Mrs. Inglethorp mean by her dying words?"       
  "They were, of course, an accusation against her husband."       
  "Dear me, Poirot," I said with a sigh, "I think you have explained everything. I am glad it has all ended so happily. Even John and his wife are reconciled."       
  "Thanks to me."       
  "How do you mean—thanks to you?"   110   
  "My dear friend, do you not realize that it was simply and solely the trial which has brought them together again? That John Cavendish still loved his wife, I was convinced. Also, that she was equally in love with him. But they had drifted very far apart. It all arose from a misunderstanding. She married him without love. He knew it. He is a sensitive man in his way, he would not force himself upon her if she did not want him. And, as he withdrew, her love awoke. But they are both unusually proud, and their pride held them inexorably apart. He drifted into an entanglement with Mrs. Raikes, and she deliberately cultivated the friendship of Dr. Bauerstein. Do you remember the day of John Cavendish's arrest, when you found me deliberating over a big decision?"       
  "Yes, I quite understood your distress."       
  "Pardon me, mon ami, but you did not understand it in the least. I was trying to decide whether or not I would clear John Cavendish at once. I could have cleared him—though it might have meant a failure to convict the real criminals. They were entirely in the dark as to my real attitude up to the very last moment—which partly accounts for my success."       
  "Do you mean that you could have saved John Cavendish from being brought to trial?"       
  "Yes, my friend. But I eventually decided in favour of 'a woman's happiness.' Nothing but the great danger through which they have passed could have brought these two proud souls together again."   115   
  I looked at Poirot in silent amazement. The colossal cheek of the little man! Who on earth but Poirot would have thought of a trial for murder as a restorer of conjugal happiness!       
  "I perceive your thoughts, mon ami," said Poirot, smiling at me. "No one but Hercule Poirot would have attempted such a thing! And you are wrong in condemning it. The happiness of one man and one woman is the greatest thing in all the world."       
  His words took me back to earlier events. I remembered Mary as she lay white and exhausted on the sofa, listening, listening. There had come the sound of the bell below. She had started up. Poirot had opened the door, and meeting her agonized eyes had nodded gently. "Yes, madame," he said. "I have brought him back to you." He had stood aside, and as I went out I had seen the look in Mary's eyes, as John Cavendish had caught his wife in his arms.       
  "Perhaps you are right, Poirot," I said gently. "Yes, it is the greatest thing in the world."       
  Suddenly, there was a tap at the door, and Cynthia peeped in.   120   
  "I—I—only——"       
  "Come in," I said, springing up.       
  She came in, but did not sit down.       
  "I—only wanted to tell you something——"       
  "Yes?"   125   
  Cynthia fidgeted with a little tassel for some moments, then, suddenly exclaiming: "You dears!," kissed first me and then Poirot, and rushed out of the room again.       
  "What on earth does this mean?" I asked, surprised.       
  It was very nice to be kissed by Cynthia, but the publicity of the salute rather impaired the pleasure.       
  "It means that she has discovered Monsieur Lawrence does not dislike her as much as she thought," replied Poirot philosophically.       
  "But——"   130   
  "Here he is."       
  Lawrence at that moment passed the door.       
  "Eh! Monsieur Lawrence," called Poirot. "We must congratulate you, is it not so?"       
  Lawrence blushed, and then smiled awkwardly. A man in love is a sorry spectacle. Now Cynthia had looked charming.       
  I sighed.   135   
  "What is it, mon ami?"       
  "Nothing," I said sadly. "They are two delightful women!"       
  "And neither of them is for you?" finished Poirot. "Never mind. Console yourself, my friend. We may hunt together again, who knows? And then——"       
   
THE END

THE SECRET
ADVERSARY

AGATHA CHRISTIE


TO ALL THOSE WHO LEAD
MONOTONOUS LIVES
IN THE HOPE THAT THEY MAY EXPERIENCE
AT SECOND HAND
THE DELIGHTS AND DANGERS OF
ADVENTURE



CONTENTS

Prologue
I      The Young Adventurers, Ltd.
II     Mr. Whittington's Offer
III    A Set Back
IV     Who Is Jane Finn?
V      Mr. Julius P. Hersheimmer
VI     A Plan of Campaign
VII    The House in Soho
VIII   The Adventures of Tommy
IX     Tuppence Enters Domestic Service
X      Enter Sir James Peel Edgerton
XI     Julius Tells a Story
XII    A Friend in Need
XIII   The Vigil
XIV    A Consultation
XV     Tuppence Receives a Proposal
XVI    Further Adventures of Tommy
XVII   Annette
XVIII  The Telegram
XIX    Jane Finn
XX     Too Late
XXI    Tommy Makes a Discovery
XXII   In Downing Street
XXIII  A Race Against Time
XXIV   Julius Takes a Hand
XXV    Jane's Story
XXVI   Mr. Brown
XXVII  A Supper Party at the Savoy
XXVIII And After

PROLOGUE

IT was 2 p.m. on the afternoon of May 7, 1915.  The Lusitania had
been struck by two torpedoes in succession and was sinking
rapidly, while the boats were being launched with all possible
speed. The women and children were being lined up awaiting their
turn. Some still clung desperately to husbands and fathers;
others clutched their children closely to their breasts. One girl
stood alone, slightly apart from the rest. She was quite young,
not more than eighteen.  She did not seem afraid, and her grave,
steadfast eyes looked straight ahead.

"I beg your pardon."

A man's voice beside her made her start and turn.  She had
noticed the speaker more than once amongst the first-class
passengers. There had been a hint of mystery about him which had
appealed to her imagination.  He spoke to no one. If anyone spoke
to him he was quick to rebuff the overture. Also he had a nervous
way of looking over his shoulder with a swift, suspicious glance.

She noticed now that he was greatly agitated.  There were beads
of perspiration on his brow.  He was evidently in a state of
overmastering fear. And yet he did not strike her as the kind of
man who would be afraid to meet death!

"Yes?"  Her grave eyes met his inquiringly.

He stood looking at her with a kind of desperate irresolution.

"It must be!" he muttered to himself.  "Yes--it is the only way."
Then aloud he said abruptly:  "You are an American?"

"Yes."

"A patriotic one?"

The girl flushed.

"I guess you've no right to ask such a thing!  Of course I am!"

"Don't be offended.  You wouldn't be if you knew how much there
was at stake. But I've got to trust some one--and it must be a
woman."

"Why?"

"Because of 'women and children first.'  " He looked round and
lowered his voice.  "I'm carrying papers--vitally important
papers. They may make all the difference to the Allies in the
war. You understand?  These papers have GOT to be saved! They've
more chance with you than with me.  Will you take them?"

The girl held out her hand.

"Wait--I must warn you.  There may be a risk--if I've been
followed. I don't think I have, but one never knows.  If so,
there will be danger. Have you the nerve to go through with it?"

The girl smiled.

"I'll go through with it all right.  And I'm real proud to be
chosen! What am I to do with them afterwards?"

"Watch the newspapers!  I'll advertise in the personal column of
the Times, beginning 'Shipmate.' At the end of three days if
there's nothing--well, you'll know I'm down and out. Then take
the packet to the American Embassy, and deliver it into the
Ambassador's own hands.  Is that clear?"

"Quite clear."

"Then be ready--I'm going to say good-bye." He took her hand in
his. "Good-bye. Good luck to you," he said in a louder tone.

