I say ‘we’. Of course, in my own case such a patrol was of little avail since I was never likely to have set eyes on A B C. However, as the idea was to separate so as to cover as wide an area as possible I had suggested that I should act as escort to one of the ladies.

Poirot had agreed—I am afraid with somewhat of a twinkle in his eye.

The girls went off to get their hats on. Donald Fraser was standing by the window looking out, apparently lost in thought.

Franklin Clarke glanced over at him, then evidently deciding that the other was too abstracted to count as a listener, he lowered his voice a little and addressed Poirot.

‘Look here, M. Poirot. You went down to Churston, I know, and saw my sister-in-law. Did she say—or hint—I mean—did she suggest at all—?’

He stopped, embarrassed.

Poirot answered with a face of blank innocence that aroused my strongest suspicions.

‘Comment? Did your sister-in-law say, hint, or suggest—what?’

Franklin Clarke got rather red.

‘Perhaps you think this isn’t a time for butting in with personal things—’

‘Du tout!’

‘But I feel I’d like to get things quite straight.’

‘An admirable course.’

This time I think Clarke began to suspect Poirot’s bland face of concealing some inner amusement. He ploughed on rather heavily.

‘My sister-in-law’s an awfully nice woman—I’ve been very fond of her always—but of course she’s been ill some time—and in that kind of illness—being given drugs and all that—one tends to—well, to fancy things about people!’

‘Ah?’

By now there was no mistaking the twinkle in Poirot’s eye.

But Franklin Clarke, absorbed in his diplomatic task, was past noticing it.

‘It’s about Thora—Miss Grey,’ he said.

‘Oh, it is of Miss Grey you speak?’ Poirot’s tone held innocent surprise.

‘Yes. Lady Clarke got certain ideas in her head. You see, Thora—Miss Grey is well, rather a good-looking girl—’

‘Perhaps—yes,’ conceded Poirot.

‘And women, even the best of them, are a bit catty about other women. Of course, Thora was invaluable to my brother—he always said she was the best secretary he ever had—and he was very fond of her, too. But it was all perfectly straight and above-board. I mean, Thora isn’t the sort of girl—’

‘No?’ said Poirot helpfully.

‘But my sister-in-law got it into her head to be—well—jealous, I suppose. Not that she ever showed anything. But after Car’s death, when there was a question of Miss Grey staying on—well, Charlotte cut up rough. Of course, it’s partly the illness and the morphia and all that—Nurse Capstick says so—she says we mustn’t blame Charlotte for getting these ideas into her head—’

He paused.

‘Yes?’

‘What I want you to understand, M. Poirot, is that there isn’t anything in it at all. It’s just a sick woman’s imaginings. Look here’—he fumbled in his pocket—‘here’s a letter I received from my brother when I was in the Malay States. I’d like you to read it because it shows exactly what terms they were on.’