Now, Jane had always led an austere hard-working life - rather like the description, after the disappearance, of girls who were missing - "She was a bright cheerful girl, with no men friends," and so on. Jane had been "a bright cheerful girl, with no men friends." Now it seemed that men friends were rolling up all round. There was no doubt about it; Jean Dupont's face as he leaned across the table held more than mere interested politeness. He was pleased to be sitting opposite Jane. He was more than pleased, he was delighted.

Jane thought to herself, with a touch of misgiving:

"He's French, though. You've got to look out with the French; they always say so."

"You're still in England, then," said Jane, and silently cursed herself for the extreme inanity of her remark.

"Yes. My father has been to Edinburgh to give a lecture there, and we have stayed with friends also. But now - tomorrow - we return to France."

"I see."

"The police, they have not made an arrest yet?" said Jean Dupont.

"No. There's not even been anything about it in the papers lately. Perhaps they've given it up."

Jean Dupont shook his head.

"No, no, they will not have given it up. They work silently -" he made an expressive gesture - "in the dark."

"Don't," said Jane uneasily. "You give me the creeps."

"Yes, it is not a very nice feeling - to have been so close when a murder was committed." He added: "And I was closer than you were. I was very close indeed. Sometimes I do not like to think of that."

"Who do you think did it?" asked Jane. "I've wondered and wondered."

Jean Dupont shrugged his shoulders.

"It was not I. She was far too ugly!"

"Well," said Jane, "I suppose you would rather kill an ugly woman than a good-looking one?"

"Not at all. If a woman is good-looking, you are fond of her; she treats you badly; she makes you jealous, mad with jealousy. 'Good,' you say,

'I will kill her. It will be a satisfaction.'"

"And is it a satisfaction?"

"That, mademoiselle, I do not know. Because I have not yet tried." He laughed, then shook his head. "But an ugly old woman like Giselle - who would want to bother to kill her?"

"Well, that's one way of looking at it," said Jane. She frowned. "It seems rather terrible, somehow, to think that perhaps she was young and pretty once."

"I know, I know." He became suddenly grave. "It is the great tragedy of life - that women grow old."

"You seem to think a lot about women and their looks," said Jane.