Her hand closed on the oilskin packet that had lain in his palm.

The Lusitania settled with a more decided list to starboard. In
answer to a quick command, the girl went forward to take her
place in the boat.

CHAPTER I

THE YOUNG ADVENTURERS, LTD.

"TOMMY, old thing!"

"Tuppence, old bean!"

The two young people greeted each other affectionately, and
momentarily blocked the Dover Street Tube exit in doing so. The
adjective "old" was misleading.  Their united ages would
certainly not have totalled forty-five.

"Not seen you for simply centuries," continued the young man.
"Where are you off to?  Come and chew a bun with me. We're
getting a bit unpopular here--blocking the gangway as it were.
Let's get out of it."

The girl assenting, they started walking down Dover Street
towards Piccadilly.

"Now then," said Tommy, "where shall we go?"

The very faint anxiety which underlay his tone did not escape the
astute ears of Miss Prudence Cowley, known to her intimate
friends for some mysterious reason as "Tuppence."  She pounced at
once.

"Tommy, you're stony!"

"Not a bit of it," declared Tommy unconvincingly. "Rolling in
cash."

"You always were a shocking liar," said Tuppence severely,
"though you did once persuade Sister Greenbank that the doctor
had ordered you beer as a tonic, but forgotten to write it on the
chart. Do you remember?"

Tommy chuckled.

"I should think I did!  Wasn't the old cat in a rage when she
found out? Not that she was a bad sort really, old Mother
Greenbank!  Good old hospital--demobbed like everything else, I
suppose?"

Tuppence sighed.

"Yes.  You too?"

Tommy nodded.

"Two months ago."

"Gratuity?" hinted Tuppence.

"Spent."

"Oh, Tommy!"

"No, old thing, not in riotous dissipation.  No such luck! The
cost of living--ordinary plain, or garden living nowadays is, I
assure you, if you do not know----"

"My dear child," interrupted Tuppence, "there is nothing I do NOT
know about the cost of living.  Here we are at Lyons', and we
will each of us pay for our own.  That's it!" And Tuppence led
the way upstairs.

The place was full, and they wandered about looking for a table,
catching odds and ends of conversation as they did so.

"And--do you know, she sat down and CRIED when I told her she
couldn't have the flat after all."  "It was simply a BARGAIN, my
dear! Just like the one Mabel Lewis brought from Paris----"

"Funny scraps one does overhear," murmured Tommy.  "I passed two
Johnnies in the street to-day talking about some one called Jane
Finn.  Did you ever hear such a name?"

But at that moment two elderly ladies rose and collected parcels,
and Tuppence deftly ensconced herself in one of the vacant seats.

Tommy ordered tea and buns.  Tuppence ordered tea and buttered
toast.

"And mind the tea comes in separate teapots," she added severely.

Tommy sat down opposite her.  His bared head revealed a shock of
exquisitely slicked-back red hair.  His face was pleasantly
ugly--nondescript, yet unmistakably the face of a gentleman and a
sportsman. His brown suit was well cut, but perilously near the
end of its tether.

They were an essentially modern-looking couple as they sat there.
Tuppence had no claim to beauty, but there was character and
charm in the elfin lines of her little face, with its determined
chin and large, wide-apart grey eyes that looked mistily out from
under straight, black brows.  She wore a small bright green toque
over her black bobbed hair, and her extremely short and rather
shabby skirt revealed a pair of uncommonly dainty ankles. Her
appearance presented a valiant attempt at smartness.

The tea came at last, and Tuppence, rousing herself from a fit of
meditation, poured it out.

"Now then," said Tommy, taking a large bite of bun, "let's get
up-to-date. Remember, I haven't seen you since that time in
hospital in 1916."

"Very well."  Tuppence helped herself liberally to buttered
toast. "Abridged biography of Miss Prudence Cowley, fifth
daughter of Archdeacon Cowley of Little Missendell, Suffolk.
Miss Cowley left the delights (and drudgeries) of her home life
early in the war and came up to London, where she entered an
officers' hospital. First month:  Washed up six hundred and
forty-eight plates every day. Second month:  Promoted to drying
aforesaid plates. Third month:  Promoted to peeling potatoes.
Fourth month: Promoted to cutting bread and butter.  Fifth month:
Promoted one floor up to duties of wardmaid with mop and pail.
Sixth month:  Promoted to waiting at table.  Seventh month:
Pleasing appearance and nice manners so striking that am promoted
to waiting on the Sisters!  Eighth month: Slight check in career.
Sister Bond ate Sister Westhaven's egg! Grand row!  Wardmaid
clearly to blame!  Inattention in such important matters cannot
be too highly censured. Mop and pail again!  How are the mighty
fallen!  Ninth month: Promoted to sweeping out wards, where I
found a friend of my childhood in Lieutenant Thomas Beresford
(bow, Tommy!), whom I had not seen for five long years.  The
meeting was affecting! Tenth month:  Reproved by matron for
visiting the pictures in company with one of the patients,
namely:  the aforementioned Lieutenant Thomas Beresford.
Eleventh and twelfth months: Parlourmaid duties resumed with
entire success.  At the end of the year left hospital in a blaze
of glory.  After that, the talented Miss Cowley drove
successively a trade delivery van, a motor-lorry and a general!"
The last was the pleasantest. He was quite a young general!"

"What brighter was that?" inquired Tommy.  "Perfectly sickening
the way those brass hats drove from the War Office to the Savoy,
and from the Savoy to the War Office!"

"I've forgotten his name now," confessed Tuppence.  "To resume,
that was in a way the apex of my career.  I next entered a
Government office. We had several very enjoyable tea parties.  I
had intended to become a land girl, a postwoman, and a bus
conductress by way of rounding off my career--but the Armistice
intervened!  I clung to the office with the true limpet touch for
many long months, but, alas, I was combed out at last. Since then
I've been looking for a job.  Now then--your turn."

"There's not so much promotion in mine," said Tommy regretfully,
"and a great deal less variety.  I went out to France again, as
you know.  Then they sent me to Mesopotamia, and I got wounded
for the second time, and went into hospital out there. Then I got
stuck in Egypt till the Armistice happened, kicked my heels there
some time longer, and, as I told you, finally got demobbed. And,
for ten long, weary months I've been job hunting!  There aren't
any jobs!  And, if there were, they wouldn't give 'em to me. What
good am I?  What do I know about business?  Nothing."

Tuppence nodded gloomily.

"What about the colonies?" she suggested.

Tommy shook his head.

"I shouldn't like the colonies--and I'm perfectly certain they
wouldn't like me!"

"Rich relations?"

Again Tommy shook his head.

"Oh, Tommy, not even a great-aunt?"

"I've got an old uncle who's more or less rolling, but he's no
good."

"Why not?"

"Wanted to adopt me once.  I refused."

"I think I remember hearing about it," said Tuppence slowly. "You
refused because of your mother----"

Tommy flushed.

"Yes, it would have been a bit rough on the mater.  As you know,
I was all she had.  Old boy hated her--wanted to get me away from
her. Just a bit of spite."

"Your mother's dead, isn't she?" said Tuppence gently.

Tommy nodded.

Tuppence's large grey eyes looked misty.

"You're a good sort, Tommy.  I always knew it."

"Rot!" said Tommy hastily.  "Well, that's my position. I'm just
about desperate."

