But if so, what of it? Such patterns formed themselves eternally through life. Rich middle-aged unattractive husband, young and beautiful wife with or without sufficient mental development, attractive and susceptible young man. What was there in that to make Mrs Oliver utter a peremptory summons through the telephone? Mrs Oliver, no doubt, had a vivid imagination, but…

‘But after all,’ murmured Hercule Poirot to himself, ‘I am not a consultant in adultery – or in incipient adultery.’

Could there really be anything in this extraordinary notion of Mrs Oliver’s that something was wrong? Mrs Oliver was a singularly muddle-headed woman, and how she managed somehow or other to turn out coherent detective stories was beyond him, and yet, for all her muddle-headedness she often surprised him by her sudden perception of truth.

‘The time is short – short,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Is there something wrong here, as Mrs Oliver believes? I am inclined to think there is. But what? Who is there who could enlighten me? I need to know more, much more, about the people in this house. Who is there who could inform me?’

After a moment’s reflection he seized his hat (Poirot never risked going out in the evening air with uncovered head), and hurried out of his room and down the stairs. He heard afar the dictatorial baying of Mrs Masterton’s deep voice. Nearer at hand, Sir George’s voice rose with an amorous intonation.

‘Damned becoming that yashmak thing. Wish I had you in my harem, Sally. I shall come and have my fortune told a good deal tomorrow. What’ll you tell me, eh?’

There was a slight scuffle and Sally Legge’s voice said breathlessly:

‘George, you mustn’t.’

Poirot raised his eyebrows, and slipped out of a conveniently adjacent side door. He set off at top speed down a back drive which his sense of locality enabled him to predict would at some point join the front drive.

His manoeuvre was successful and enabled him – panting very slightly – to come up beside Mrs Folliat and relieve her in a gallant manner of her gardening basket.

‘You permit, Madame?’

‘Oh, thank you, M. Poirot, that’s very kind of you. But it’s not heavy.’

‘Allow me to carry it for you to your home. You live near here?’

‘I actually live in the lodge by the front gate. Sir George very kindly rents it to me.’

The lodge by the front gate of her former home…How did she really feel about that, Poirot wondered. Her composure was so absolute that he had no clue to her feelings. He changed the subject by observing:

‘Lady Stubbs is much younger than her husband, is she not?’

‘Twenty-three years younger.’

‘Physically she is very attractive.’

Mrs Folliat said quietly:

‘Hattie is a dear good child.’

It was not an answer he had expected. Mrs Folliat went on: