dyfied
little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his
time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As
a detective, his flair had been extraordinary, and he had achieved
triumphs by unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day.

He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his fellow
Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early date. Then he
raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we drove away.

"He's a dear little man," said Cynthia. "I'd no idea you knew him."

"You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied.

And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various
exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot.

We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall, Mrs.
Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and upset.

"Oh, it's you," she said.

"Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?" asked Cynthia.

"Certainly not," said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply. "What should there
be?" Then catching sight of Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going into the
dining-room, she called to her to bring some stamps into the boudoir.

"Yes, m'm." The old servant hesitated, then added diffidently: "Don't
you think, m'm, you'd better get to bed? You're looking very tired."

"Perhaps you're right, Dorcas--yes--no--not now. I've some letters I
must finish by post-time. Have you lighted the fire in my room as I told
you?"

"Yes, m'm."

"Then I'll go to bed directly after supper."

She went into the boudoir again, and Cynthia stared after her.

"Goodness gracious! I wonder what's up?" she said to Lawrence.

He did not seem to have heard her, for without a word he turned on his
heel and went out of the house.

I suggested a quick game of tennis before supper and, Cynthia agreeing,
I ran upstairs to fetch my racquet.

Mrs. Cavendish was coming down the stairs. It may have been my fancy,
but she, too, was looking odd and disturbed.

"Had a good walk with Dr. Bauerstein?" I asked, trying to appear as
indifferent as I could.

"I didn't go," she replied abruptly. "Where is Mrs. Inglethorp?"

"In the boudoir."

Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then she seemed to nerve
herself for some encounter, and went rapidly past me down the stairs
across the hall to the boudoir, the door of which she shut behind her.

As I ran out to the tennis court a few moments later, I had to pass the
open boudoir window, and