"So am I!  I've hung out as long as I could.  I've touted round.
I've answered advertisements.  I've tried every mortal blessed
thing. I've screwed and saved and pinched!  But it's no good. I
shall have to go home!"

"Don't you want to?"

"Of course I don't want to!  What's the good of being
sentimental? Father's a dear--I'm awfully fond of him--but you've
no idea how I worry him!  He has that delightful early Victorian
view that short skirts and smoking are immoral. You can imagine
what a thorn in the flesh I am to him! He just heaved a sigh of
relief when the war took me off. You see, there are seven of us
at home.  It's awful!  All housework and mothers' meetings!  I
have always been the changeling. I don't want to go back,
but--oh, Tommy, what else is there to do?"

Tommy shook his head sadly.  There was a silence, and then
Tuppence burst out:

"Money, money, money!  I think about money morning, noon and
night! I dare say it's mercenary of me, but there it is!"

"Same here," agreed Tommy with feeling.

"I've thought over every imaginable way of getting it too,"
continued Tuppence.  "There are only three!  To be left it, to
marry it, or to make it.  First is ruled out. I haven't got any
rich elderly relatives.  Any relatives I have are in homes for
decayed gentlewomen!  I always help old ladies over crossings,
and pick up parcels for old gentlemen, in case they should turn
out to be eccentric millionaires. But not one of them has ever
asked me my name--and quite a lot never said 'Thank you.'  "

There was a pause.

"Of course," resumed Tuppence, "marriage is my best chance. I
made up my mind to marry money when I was quite young. Any
thinking girl would!  I'm not sentimental, you know." She paused.
"Come now, you can't say I'm sentimental," she added sharply.

"Certainly not," agreed Tommy hastily.  "No one would ever think
of sentiment in connection with you."

"That's not very polite," replied Tuppence.  "But I dare say you
mean it all right.  Well, there it is! I'm ready and willing--but
I never meet any rich men! All the boys I know are about as hard
up as I am."

"What about the general?" inquired Tommy.

"I fancy he keeps a bicycle shop in time of peace," explained
Tuppence.  "No, there it is!  Now you could marry a rich girl."

"I'm like you.  I don't know any."

"That doesn't matter.  You can always get to know one. Now, if I
see a man in a fur coat come out of the Ritz I can't rush up to
him and say:  'Look here, you're rich. I'd like to know you.'  "

"Do you suggest that I should do that to a similarly garbed
female?"

"Don't be silly.  You tread on her foot, or pick up her
handkerchief, or something like that.  If she thinks you want to
know her she's flattered, and will manage it for you somehow."

"You overrate my manly charms," murmured Tommy.

"On the other hand," proceeded Tuppence, "my millionaire would
probably run for his life!  No--marriage is fraught with
difficulties.  Remains--to MAKE money!"

"We've tried that, and failed," Tommy reminded her.

"We've tried all the orthodox ways, yes.  But suppose we try the
unorthodox. Tommy, let's be adventurers!"

"Certainly," replied Tommy cheerfully.  "How do we begin?"

"That's the difficulty.  If we could make ourselves known, people
might hire us to commit crimes for them."

"Delightful," commented Tommy.  "Especially coming from a
clergyman's daughter!"

"The moral guilt," Tuppence pointed out, "would be theirs--not
mine. You must admit that there's a difference between stealing a
diamond necklace for yourself and being hired to steal it."

"There wouldn't be the least difference if you were caught!"

"Perhaps not.  But I shouldn't be caught.  I'm so clever."

"Modesty always was your besetting sin," remarked Tommy.

"Don't rag.  Look here, Tommy, shall we really?  Shall we form a
business partnership?"

"Form a company for the stealing of diamond necklaces?"

"That was only an illustration.  Let's have a--what do you call
it in book-keeping?"

"Don't know.  Never did any."

"I have--but I always got mixed up, and used to put credit
entries on the debit side, and vice versa--so they fired me out.
Oh, I know--a joint venture!  It struck me as such a romantic
phrase to come across in the middle of musty old figures.  It's
got an Elizabethan flavour about it--makes one think of galleons
and doubloons. A joint venture!"

"Trading under the name of the Young Adventurers, Ltd.? Is that
your idea, Tuppence?"

"It's all very well to laugh, but I feel there might be something
in it."

"How do you propose to get in touch with your would-be
employers?"

"Advertisement," replied Tuppence promptly.  "Have you got a bit
of paper and a pencil?  Men usually seem to have. Just like we
have hairpins and powder-puffs."

Tommy handed over a rather shabby green notebook, and Tuppence
began writing busily.

"Shall we begin:  'Young officer, twice wounded in the war--' "

"Certainly not."

"Oh, very well, my dear boy.  But I can assure you that that sort
of thing might touch the heart of an elderly spinster, and she
might adopt you, and then there would be no need for you to be a
young adventurer at all."

"I don't want to be adopted."

"I forgot you had a prejudice against it.  I was only ragging
you! The papers are full up to the brim with that type of thing.
Now listen--how's this?  'Two young adventurers for hire. Willing
to do anything, go anywhere.  Pay must be good.' (We might as
well make that clear from the start.) Then we might add: 'No
reasonable offer refused'--like flats and furniture."

"I should think any offer we get in answer to that would be a
pretty UNreasonable one!"

"Tommy!  You're a genius!  That's ever so much more chic. 'No
unreasonable offer refused--if pay is good.'  How's that?"

"I shouldn't mention pay again.  It looks rather eager."

"It couldn't look as eager as I feel!  But perhaps you are right.
Now I'll read it straight through.  'Two young adventurers for
hire. Willing to do anything, go anywhere.  Pay must be good. No
unreasonable offer refused.'  How would that strike you if you
read it?"

"It would strike me as either being a hoax, or else written by a
lunatic."

"It's not half so insane as a thing I read this morning beginning
'Petunia' and signed 'Best Boy.' " She tore out the leaf and
handed it to Tommy.  "There you are.  Times, I think. Reply to
Box so-and-so. I expect it will be about five shillings. Here's
half a crown for my share."

Tommy was holding the paper thoughtfully.  His faced burned a
deeper red.

"Shall we really try it?" he said at last.  "Shall we, Tuppence?
Just for the fun of the thing?"

"Tommy, you're a sport!  I knew you would be!  Let's drink to
success." She poured some cold dregs of tea into the two cups.

"Here's to our joint venture, and may it prosper!"

"The Young Adventurers, Ltd.!" responded Tommy.

They put down the cups and laughed rather uncertainly.  Tuppence
rose.

"I must return to my palatial suite at the hostel."

"Perhaps it is time I strolled round to the Ritz," agreed Tommy
with a grin.  "Where shall we meet?  And when?"

"Twelve o'clock to-morrow. Piccadilly Tube station. Will that
suit you?"

"My time is my own," replied Mr. Beresford magnificently.

"So long, then."

"Good-bye, old thing."

The two young people went off in opposite directions. Tuppence's
hostel was situated in what was charitably called Southern
Belgravia.  For reasons of economy she did not take a bus.

She was half-way across St. James's Park, when a man's voice
behind her made her start.

"Excuse me," it said.  "But may I speak to you for a moment?"

CHAPTER II

MR.  WHITTINGTON'S OFFER

TUPPENCE turned sharply, but the words hovering on the tip of her
tongue remained unspoken, for the man's appearance and manner did
not bear out her first and most natural assumption.  She
hesitated. As if he read her thoughts, the man said quickly:

"I can assure you I mean no disrespect."

