"Yes, John likes me, I think, and of
course Evie, for all her gruff ways, wouldn't be unkind to a fly. But
Lawrence never speaks to me if he can help it, and Mary can hardly bring
herself to be civil to me. She wants Evie to stay on, is begging her to,
but she doesn't want me, and--and--I don't know what to do." Suddenly
the poor child burst out crying.

I don't know what possessed me. Her beauty, perhaps, as she sat there,
with the sunlight glinting down on her head; perhaps the sense of relief
at encountering someone who so obviously could have no connection with
the tragedy; perhaps honest pity for her youth and loneliness. Anyway, I
leant forward, and taking her little hand, I said awkwardly:

"Marry me, Cynthia."

Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy for her tears. She sat up
at once, drew her hand away, and said, with some asperity:

"Don't be silly!"

I was a little annoyed.

"I'm not being silly. I am asking you to do me the honour of becoming my
wife."

To my intense surprise, Cynthia burst out laughing, and called me a
"funny dear."

"It's perfectly sweet of you," she said, "but you know you don't want
to!"

"Yes, I do. I've got--"

"Never mind what you've got. You don't really want to--and I don't
either."

"Well, of course, that settles it," I said stiffly. "But I don't see
anything to laugh at. There's nothing funny about a proposal."

"No, indeed," said Cynthia. "Somebody might accept you next time.
Good-bye, you've cheered me up very much."

And, with a final uncontrollable burst of merriment, she vanished
through the trees.

Thinking over the interview, it struck me as being profoundly
unsatisfactory.

It occurred to me suddenly that I would go down to the village, and look
up Bauerstein. Somebody ought to be keeping an eye on the fellow. At the
same time, it would be wise to allay any suspicions he might have as to
his being suspected. I remembered how Poirot had relied on my diplomacy.
Accordingly, I went to the little house with the "Apartments" card
inserted in the window, where I knew he lodged, and tapped on the door.

An old woman came and opened it.

"Good afternoon," I said pleasantly. "Is Dr. Bauerstein in?"

She stared at me.

"Haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"About him."

"What about him?"

"He's took."

"Took? Dead?"

"No, took by the perlice."

"By the police!" I gasped. "Do you mean they've arrested him?"

"Yes, that's it, and--"

I