I knew that he had made me his executor, so I had a perfect right to do so. The key was round his neck.

In my own room I opened the box.

And at once I had a shock. The dossiers of X's cases were gone. I had seen them there only a day or two previously when Poirot unlocked it. That was proof, if I had been needing it, that X had been at work. Either Poirot had destroyed those papers himself (most unlikely) or else X had done so.

X. X. That damned fiend X.

But the case was not empty. I remembered Poirot's promise that I should find other indications which X would not know about.

Were these the indications?

There was a copy of one of Shakespeare's plays, Othello, in a small cheap edition. The other book was the play John Ferguson by St. John Ervine. There was a marker in it at the third act.

I stared at the two books blankly.

Here were the clues that Poirot had left for me - and they meant nothing to me at all!

What could they mean?

The only thing I could think of was a code of some kind. A word code based on the plays.

But if so, how was I to get at it?

There were no words, no letters, underlined anywhere. I tried gentle heat with no result.

I read the third act of John Ferguson carefully through. A most admirable and thrilling scene where the "wanting" Clutie John sits and talks and which ends with the younger Ferguson going out to seek for the man who has wronged his sister. Masterly character drawing - but I could hardly think that Poirot had left them to improve my taste in literature!

And then, as I turned the leaves of the book over, a slip of paper fell out. It bore a phrase in Poirot's handwriting:

"Talk to my valet Georges."

Well, here was something. Possibly the key to the code, if code it was, had been left with Georges. I must get hold of his address and go to see him. But first there was the sad business of burying my dear friend. Here was the spot where he had lived when he first came to this country. He was to lie here at the last.

Judith was very kind to me in these days.

She spent a lot of time with me and helped to make all the arrangements. She was gentle and sympathetic. Elizabeth Cole and Boyd Carrington were very kind, too.

Elizabeth Cole was less affected by Norton's death than I should have thought. If she felt any deep grief, she kept it to herself.

And so it was all ended...

II

Yes, I must put it down.

It must be said.

The funeral was over. I was sitting with Judith, trying to make a few sketchy plans for the future.

She said then:

"But you see, dear, I shan't be here."