Tuppence believed him.  Although she disliked and distrusted him
instinctively, she was inclined to acquit him of the particular
motive which she had at first attributed to him.  She looked him
up and down.  He was a big man, clean shaven, with a heavy jowl.
His eyes were small and cunning, and shifted their glance under
her direct gaze.

"Well, what is it?" she asked.

The man smiled.

"I happened to overhear part of your conversation with the young
gentleman in Lyons'."

"Well--what of it?"

"Nothing--except that I think I may be of some use to you."

Another inference forced itself into Tuppence's mind:

"You followed me here?"

"I took that liberty."

"And in what way do you think you could be of use to me?"

The man took a card from his pocket and handed it to her with a
bow.

Tuppence took it and scrutinized it carefully.  It bore the
inscription, "Mr. Edward Whittington."  Below the name were the
words "Esthonia Glassware Co.," and the address of a city office.
Mr. Whittington spoke again:

"If you will call upon me to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock, I
will lay the details of my proposition before you."

"At eleven o'clock?" said Tuppence doubtfully.

"At eleven o'clock."

Tuppence made up her mind.

"Very well.  I'll be there."

"Thank you.  Good evening."

He raised his hat with a flourish, and walked away. Tuppence
remained for some minutes gazing after him. Then she gave a
curious movement of her shoulders, rather as a terrier shakes
himself.

"The adventures have begun," she murmured to herself. "What does
he want me to do, I wonder?  There's something about you, Mr.
Whittington, that I don't like at all. But, on the other hand,
I'm not the least bit afraid of you. And as I've said before, and
shall doubtless say again, little Tuppence can look after
herself, thank you!"

And with a short, sharp nod of her head she walked briskly
onward. As a result of further meditations, however, she turned
aside from the direct route and entered a post office. There she
pondered for some moments, a telegraph form in her hand. The
thought of a possible five shillings spent unnecessarily spurred
her to action, and she decided to risk the waste of ninepence.

Disdaining the spiky pen and thick, black treacle which a
beneficent Government had provided, Tuppence drew out Tommy's
pencil which she had retained and wrote rapidly:  "Don't put in
advertisement. Will explain to-morrow." She addressed it to Tommy
at his club, from which in one short month he would have to
resign, unless a kindly fortune permitted him to renew his
subscription.

"It may catch him," she murmured.  "Anyway, it's worth trying."

After handing it over the counter she set out briskly for home,
stopping at a baker's to buy three penny-worth of new buns.

Later, in her tiny cubicle at the top of the house she munched
buns and reflected on the future.  What was the Esthonia
Glassware Co., and what earthly need could it have for her
services? A pleasurable thrill of excitement made Tuppence
tingle.  At any rate, the country vicarage had retreated into the
background again. The morrow held possibilities.

It was a long time before Tuppence went to sleep that night, and,
when at length she did, she dreamed that Mr. Whittington had set
her to washing up a pile of Esthonia Glassware, which bore an
unaccountable resemblance to hospital plates!

It wanted some five minutes to eleven when Tuppence reached the
block of buildings in which the offices of the Esthonia Glassware
Co. were situated.  To arrive before the time would look
over-eager. So Tuppence decided to walk to the end of the street
and back again. She did so.  On the stroke of eleven she plunged
into the recesses of the building.  The Esthonia Glassware Co.
was on the top floor. There was a lift, but Tuppence chose to
walk up.

Slightly out of breath, she came to a halt outside the ground
glass door with the legend painted across it "Esthonia Glassware
Co."

Tuppence knocked.  In response to a voice from within, she turned
the handle and walked into a small rather dirty outer office.

A middle-aged clerk got down from a high stool at a desk near the
window and came towards her inquiringly.

"I have an appointment with Mr. Whittington," said Tuppence.

"Will you come this way, please."  He crossed to a partition door
with "Private" on it, knocked, then opened the door and stood
aside to let her pass in.

Mr. Whittington was seated behind a large desk covered with
papers. Tuppence felt her previous judgment confirmed.  There was
something wrong about Mr. Whittington.  The combination of his
sleek prosperity and his shifty eye was not attractive.

He looked up and nodded.

"So you've turned up all right?  That's good.  Sit down, will
you?"

Tuppence sat down on the chair facing him.  She looked
particularly small and demure this morning.  She sat there meekly
with downcast eyes whilst Mr. Whittington sorted and rustled
amongst his papers. Finally he pushed them away, and leaned over
the desk.

"Now, my dear young lady, let us come to business."  His large
face broadened into a smile.  "You want work?  Well, I have work
to offer you. What should you say now to L100 down, and all
expenses paid?" Mr. Whittington leaned back in his chair, and
thrust his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat.

Tuppence eyed him warily.

"And the nature of the work?" she demanded.

"Nominal--purely nominal.  A pleasant trip, that is all."

"Where to?"

Mr. Whittington smiled again.

"Paris."

"Oh!" said Tuppence thoughtfully.  To herself she said: "Of
course, if father heard that he would have a fit! But somehow I
don't see Mr. Whittington in the role of the gay deceiver."

"Yes," continued Whittington.  "What could be more delightful? To
put the clock back a few years--a very few, I am sure--and
re-enter one of those charming pensionnats de jeunes filles with
which Paris abounds----"

Tuppence interrupted him.

"A pensionnat?"

"Exactly.  Madame Colombier's in the Avenue de Neuilly."

Tuppence knew the name well.  Nothing could have been more
select. She had had several American friends there.  She was more
than ever puzzled.

"You want me to go to Madame Colombier's? For how long?"

"That depends.  Possibly three months."

"And that is all?  There are no other conditions?"

"None whatever.  You would, of course, go in the character of my
ward, and you would hold no communication with your friends. I
should have to request absolute secrecy for the time being. By
the way, you are English, are you not?"

"Yes."

"Yet you speak with a slight American accent?"

"My great pal in hospital was a little American girl. I dare say
I picked it up from her.  I can soon get out of it again."

"On the contrary, it might be simpler for you to pass as an
American.  Details about your past life in England might be more
difficult to sustain.  Yes, I think that would be decidedly
better.  Then----"

"One moment, Mr. Whittington!  You seem to be taking my consent
for granted."

Whittington looked surprised.

"Surely you are not thinking of refusing?  I can assure you that
Madame Colombier's is a most high-class and orthodox
establishment. And the terms are most liberal."

"Exactly," said Tuppence.  "That's just it.  The terms are almost
too liberal, Mr. Whittington.  I cannot see any way in which I
can be worth that amount of money to you."

"No?" said Whittington softly.  "Well, I will tell you. I could
doubtless obtain some one else for very much less. What I am
willing to pay for is a young lady with sufficient intelligence
and presence of mind to sustain her part well, and also one who
will have sufficient discretion not to ask too many questions."

Tuppence smiled a little.  She felt that Whittington had scored.

"There's another thing.  So far there has been no mention of Mr.
Beresford.  Where does he come in?"

"Mr. Beresford?"

"My partner," said Tuppence with dignity.  "You saw us together
yesterday."

"Ah, yes.  But I'm afraid we shan't require his services."

"Then it's off!"  Tuppence rose.  "It's both or neither.
Sorry--but that's how it is.  Good morning, Mr. Whittington."

