Templeton about a servant formerly in her employment

whose name he obtained from Nurse Palmer, and who

he could represent as being concerned in a jewel robbery.

It was late when we arrived at Elmstead, as the house

was called. We had allowed Nurse Palmer to precede us

172 Agatha Christie

by about twenty minutes, so that there should be no

question of our all arriving together.

Mrs. Templeton, a tall dark woman, with sinuous

movements and uneasy eyes, received us. I noticed that

as Poirot announced his profession, she drew in her

breath with a sudden hiss, as though badly startled, but she answered his question about the maid-servant readily enough. And then, to test her, Poirot embarked

upon a long history of a poisoning case in which a guilty wife had figured. His eyes never left her face as he

talked, and try as she would, she could hardly conceal

her rising agitation. Suddenly, with an incoherent word

of excuse, she hurried from the room.

We were not long left alone. A squarely-built man

with a small red moustache and pince-nez came in.

"Dr. Treves," he introduced himself. "Mrs. Termpleton asked me to make her excuses to you. She's in

a very bad state, you know. Nervous strain. Worry over

her husband and all that. I've prescribed bed and bromide. But she hopes you'll stay and take pot luck, and

I'm to do host. We've heard of you down here, M. Poirot, and we mean to make the most of you. Ah, here's

Micky!"

A shambling young man entered the room. He had a

very round face, and foolish-looking eyebrows raised as

though in perpetual surprise. He grinned awkwardly as

he shook hands. This was clearly the "wanting" son. Presently we all went in to dinner. Dr. Treves left the

room--to open some wine, I think--and suddenly the

boy's physiognomy underwent a startling change. He

lent forward, staring at Poirot.

"You've come about father," he said, nodding his head. "/ know. I know lots of things--but nobody

thinks I do. Mother will be glad when father's dead and

she can marry Dr. Treves. She isn't my own mother,

" --i fti

THE BIG FOUR 173

you know. I don't like her. She wants father to die." It was all rather horrible. Luckily, before Poirot had

time to reply, the doctor came back, and we had to carry on a forced conversation.

And then suddenly Poirot lay back in his chair with a

hollow groan. His face was contorted with pain.

"My dear sir, what's the matter?" cried the doctor.

"A sudden spasm. I am used to them. No, no, I require no assistance from you, doctor. If I might lie

down upstairs."

His request was instantly acceded to, and I accompanied

him upstairs, where he collapsed on the bed,

groaning heavily.

For the first minute or two I had been taken in, but I

had quickly realised that Poirot was--as he would have

put it--playing the comedy, and that his object was to