Poirot said thoughtfully:

"You think Mrs. Franklin, do you not, rather a fool?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that - yes, perhaps not a very brilliant intellect."

"Ah, she is not your type."

"Who is my type?" I snapped.

Poirot replied unexpectedly:

"Open your mouth and shut your eyes and see what the fairies will send you - " I was prevented from replying because Nurse Craven came tripping hastily across the grass. She gave us a smile with a brilliant flash of teeth, unlocked the door of the lab, passed inside and reappeared with a pair of gloves.

"First a hanky and now gloves, always something left behind," she observed as she sped back with them to where Barbara Franklin and Boyd Carrington were waiting.

Mrs. Franklin, I reflected, was that rather feckless type of woman who always did leave things behind, shedding her possessions and expecting everybody to retrieve them as a matter of course, and even, I fancied, was rather proud of herself for so doing. I had heard her more than once murmur complacently:

"Of course I've got a head like a sieve. "

I sat looking after Nurse Craven as she ran across the lawn and out of sight. She ran well, her body was vigorous and well balanced. I said impulsively:

"I should think a girl must get fed up with that sort of life. I mean when there isn't much nursing to be done - when it's just fetch and carry. I don't suppose Mrs. Franklin is particularly considerate or kindly."

Poirot's response was distinctly annoying. For no reason whatever, he closed his eyes and murmured:

"Auburn hair."

Undoubtedly Nurse Craven had auburn hair - but I did not see why Poirot should choose just this minute to comment upon it.

I made no reply.

ELEVEN

It was, I think, on the following morning before lunch that a conversation took place which left me vaguely disquieted.

There were four of us - Judith, myself, Boyd Carrington and Norton. Exactly how the subject started, I am not sure, but we were talking of euthanasia

- the case for and against it.

Boyd Carrington, as was natural, did most of the talking, Norton putting in a word or two here and there, and Judith sitting silent but closely attentive. I myself had confessed that though there seemed, on the face of it, every reason to support the practice, yet in actuality I felt a sentimental shrinking from it. Besides, I said, I thought it would put too much power in the hands of relatives. Norton agreed with me. He added that he thought it should only be done by the wish and consent of the patient himself where death after prolonged suffering was certain.

Boyd Carrington said:

"Ah, but that's the curious thing. Does the person most concerned ever wish to

'put himself out of his misery,' as we say?"

He then told a story, which he said was authentic, of a man in terrible pain from inoperable cancer. This man had begged the doctor in attendance to "give him something that would finish it all." The doctor had replied: "I can't do that, old man." Later, on leaving, he had placed by the patient some morphia tablets, telling him carefully how many he could safely take and what dose would be dangerous. Although these were left in the patient's charge and he could easily have taken a fatal quantity, he did not do so, "thus proving," said Boyd Carrington, "that, in spite of his words, the man preferred his suffering to a swift and merciful release." It was then that Judith spoke for the first time, spoke with vigour and abruptly: