‘Realize, Hastings, that in the ordinary course of events those three separate dramas would never have touched each other. They would have pursued their course uninfluenced by each other. The permutations and combinations of life, Hastings—I never cease to be fascinated by them.’

‘This is Paddington,’ was the only answer I made.

It was time, I felt, that someone pricked the bubble.

On our arrival at Whitehaven Mansions we were told that a gentleman was waiting to see Poirot.

I expected it to be Franklin, or perhaps Japp, but to my astonishment it turned out to be none other than Donald Fraser.

He seemed very embarrassed and his inarticulateness was more noticeable than ever.

Poirot did not press him to come to the point of his visit, but instead suggested sandwiches and a glass of wine.

Until these made their appearance he monopolized the conversation, explaining where we had been, and speaking with kindliness and feeling of the invalid woman.

Not until we had finished the sandwiches and sipped the wine did he give the conversation a personal turn.

‘You have come from Bexhill, Mr Fraser?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any success with Milly Higley?’

‘Milly Higley? Milly Higley?’ Fraser repeated the name wonderingly. ‘Oh, that girl! No, I haven’t done anything there yet. It’s—’

He stopped. His hands twisted themselves together nervously.

‘I don’t know why I’ve come to you,’ he burst out.

‘I know,’ said Poirot.

‘You can’t. How can you?’

‘You have come to me because there is something that you must tell to someone. You were quite right. I am the proper person. Speak!’

Poirot’s air of assurance had its effect. Fraser looked at him with a queer air of grateful obedience.

‘You think so?’

‘Parbleu, I am sure of it.’

‘M. Poirot, do you know anything about dreams?’

It was the last thing I had expected him to say.

Poirot, however, seemed in no wise surprised.

‘I do,’ he replied. ‘You have been dreaming—?’

‘Yes. I suppose you’ll say it’s only natural that I should—should dream about—It. But it isn’t an ordinary dream.’

‘No?’

‘No?’

‘I’ve dreamed it now three nights running, sir…I think I’m going mad…’

‘Tell me—’

The man’s face was livid. His eyes were staring out of his head. As a matter of fact, he looked mad.

‘It’s always the same. I’m on the beach. Looking for Betty. She’s lost—only lost, you understand. I’ve got to find her. I’ve got to give her her belt. I’m carrying it in my hand. And then—’

‘Yes?’

‘The dream changes…I’m not looking any more. She’s there in front of me—sitting on the beach. She doesn’t see me coming—It’s—oh, I can’t—’

‘Go on.’

Poirot’s voice was authoritative—firm.

‘I come up behind her…she doesn’t hear me…I slip the belt round her neck and pull—oh—pull…’

The agony in his voice was frightful…I gripped the arms of my chair…The thing was too real.

‘She’s choking…she’s dead…I’ve strangled her—and then her head falls back and I see her face…and it’s Megan—not Betty!’

He leant back white and shaking. Poirot poured out another glass of wine and passed it over to him.