"Wait a minute.  Let us see if something can't be managed. Sit
down again, Miss----" He paused interrogatively.

Tuppence's conscience gave her a passing twinge as she remembered
the archdeacon.  She seized hurriedly on the first name that came
into her head.

"Jane Finn," she said hastily; and then paused open-mouthed at
the effect of those two simple words.

All the geniality had faded out of Whittington's face. It was
purple with rage, and the veins stood out on the forehead. And
behind it all there lurked a sort of incredulous dismay. He
leaned forward and hissed savagely:

"So that's your little game, is it?"

Tuppence, though utterly taken aback, nevertheless kept her head.
She had not the faintest comprehension of his meaning, but she
was naturally quick-witted, and felt it imperative to "keep her
end up" as she phrased it.

Whittington went on:

"Been playing with me, have you, all the time, like a cat and
mouse? Knew all the time what I wanted you for, but kept up the
comedy. Is that it, eh?"  He was cooling down.  The red colour
was ebbing out of his face.  He eyed her keenly.  "Who's been
blabbing?  Rita?"

Tuppence shook her head.  She was doubtful as to how long she
could sustain this illusion, but she realized the importance of
not dragging an unknown Rita into it.

"No," she replied with perfect truth.  "Rita knows nothing about
me."

His eyes still bored into her like gimlets.

"How much do you know?" he shot out.

"Very little indeed," answered Tuppence, and was pleased to note
that Whittington's uneasiness was augmented instead of allayed.
To have boasted that she knew a lot might have raised doubts in
his mind.

"Anyway," snarled Whittington, "you knew enough to come in here
and plump out that name."

"It might be my own name," Tuppence pointed out.

"It's likely, isn't it, then there would be two girls with a name
like that?"

"Or I might just have hit upon it by chance," continued Tuppence,
intoxicated with the success of truthfulness.

Mr. Whittington brought his fist down upon the desk with a bang.

"Quit fooling!  How much do you know?  And how much do you want?"

The last five words took Tuppence's fancy mightily, especially
after a meagre breakfast and a supper of buns the night before.
Her present part was of the adventuress rather than the
adventurous order, but she did not deny its possibilities. She
sat up and smiled with the air of one who has the situation
thoroughly well in hand.

"My dear Mr. Whittington," she said, "let us by all means lay our
cards upon the table.  And pray do not be so angry. You heard me
say yesterday that I proposed to live by my wits. It seems to me
that I have now proved I have some wits to live by! I admit I
have knowledge of a certain name, but perhaps my knowledge ends
there."

"Yes--and perhaps it doesn't," snarled Whittington.

"You insist on misjudging me," said Tuppence, and sighed gently.

"As I said once before," said Whittington angrily, "quit fooling,
and come to the point.  You can't play the innocent with me. You
know a great deal more than you're willing to admit."

Tuppence paused a moment to admire her own ingenuity, and then
said softly:

"I shouldn't like to contradict you, Mr. Whittington."

"So we come to the usual question--how much?"

Tuppence was in a dilemma.  So far she had fooled Whittington
with complete success, but to mention a palpably impossible sum
might awaken his suspicions.  An idea flashed across her brain.

"Suppose we say a little something down, and a fuller discussion
of the matter later?"

Whittington gave her an ugly glance.

"Blackmail, eh?"

Tuppence smiled sweetly.

"Oh no!  Shall we say payment of services in advance?"

Whittington grunted.

"You see," explained Tuppence still sweetly, "I'm so very fond of
money!"

"You're about the limit, that's what you are," growled
Whittington, with a sort of unwilling admiration.  "You took me
in all right. Thought you were quite a meek little kid with just
enough brains for my purpose."

"Life," moralized Tuppence, "is full of surprises."

"All the same," continued Whittington, "some one's been talking.
You say it isn't Rita.  Was it----? Oh, come in."

The clerk followed his discreet knock into the room, and laid a
paper at his master's elbow.

"Telephone message just come for you, sir."

Whittington snatched it up and read it.  A frown gathered on his
brow.

"That'll do, Brown.  You can go."

The clerk withdrew, closing the door behind him. Whittington
turned to Tuppence.

"Come to-morrow at the same time.  I'm busy now. Here's fifty to
go on with."

He rapidly sorted out some notes, and pushed them across the
table to Tuppence, then stood up, obviously impatient for her to
go.

The girl counted the notes in a businesslike manner, secured them
in her handbag, and rose.

"Good morning, Mr. Whittington," she said politely. "At least, au
revoir, I should say."

"Exactly.  Au revoir!"  Whittington looked almost genial again, a
reversion that aroused in Tuppence a faint misgiving. "Au revoir,
my clever and charming young lady."

Tuppence sped lightly down the stairs.  A wild elation possessed
her. A neighbouring clock showed the time to be five minutes to
twelve.

"Let's give Tommy a surprise!" murmured Tuppence, and hailed a
taxi.

The cab drew up outside the tube station.  Tommy was just within
the entrance.  His eyes opened to their fullest extent as he
hurried forward to assist Tuppence to alight.  She smiled at him
affectionately, and remarked in a slightly affected voice:

"Pay the thing, will you, old bean?  I've got nothing smaller
than a five-pound note!"

CHAPTER III

A SET BACK

THE moment was not quite so triumphant as it ought to have been.
To begin with, the resources of Tommy's pockets were somewhat
limited. In the end the fare was managed, the lady recollecting a
plebeian twopence, and the driver, still holding the varied
assortment of coins in his hand, was prevailed upon to move on,
which he did after one last hoarse demand as to what the
gentleman thought he was giving him?

"I think you've given him too much, Tommy," said Tuppence
innocently. "I fancy he wants to give some of it back."

It was possibly this remark which induced the driver to move
away.

"Well," said Mr. Beresford, at length able to relieve his
feelings, "what the--dickens, did you want to take a taxi for?"

"I was afraid I might be late and keep you waiting," said
Tuppence gently.

"Afraid--you--might--be--late!  Oh, Lord, I give it up!" said Mr.
Beresford.

"And really and truly," continued Tuppence, opening her eyes very
wide, "I haven't got anything smaller than a five-pound note."

"You did that part of it very well, old bean, but all the same
the fellow wasn't taken in--not for a moment!"

"No," said Tuppence thoughtfully, "he didn't believe it. That's
the curious part about speaking the truth. No one does believe
it.  I found that out this morning. Now let's go to lunch.  How
about the Savoy?"

Tommy grinned.

"How about the Ritz?"

"On second thoughts, I prefer the Piccadilly.  It's nearer. We
shan't have to take another taxi.  Come along."

"Is this a new brand of humour?  Or is your brain really
unhinged?" inquired Tommy.

"Your last supposition is the correct one.  I have come into
money, and the shock has been too much for me!  For that
particular form of mental trouble an eminent physician recommends
unlimited Hors d'oeuvre, Lobster a l'americane, Chicken Newberg,
and Peche Melba!  Let's go and get them!"

"Tuppence, old girl, what has really come over you?"

"Oh, unbelieving one!"  Tuppence wrenched open her bag. "Look
here, and here, and here!"

"Great Jehosaphat!  My dear girl, don't wave Fishers aloft like
that!"

"They're not Fishers.  They're five times better than Fishers,
and this one's ten times better!"

Tommy groaned.

"I must have been drinking unawares!  Am I dreaming, Tuppence, or
do I really behold a large quantity of five-pound notes being
waved about in a dangerous fashion?"

