ild creature, as untamed by civilization as
some shy bird of the hills. A little cry broke from her lips:

"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?"

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?"

"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.

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
folksongs. 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."

"Silly ass!" I ejaculated. "I told him Wednesday was the one day she
wasn't there! Well, tell him to look us up to-morrow morning, will you?"

"Certainly, monsieur."

But, on the following day, no