As we were returning towards the car, we paused amoment to watch a ring of children—Brownies, I guessed, by their get-up—who were singing a ditty in shrill, untuneful voices…

‘What is it that they say, Hastings? I cannot catch the words.’

I listened—till I caught one refrain.

‘—And catch a fox

And put him in a box

And never let him go.’

‘And catch a fox and put him in a box and never let him go!’ repeated Poirot.

His face had gone suddenly grave and stern.

‘It is very terrible that, Hastings.’ He was silent a minute. ‘You hunt the fox here?’

‘I don’t. I’ve never been able to afford to hunt. And I don’t think there’s much hunting in this part of the world.’

‘I meant in England generally. A strange sport. The waiting at the covert side—then they sound the tally-ho, do they not?—and the run begins—across the country—over the hedges and ditches—and the fox he runs—and sometimes he doubles back—but the dogs—’

‘Hounds!’

‘—hounds are on his trail, and at last they catch him and he dies—quickly and horribly.’

‘I suppose it does sound cruel, but really—’

‘The fox enjoys it? Do not say les bêtises, my friend. Tout de même—it is better that—the quick, cruel death—than what those children were singing…

‘To be shut away—in a box—for ever…No, it is not good, that.’

He shook his head. Then he said, with a change of tone:

‘Tomorrow, I am to visit the man Cust,’ and he added to the chauffeur:

‘Back to London.’

‘Aren’t you going to Eastbourne?’ I cried.

‘What need? I know—quite enough for my purpose.’

Chapter 33

Alexander Bonaparte Cust

I was not present at the interview that took place between Poirot and that strange man—Alexander Bonaparte Cust. Owing to his association with the police and the peculiar circumstances of the case, Poirot had no difficulty in obtaining a Home Office order—but that order did not extend to me, and in any case it was essential, from Poirot’s point of view, that that interview should be absolutely private—the two men face to face.

He has given me, however, such a detailed account of what passed between them that I set it down with as much confidence on paper as though I had actually been present.

Mr Cust seemed to have shrunk. His stoop was more apparent. His fingers plucked vaguely at his coat.

For some time, I gather, Poirot did not speak.

He sat and looked at the man opposite him.

The atmosphere became restful—soothing—full of infinite leisure…

It must have been a dramatic moment—this meeting of the two adversaries in the long drama. In Poirot’s place I should have felt the dramatic thrill.

Poirot, however, is nothing if not matter-of-fact. He was absorbed in producing a certain effect upon the man opposite him.

At last he said gently:

‘Do you know who I am?’

The other shook his head.

‘No—no—I can’t say I do. Unless you are Mr Lucas’s—what do they call it?—junior. Or perhaps you come from Mr Maynard?’