"Even so, O King!  Now, will you come and have lunch?"

"I'll come anywhere.  But what have you been doing? Holding up a
bank?"

"All in good time.  What an awful place Piccadilly Circus is.
There's a huge bus bearing down on us.  It would be too terrible
if they killed the five-pound notes!"

"Grill room?" inquired Tommy, as they reached the opposite
pavement in safety.

"The other's more expensive," demurred Tuppence.

"That's mere wicked wanton extravagance.  Come on below."

"Are you sure I can get all the things I want there?"

"That extremely unwholesome menu you were outlining just now? Of
course you can--or as much as is good for you, anyway."

"And now tell me," said Tommy, unable to restrain his pent-up
curiosity any longer, as they sat in state surrounded by the many
hors d'oeuvre of Tuppence's dreams.

Miss Cowley told him.

"And the curious part of it is," she ended, "that I really did
invent the name of Jane Finn!  I didn't want to give my own
because of poor father--in case I should get mixed up in anything
shady."

"Perhaps that's so," said Tommy slowly.  "But you didn't invent
it."

"What?"

"No. I told it to you.  Don't you remember, I said yesterday I'd
overheard two people talking about a female called Jane Finn?
That's what brought the name into your mind so pat."

"So you did.  I remember now.  How extraordinary----" Tuppence
tailed off into silence.  Suddenly she aroused herself.  "Tommy!"

"Yes?"

"What were they like, the two men you passed?"

Tommy frowned in an effort at remembrance.

"One was a big fat sort of chap.  Clean shaven, I think--and
dark."

"That's him," cried Tuppence, in an ungrammatical squeal. "That's
Whittington!  What was the other man like?"

"I can't remember.  I didn't notice him particularly. It was
really the outlandish name that caught my attention."

"And people say that coincidences don't happen!" Tuppence tackled
her Peche Melba happily.

But Tommy had become serious.

"Look here, Tuppence, old girl, what is this going to lead to?"

"More money," replied his companion.

"I know that.  You've only got one idea in your head. What I mean
is, what about the next step?  How are you going to keep the game
up?"

"Oh!"  Tuppence laid down her spoon.  "You're right, Tommy, it is
a bit of a poser."

"After all, you know, you can't bluff him forever. You're sure to
slip up sooner or later.  And, anyway, I'm not at all sure that
it isn't actionable--blackmail, you know."

"Nonsense.  Blackmail is saying you'll tell unless you are given
money. Now, there's nothing I could tell, because I don't really
know anything."

"Hm," said Tommy doubtfully.  "Well, anyway, what ARE we going to
do? Whittington was in a hurry to get rid of you this morning,
but next time he'll want to know something more before he parts
with his money. He'll want to know how much YOU know, and where
you got your information from, and a lot of other things that you
can't cope with. What are you going to do about it?"

Tuppence frowned severely.

"We must think.  Order some Turkish coffee, Tommy.  Stimulating
to the brain. Oh, dear, what a lot I have eaten!"

"You have made rather a hog of yourself!  So have I for that
matter, but I flatter myself that my choice of dishes was more
judicious than yours. Two coffees."  (This was to the waiter.)
"One Turkish, one French."

Tuppence sipped her coffee with a deeply reflective air, and
snubbed Tommy when he spoke to her.

"Be quiet.  I'm thinking."

"Shades of Pelmanism!" said Tommy, and relapsed into silence.

"There!" said Tuppence at last.  "I've got a plan. Obviously what
we've got to do is to find out more about it all."

Tommy applauded.

"Don't jeer.  We can only find out through Whittington.  We must
discover where he lives, what he does--sleuth him, in fact! Now I
can't do it, because he knows me, but he only saw you for a
minute or two in Lyons'. He's not likely to recognize you. After
all, one young man is much like another."

"I repudiate that remark utterly.  I'm sure my pleasing features
and distinguished appearance would single me out from any crowd."

"My plan is this," Tuppence went on calmly, "I'll go alone
to-morrow. I'll put him off again like I did to-day. It doesn't
matter if I don't get any more money at once. Fifty pounds ought
to last us a few days."

"Or even longer!"

"You'll hang about outside.  When I come out I shan't speak to
you in case he's watching.  But I'll take up my stand somewhere
near, and when he comes out of the building I'll drop a
handkerchief or something, and off you go!"

"Off I go where?"

"Follow him, of course, silly!  What do you think of the idea?"

"Sort of thing one reads about in books.  I somehow feel that in
real life one will feel a bit of an ass standing in the street
for hours with nothing to do.  People will wonder what I'm up
to."

"Not in the city.  Every one's in such a hurry.  Probably no one
will even notice you at all."

"That's the second time you've made that sort of remark. Never
mind, I forgive you.  Anyway, it will be rather a lark. What are
you doing this afternoon?"

"Well," said Tuppence meditatively.  "I HAD thought of hats! Or
perhaps silk stockings!  Or perhaps----"

"Hold hard," admonished Tommy.  "There's a limit to fifty pounds!
But let's do dinner and a show to-night at all events."

"Rather."

The day passed pleasantly.  The evening even more so. Two of the
five-pound notes were now irretrievably dead.

They met by arrangement the following morning and proceeded
citywards. Tommy remained on the opposite side of the road while
Tuppence plunged into the building.

Tommy strolled slowly down to the end of the street, then back
again. Just as he came abreast of the building, Tuppence darted
across the road.

"Tommy!"

"Yes.  What's up?"

"The place is shut.  I can't make anyone hear."

"That's odd."

"Isn't it?  Come up with me, and let's try again."

Tommy followed her.  As they passed the third floor landing a
young clerk came out of an office.  He hesitated a moment, then
addressed himself to Tuppence.

"Were you wanting the Esthonia Glassware?"

"Yes, please."

"It's closed down.  Since yesterday afternoon.  Company being
wound up, they say.  Not that I've ever heard of it myself. But
anyway the office is to let."

"Th--thank you," faltered Tuppence.  "I suppose you don't know
Mr. Whittington's address?"

"Afraid I don't. They left rather suddenly."

"Thank you very much," said Tommy.  "Come on, Tuppence."

They descended to the street again where they gazed at one
another blankly.

"That's torn it," said Tommy at length.

"And I never suspected it," wailed Tuppence.

"Cheer up, old thing, it can't be helped."

"Can't it, though!"  Tuppence's little chin shot out defiantly.
"Do you think this is the end?  If so, you're wrong. It's just
the beginning!"

"The beginning of what?"

"Of our adventure!  Tommy, don't you see, if they are scared
enough to run away like this, it shows that there must be a lot
in this Jane Finn business!  Well, we'll get to the bottom of it.
We'll run them down!  We'll be sleuths in earnest!"

"Yes, but there's no one left to sleuth."

"No, that's why we'll have to start all over again. Lend me that
bit of pencil.  Thanks.  Wait a minute--don't interrupt.  There!"
Tuppence handed back the pencil, and surveyed the piece of paper
on which she had written with a satisfied eye:

"What's that?"

"Advertisement."

"You're not going to put that thing in after all?"

"No, it's a different one."  She handed him the slip of paper.

Tommy read the words on it aloud:

"WANTED, any information respecting Jane Finn.  Apply Y.A."

CHAPTER IV

WHO IS JANE FINN?

