"Not here?"

"I shan't be in England."

I stared at her.

"I haven't liked to tell you before, Father. I didn't want to make things worse for you. But you've got to know now. I hope you won't mind too much. I'm going to Africa, you see, with Dr. Franklin."

I burst out at that. It was impossible. She couldn't do a thing like that. Everyone would be bound to talk. To be an assistant to him in England and especially when his wife was alive was one thing, but to go abroad with him to Africa was another. It was impossible and I was going to forbid it absolutely. Judith must not do such a thing!

She didn't interrupt. She let me finish. She smiled very faintly.

"But, dearest," she said, "I'm not going as his assistant. I'm going as his wife." It hit me between the eyes.

I said - or rather stammered - "Al - Allerton?"

She looked faintly amused.

"There was never anything in that. I would have told you so if you hadn't made me so angry. Besides, I wanted you to think, well - what you did think. I didn't want you to know it was - John."

"But I saw him kiss you one night - on the terrace." She said impatiently:

"Oh, I daresay. I was miserable that night. These things happen. Surely you know that?"

I said:

"You can't marry Franklin yet - so soon."

"Yes, I can. I want to go out with him, and you've just said yourself it's easier. We've nothing to wait for - now."

Judith and Franklin. Franklin and Judith.

Do you understand the thoughts that came into my mind - the thoughts that had lain under the surface for some time?

Judith with a bottle in her hand, Judith with her young, passionate voice declaring that useless lives should go to make way for useful ones. Judith whom I loved and whom Poirot also had loved. Those two people that Norton had seen - had they been Judith and Franklin? But if so - if so - No, that couldn't be true. Not Judith. Franklin, perhaps - a strange man, a ruthless man, a man who, if he made up his mind to murder, might murder again and again.

Poirot had been willing to consult Franklin.

Why? What had he said to him that morning?

But not Judith. Not my lovely, grave young Judith.

And yet how strange Poirot had looked. How those words had rung out: "You may prefer to say: 'Ring down the curtain'... "

And suddenly a fresh idea struck me. Monstrous! Impossible! Was the whole story of X a fabrication? Had Poirot come to Styles because he feared a tragedy in the Franklin menage? Had he come to watch over Judith? Was that why he had resolutely told me nothing? Because the whole story of X was a fabrication, a smoke screen?

Was the whole heart of the tragedy Judith, my daughter?