‘Come along, everybody,’ she said, with a forced cheerfulness that did not ring true. ‘We’ve got to work.’

Presently everyone was set to their tasks. Since Miss Brewis could not be everywhere at once, there were soon some defaulters. Michael Weyman ornamented a placard with a ferociously magnificent serpent and the words, Madame Zuleika will tell your Fortune, and then vanished unobtrusively. Alec Legge did a few nondescript chores and then went out avowedly to measure for the hoop-la and did not reappear. The women, as women do, worked energetically and conscientiously. Hercule Poirot followed his hostess’s example and went early to bed.

III

Poirot came down to breakfast on the following morning at nine-thirty. Breakfast was served in pre-war fashion. A row of hot dishes on an electric heater. Sir George was eating a full-sized Englishman’s breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and kidneys. Mrs Oliver and Miss Brewis had a modified version of the same. Michael Weyman was eating a plateful of cold ham. Only Lady Stubbs was unheedful of the fleshpots and was nibbling thin toast and sipping black coffee. She was wearing a large pale-pink hat which looked odd at the breakfast table.

The post had just arrived. Miss Brewis had an enormous pile of letters in front of her which she was rapidly sorting into piles. Any of Sir George’s marked ‘Personal’ she passed over to him. The others she opened herself and sorted into categories.

Lady Stubbs had three letters. She opened what were clearly a couple of bills and tossed them aside. Then she opened the third letter and said suddenly and clearly:

‘Oh!’

The exclamation was so startled that all heads turned towards her.

‘It’s from Etienne,’ she said. ‘My cousin Etienne. He’s coming here in a yacht.’

‘Let’s see, Hattie.’ Sir George held out his hand. She passed the letter down the table. He smoothed out the sheet and read.

‘Who’s this Etienne de Sousa? A cousin, you say?’

‘I think so. A second cousin. I do not remember him very well – hardly at all. He was –’

‘Yes, my dear?’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘It does not matter. It is all a long time ago. I was a little girl.’

‘I suppose you wouldn’t remember him very well. But we must make him welcome, of course,’ said Sir George heartily. ‘Pity in a way it’s the fête today, but we’ll ask him to dinner. Perhaps we could put him up for a night or two – show him something of the country?’

Sir George was being the hearty country squire.

Lady Stubbs said nothing. She stared down into her coffee-cup.