How maddening it is for her! Obviously she has lost none of her old charm for this rich, attractive man — but he is old-fashioned — not the type of man to suggest divorce. And John Franklin, too, has no use for divorce. If John Franklin were to die

— then she could be Lady Boyd Carrington — and oh, what a wonderful life that would be!

Norton, I think, found her only too ready a tool.

It was all too obvious, Hastings, when you come to think of it. Those first few tentative attempts at establishing how fond she was of her husband. She overdid it a little — murmuring about "ending it all" because she was a drag on him. And then an entirely new line. Her fears that Franklin might experiment upon himself.

It ought to have been so obvious to us, Hastings! She was preparing us for John Franklin to die of physostigmine poisoning. No question, you see, of anyone trying to poison him — oh no — just pure scientific research. He takes the harmless alkaloid, and it turns out to be harmful after all.

The only thing was it was a little too swift. You told me that she was not pleased to find Boyd Carrington having his fortune told by Nurse Craven. Nurse Craven was an attractive young woman with a keen eye for men. She had had a try at Dr. Franklin and had not met with success. (Hence her dislike for Judith.) She is carrying on with Allerton — but she knows quite well he is not serious. Inevitable that she should cast her eye on the rich and still attractive Sir William. And Sir William was, perhaps, only too ready to be attracted. He had already noticed Nurse Craven as a healthy, good-looking girl.

Barbara Franklin has a fright and decides to act quickly. The sooner she is a pathetic, charming and not inconsolable widow, the better.

And so, after a morning of nerves, she sets the scene.

Do you know, mon ami, I have some respect for the Calabar bean. This time, you see, it worked. It spared the innocent and slew the guilty.

Mrs. Franklin asks you all up to her room. She makes coffee with much fuss and display. As you tell me, her own coffee is beside her, her husband's on the other side of the bookcase table.

And then there are the shooting stars and everyone goes out and only you, my friend, are left — you and your crossword puzzle and your memories — and to hide emotion, you swing round the bookcase to find a quotation in Shakespeare. And so they come back and Mrs. Franklin drinks the coffee full of the Calabar bean alkaloids that were meant for dear scientific John, and John Franklin drinks the nice plain cup of coffee that was meant for clever Mrs. Franklin. But you will see, Hastings, if you think a minute, that although I realized what had happened, I saw that there was only one thing to be done. I could not prove what had happened. And if Mrs. Franklin's death was thought to be anything but suicide, suspicion would inevitably fall on either Franklin or Judith. On two people who were utterly and completely innocent. So I did what I had a perfect right to do — laid stress on, and put conviction into, my repetition of Mrs. Franklin's extremely unconvincing remarks on the subject of putting an end to herself. I could do it — and I was probably the only person who could. For you see my statement carried weight. I am a man experienced in the matter of committing murder. If I am convinced it is suicide, well then, it will be accepted as suicide. It puzzled you, I could see, and you were not pleased. But mercifully you did not suspect the true danger.