"He is, of course, a German by birth," said Poirot thoughtfully, "though
he has practiced 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--a Jew, of course."

"The blackguard!" I cried indignantly.

"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.

"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."

"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.

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.,"