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."

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.

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!"

"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.

CHAPTER XI. 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