The girl frowned in an effort of memory.

‘She talked about being hard up—of a hat and a couple of summer frocks she’d just bought. And a little of Don…She also said she disliked Milly Higley—that’s the girl at the café—and we laughed about the Merrion woman who keeps the café…I don’t remember anything else…’

‘She didn’t mention any man—forgive me, Mr Fraser—she might be meeting?’

‘She wouldn’t to me,’ said Megan dryly.

Poirot turned to the red-haired young man with the square jaw.

‘Mr Fraser—I want you to cast your mind back. You went, you said, to the caféon the fatal evening. Your first intention was to wait there and watch for Betty Barnard to come out. Can you remember anyone at all whom you noticed whilst you were waiting there?’

‘There were a large number of people walking along the front. I can’t remember any of them.’

‘Excuse me, but are you trying? However preoccupied the mind may be, the eye notices mechanically—unintelligently but accurately…’

The young man repeated doggedly:

‘I don’t remember anybody.’

Poirot sighed and turned to Mary Drower.

‘I suppose you got letters from your aunt?’

‘Oh, yes, sir.’

‘When was the last?’

Mary thought a minute.

‘Two days before the murder, sir.’

‘What did it say?’

‘She said the old devil had been round and that she’d sent him off with a flea in the ear—excuse the expression, sir—said she expected me over on the Wednesday—that’s my day out, sir—and she said we’d go to the pictures. It was going to be my birthday, sir.’

Something—the thought of the little festivity perhaps—suddenly brought the tears to Mary’s eyes. She gulped down a sob. Then apologized for it.

‘You must forgive me, sir. I don’t want to be silly. Crying’s no good. It was just the thought of her—and me—looking forward to our treat. It upset me somehow, sir.’

‘I know just what you feel like,’ said Franklin Clarke. ‘It’s always the little things that get one—and especially anything like a treat or a present—something jolly and natural. I remember seeing a woman run over once. She’d just bought some new shoes. I saw her lying there—and the burst parcel with the ridiculous little high-heeled slippers peeping out—it gave me a turn—they looked so pathetic.’

Megan said with a sudden eager warmth:

‘That’s true—that’s awfully true. The same thing happened after Betty—died. Mum had bought some stockings for her as a present—bought them the very day it happened. Poor mum, she was all broken up. I found her crying over them. She kept saying: “I bought them for Betty—I bought them for Betty—and she never even saw them.”’

Her own voice quivered a little. She leaned forward, looking straight at Franklin Clarke. There was between them a sudden sympathy—a fraternity in trouble.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know exactly. Those are just the sort of things that are hell to remember.’

Donald Fraser stirred uneasily.

Thora Grey diverted the conversation.

‘Aren’t we going to make any plans—for the future?’ she asked.