THE next day passed slowly.  It was necessary to curtail
expenditure. Carefully husbanded, forty pounds will last a long
time. Luckily the weather was fine, and "walking is cheap,"
dictated Tuppence.  An outlying picture house provided them with
recreation for the evening.

The day of disillusionment had been a Wednesday.  On Thursday the
advertisement had duly appeared.  On Friday letters might be
expected to arrive at Tommy's rooms.

He had been bound by an honourable promise not to open any such
letters if they did arrive, but to repair to the National
Gallery, where his colleague would meet him at ten o'clock.

Tuppence was first at the rendezvous.  She ensconced herself on a
red velvet seat, and gazed at the Turners with unseeing eyes
until she saw the familiar figure enter the room.

"Well?"

"Well," returned Mr. Beresford provokingly.  "Which is your
favourite picture?"

"Don't be a wretch.  Aren't there ANY answers?"

Tommy shook his head with a deep and somewhat overacted
melancholy.

"I didn't want to disappoint you, old thing, by telling you right
off. It's too bad.  Good money wasted."  He sighed.  "Still,
there it is. The advertisement has appeared, and--there are only
two answers!"

"Tommy, you devil!" almost screamed Tuppence.  "Give them to me.
How could you be so mean!"

"Your language, Tuppence, your language!  They're very particular
at the National Gallery.  Government show, you know. And do
remember, as I have pointed out to you before, that as a
clergyman's daughter----"

"I ought to be on the stage!" finished Tuppence with a snap.

"That is not what I intended to say.  But if you are sure that
you have enjoyed to the full the reaction of joy after despair
with which I have kindly provided you free of charge, let us get
down to our mail, as the saying goes."

Tuppence snatched the two precious envelopes from him
unceremoniously, and scrutinized them carefully.

"Thick paper, this one.  It looks rich.  We'll keep it to the
last and open the other first."

"Right you are.  One, two, three, go!"

Tuppence's little thumb ripped open the envelope, and she
extracted the contents.


"DEAR SIR,

"Referring to your advertisement in this morning's paper, I may
be able to be of some use to you.  Perhaps you could call and see
me at the above address at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning.     
         "Yours truly,               
         "A. CARTER.


"27 Carshalton Gardens," said Tuppence, referring to the address.
"That's Gloucester Road way.  Plenty of time to get there if we
tube."

"The following," said Tommy, "is the plan of campaign. It is my
turn to assume the offensive.  Ushered into the presence of Mr.
Carter, he and I wish each other good morning as is customary. He
then says:  'Please take a seat, Mr.--er?'  To which I reply
promptly and significantly:  'Edward Whittington!' whereupon Mr.
Carter turns purple in the face and gasps out: 'How much?'
Pocketing the usual fee of fifty pounds, I rejoin you in the road
outside, and we proceed to the next address and repeat the
performance."

"Don't be absurd, Tommy.  Now for the other letter.  Oh, this is
from the Ritz!"

"A hundred pounds instead of fifty!"

"I'll read it:

"DEAR SIR,

"Re your advertisement, I should be glad if you would call round
somewhere about lunch-time.                     
               "Yours truly,     
               "JULIUS P. HERSHEIMMER."


"Ha!" said Tommy.  "Do I smell a Boche?  Or only an American
millionaire of unfortunate ancestry?  At all events we'll call at
lunch-time. It's a good time--frequently leads to free food for
two."

Tuppence nodded assent.

"Now for Carter.  We'll have to hurry."

Carshalton Terrace proved to be an unimpeachable row of what
Tuppence called "ladylike looking houses." They rang the bell at
No. 27, and a neat maid answered the door. She looked so
respectable that Tuppence's heart sank. Upon Tommy's request for
Mr. Carter, she showed them into a small study on the ground
floor where she left them. Hardly a minute elapsed, however,
before the door opened, and a tall man with a lean hawklike face
and a tired manner entered the room.

"Mr. Y. A.?" he said, and smiled.  His smile was distinctly
attractive. "Do sit down, both of you."

They obeyed.  He himself took a chair opposite to Tuppence and
smiled at her encouragingly.  There was something in the quality
of his smile that made the girl's usual readiness desert her.

As he did not seem inclined to open the conversation, Tuppence
was forced to begin.

"We wanted to know--that is, would you be so kind as to tell us
anything you know about Jane Finn?"

"Jane Finn?  Ah!"  Mr. Carter appeared to reflect. "Well, the
question is, what do you know about her?"

Tuppence drew herself up.

"I don't see that that's got anything to do with it."

"No?  But it has, you know, really it has."  He smiled again in
his tired way, and continued reflectively.  "So that brings us
down to it again. What do you know about Jane Finn?

"Come now," he continued, as Tuppence remained silent. "You must
know SOMETHING to have advertised as you did?"  He leaned forward
a little, his weary voice held a hint of persuasiveness. "Suppose
you tell me . . ."

There was something very magnetic about Mr. Carter's personality.
Tuppence seemed to shake herself free of it with an effort, as
she said:

"We couldn't do that, could we, Tommy?"

But to her surprise, her companion did not back her up. His eyes
were fixed on Mr. Carter, and his tone when he spoke held an
unusual note of deference.

"I dare say the little we know won't be any good to you, sir. But
such as it is, you're welcome to it."

"Tommy!" cried out Tuppence in surprise.

Mr. Carter slewed round in his chair.  His eyes asked a question.

Tommy nodded.

"Yes, sir, I recognized you at once.  Saw you in France when I
was with the Intelligence.  As soon as you came into the room, I
knew----"

Mr. Carter held up his hand.

"No names, please.  I'm known as Mr. Carter here.  It's my
cousin's house, by the way.  She's willing to lend it to me
sometimes when it's a case of working on strictly unofficial
lines.  Well, now"--he looked from one to the other--"who's going
to tell me the story?"

"Fire ahead, Tuppence," directed Tommy.  "It's your yarn."

"Yes, little lady, out with it."

And obediently Tuppence did out with it, telling the whole story
from the forming of the Young Adventurers, Ltd., downwards.

Mr. Carter listened in silence with a resumption of his tired
manner. Now and then he passed his hand across his lips as though
to hide a smile. When she had finished he nodded gravely.

"Not much.  But suggestive.  Quite suggestive. If you'll excuse
my saying so, you're a curious young couple. I don't know--you
might succeed where others have failed . . . I believe in luck,
you know--always have...."

He paused a moment, and then went on.

"Well, how about it?  You're out for adventure.  How would you
like to work for me?  All quite unofficial, you know. Expenses
paid, and a moderate screw?"

Tuppence gazed at him, her lips parted, her eyes growing wider
and wider.

"What should we have to do?" she breathed.

Mr. Carter smiled.

"Just go on with what you're doing now.  FIND JANE FINN."

"Yes, but--who IS Jane Finn?"

Mr. Carter nodded gravely.

"Yes, you're entitled to know that, I think."

He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, brought the tips
of his fingers together, and began in a low monotone:

"Secret diplomacy (which, by the way, is nearly always bad
policy!) does not concern you.  It will be sufficient to say that
in the early days of 1915 a certain document came into being. It
was the draft of a secret agreement--treaty--call it what you
like. It was drawn up ready for signature by the various
representatives, and drawn up in America--at that time a neutral
country. It was dispatched to England by a special messenger
selected for that purpose, a young fellow called Danvers.  It was
hoped that the whole affair had been kept so secret that nothing
would have leaked out.  That kind of hope is usually
disappointed. Somebody always talks!

