I thought how odd it was that a valet knew more about a man than his closest friend did.

I went back to the question that puzzled me.

"But have you really no idea why M. Poirot sent you away as he did? Think, man, think."

Georges endeavoured to do so, but he was clearly not very good at thinking.

"I can only suggest, sir," he said at last, "that he discharged me because he wanted to engage Curtiss."

"Curtiss? Why should he want to engage Curtiss?" Georges coughed again.

"Well, sir, I really cannot say. He did not seem to me, when I saw him, as a - excuse me - particularly bright specimen, sir. He was strong physically, of course, but I should hardly have thought that he was quite the class M. Poirot would have liked. He'd been assistant in a mental home at one time, I believe." I stared at Georges.

Curtiss!

Was that the reason why Poirot had insisted on telling me so little? Curtiss, the one man I had never considered! Yes, and Poirot was content to have it so, to have me combing the guests at Styles for the mysterious X. But X was not a guest. Curtiss!

One-time assistant in a mental home. And hadn't I read somewhere that people who have been patients in mental homes and asylums sometimes remain or go back there as assistants?

A queer, dumb, stupid-looking man - a man who might kill for some strange warped reason of his own...

And if so - if so ...

Why, then a great cloud would roll away from me!

Curtiss - ?

POSTSCRIPT

(Note by Captain Arthur Hastings:

The following manuscript came into my possession four months after the death of my friend Hercule Poirot. I received a communication from a firm of lawyers asking me to call at their office. There, "in accordance with the instructions of their client, the late M. Hercule Poirot," they handed me a sealed packet. I reproduce its contents here.)

Manuscript written by Hercule Poirot:

Mon cher ami,

I shall have been dead four months when you read these words. I have debated long whether or not to write down what is written here, and I have decided that it is necessary for someone to know the truth about the second "Affaire Styles." Also I hazard a conjecture that by the time you read this you will have evolved the most preposterous theories — and possibly may be giving pain to yourself. But let me say this: You should, mon ami, have easily been able to arrive at the truth. I saw to it that you had every indication. If you have not, it is because, as always, you have far too beautiful and trusting a nature. A la fin comme au commencement.

But you should know, at least, who killed Norton — even if you are still in the dark as to who killed Barbara Franklin. The latter may be a shock to you. To begin with, as you know, I sent for you. I told you that I needed you. That was true. I told you that I wanted you to be my ears and my eyes. That again was true, very true — if not in the sense that you understood it! You were to see what I wanted you to see and hear what I wanted you to hear.