matter?"

Japp gave a rather embarrassed laugh.

"You've hit it, Moosior Poirot. I'm puzzled. Wilson was sound as a bell--no trace of heart trouble. His death is quite inexplicable."

"You suspect Dr. Savaronoff of putting him out of

the way?" I cried.

"Hardly that," said Japp dryly. "I don't think even a Russian would murder another man in order not to be

beaten at chess--and anyway, from all I can make out,

the boot was likely to be on the other leg. The doctor is supposed to be very hot stuff--second to Lasker they

say he is."

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

"Then what exactly is your little idea?" he asked.

"Why should Wilson be poisoned? For, I assume, of

course, that it is poison you suspect."

"Naturally. Heart failure means your heart stops

beating--that's all there is to that. That's what a doctor says officially at the moment, but privately he tips us the wink that he's not satisfied."

"When is the autopsy to take place?"

"To-night. Wilson's death was extraordinarily sudden. He seemed quite as usual and was actually moving

one of the pieces when he suddenly fell forward-dead!"

"There are very few poisons would act in such a fashion," objected Poirot.

"I know. The autopsy will help us, I expect. But why should anyone want Gilmour Wilson out of the way-that's what I'd like to know? Harmless unassuming young fellow. Just come over here from the States, and

apparently hadn't an enemy in the world."

"It seems incredible," I mused.

"Not at all," said Poirot, smiling. "Japp has his theory, I can see."

"I have, Moosior Poirot. I don't believe the poison was meant for Wilson--it was meant for the other

man."

"Savaronoff?"

"Yes. Savaronoff fell foul of the Bolsheviks at the outbreak of the Revolution. He was even reported

killed. In reality he escaped, and for three years endured incredible hardships in the wilds of Siberia. His sufferings were so great that he is now a changed man. His

friends and acquaintances declare they would hardly

have recognised him. His hair is white, and his whole

aspect that of a man terribly aged. He is a semi-invalid, and seldom goes out, living alone with a niece, Sonia

Daviloff, and a Russian man-servant in a flat down

Westminster way. It is possible that he still considers

himself a marked man. Certainly he was very unwilling

to agree to this chess contest. He refused several times point blank, and it was only when the newspapers took

it up and began making a fuss about the 'unsportsmanlike refusal' that he gave in. Gilmour Wilson had gone

on challenging him with real Yankee pertinacity, and in

the end he got his way. Now I ask you, Moosior Poirot,

why wasn't he willing? Because he didn't want attention

drawn to him. Didn't want somebody or other to get

on his track. That's my solution--Gilmour Wilson got

pipped by mistake."

"There is no one who has any private reason to gain by Savaronoff's death?"