"Danvers sailed for England on the Lusitania.  He carried the
precious papers in an oilskin packet which he wore next his skin.
It was on that particular voyage that the Lusitania was torpedoed
and sunk. Danvers was among the list of those missing.
Eventually his body was washed ashore, and identified beyond any
possible doubt. But the oilskin packet was missing!

"The question was, had it been taken from him, or had he himself
passed it on into another's keeping?  There were a few incidents
that strengthened the possibility of the latter theory. After the
torpedo struck the ship, in the few moments during the launching
of the boats, Danvers was seen speaking to a young American girl.
No one actually saw him pass anything to her, but he might have
done so. It seems to me quite likely that he entrusted the papers
to this girl, believing that she, as a woman, had a greater
chance of bringing them safely to shore.

"But if so, where was the girl, and what had she done with the
papers? By later advice from America it seemed likely that
Danvers had been closely shadowed on the way over.  Was this girl
in league with his enemies? Or had she, in her turn, been
shadowed and either tricked or forced into handing over the
precious packet?

"We set to work to trace her out.  It proved unexpectedly
difficult. Her name was Jane Finn, and it duly appeared among the
list of the survivors, but the girl herself seemed to have
vanished completely. Inquiries into her antecedents did little to
help us.  She was an orphan, and had been what we should call
over here a pupil teacher in a small school out West.  Her
passport had been made out for Paris, where she was going to join
the staff of a hospital.  She had offered her services
voluntarily, and after some correspondence they had been
accepted. Having seen her name in the list of the saved from the
Lusitania, the staff of the hospital were naturally very
surprised at her not arriving to take up her billet, and at not
hearing from her in any way.

"Well, every effort was made to trace the young lady--but all in
vain. We tracked her across Ireland, but nothing could be heard
of her after she set foot in England.  No use was made of the
draft treaty--as might very easily have been done--and we
therefore came to the conclusion that Danvers had, after all,
destroyed it. The war entered on another phase, the diplomatic
aspect changed accordingly, and the treaty was never redrafted.
Rumours as to its existence were emphatically denied. The
disappearance of Jane Finn was forgotten and the whole affair was
lost in oblivion."

Mr. Carter paused, and Tuppence broke in impatiently:

"But why has it all cropped up again?  The war's over."

A hint of alertness came into Mr. Carter's manner.

"Because it seems that the papers were not destroyed after all,
and that they might be resurrected to-day with a new and deadly
significance."

Tuppence stared.  Mr. Carter nodded.

"Yes, five years ago, that draft treaty was a weapon in our
hands; to-day it is a weapon against us.  It was a gigantic
blunder. If its terms were made public, it would mean
disaster.... It might possibly bring about another war--not with
Germany this time! That is an extreme possibility, and I do not
believe in its likelihood myself, but that document undoubtedly
implicates a number of our statesmen whom we cannot afford to
have discredited in any way at the present moment.  As a party
cry for Labour it would be irresistible, and a Labour Government
at this juncture would, in my opinion, be a grave disability for
British trade, but that is a mere nothing to the REAL danger."

He paused, and then said quietly:

"You may perhaps have heard or read that there is Bolshevist
influence at work behind the present Labour unrest?"

Tuppence nodded.

"That is the truth.  Bolshevist gold is pouring into this country
for the specific purpose of procuring a Revolution.  And there is
a certain man, a man whose real name is unknown to us, who is
working in the dark for his own ends. The Bolshevists are behind
the Labour unrest--but this man is BEHIND THE BOLSHEVISTS.  Who
is he?  We do not know. He is always spoken of by the unassuming
title of 'Mr. Brown.'  But one thing is certain, he is the master
criminal of this age. He controls a marvellous organization.
Most of the Peace propaganda during the war was originated and
financed by him. His spies are everywhere."

"A naturalized German?" asked Tommy.

"On the contrary, I have every reason to believe he is an
Englishman.  He was pro-German, as he would have been pro-Boer.
What he seeks to attain we do not know--probably supreme power
for himself, of a kind unique in history. We have no clue as to
his real personality.  It is reported that even his own followers
are ignorant of it.  Where we have come across his tracks, he has
always played a secondary part.  Somebody else assumes the chief
role. But afterwards we always find that there has been some
nonentity, a servant or a clerk, who has remained in the
background unnoticed, and that the elusive Mr. Brown has escaped
us once more."

"Oh!"  Tuppence jumped.  "I wonder----"

"Yes?"

"I remember in Mr. Whittington's office.  The clerk--he called
him Brown.  You don't think----"

Carter nodded thoughtfully.

"Very likely.  A curious point is that the name is usually
mentioned. An idiosyncrasy of genius.  Can you describe him at
all?"

"I really didn't notice.  He was quite ordinary--just like anyone
else."

Mr. Carter sighed in his tired manner.

"That is the invariable description of Mr. Brown!  Brought a
telephone message to the man Whittington, did he? Notice a
telephone in the outer office?"

Tuppence thought.

"No, I don't think I did."

"Exactly.  That 'message' was Mr. Brown's way of giving an order
to his subordinate.  He overheard the whole conversation of
course. Was it after that that Whittington handed you over the
money, and told you to come the following day?"

Tuppence nodded.

"Yes, undoubtedly the hand of Mr. Brown!"  Mr. Carter paused.
"Well, there it is, you see what you are pitting yourselves
against? Possibly the finest criminal brain of the age.  I don't
quite like it, you know.  You're such young things, both of you.
I shouldn't like anything to happen to you."

"It won't," Tuppence assured him positively.

"I'll look after her, sir," said Tommy.

"And I'll look after YOU," retorted Tuppence, resenting the manly
assertion.

"Well, then, look after each other," said Mr. Carter, smiling.
"Now let's get back to business.  There's something mysterious
about this draft treaty that we haven't fathomed yet. We've been
threatened with it--in plain and unmistakable terms. The
Revolutionary element as good as declare that it's in their
hands, and that they intend to produce it at a given moment.  On
the other hand, they are clearly at fault about many of its
provisions. The Government consider it as mere bluff on their
part, and, rightly or wrongly, have stuck to the policy of
absolute denial. I'm not so sure.  There have been hints,
indiscreet allusions, that seem to indicate that the menace is a
real one.  The position is much as though they had got hold of an
incriminating document, but couldn't read it because it was in
cipher--but we know that the draft treaty wasn't in
cipher--couldn't be in the nature of things--so that won't wash.
But there's SOMETHING.  Of course, Jane Finn may be dead for all
we know--but I don't think so. The curious thing is that THEY'RE
TRYING TO GET INFORMATION ABOUT THE GIRL FROM US"

"What?"

"Yes.  One or two little things have cropped up.  And your story,
little lady, confirms my idea.  They know we're looking for Jane
Finn.  Well, they'll produce a Jane Finn of their own--say at a
pensionnat in Paris."  Tuppence gasped, and Mr. Carter smiled.
"No one knows in the least what she looks like, so that's all
right. She's primed with a trumped-up tale, and her real business
is to get as much information as possible out of us. See the
idea?"

"Then you think"--Tuppence paused to grasp the supposition
fully--"that it WAS as Jane Finn that they wanted me to go to
Paris?"

Mr. Carter smiled more wearily than ever.

"I believe in coincidences, you know," he said.