All the people concerned were secretly surprised to find how much they enjoyed this interlude. It was, perhaps, because it afforded an escape from an atmosphere of suspicion and dread. Here, with the trickling of the water, the soft peaty smell in the air and the warm colouring of bracken and heather, a world of murder and police inquiries and suspicion seemed blotted out as though it had never existed. Even Mr. Blatt forgot to be the life and soul of the party. After lunch he went to sleep a little distance away and subdued snores testified to his blissful unconsciousness.

It was quite a grateful party of people who packed up the picnic baskets and congratulated Hercule Poirot on his good idea.

The sun was sinking as they returned along the narrow winding lanes. From the top of the hill above Leathercombe Bay they had a brief glimpse of the island with the white hotel on it.

It looked peaceful and innocent in the setting sun.

Mrs. Gardener, not loquacious for once, sighed and said:

“I really do thank you, M. Poirot. I feel so calm. It’s just wonderful.”

II

Major Barry came out to greet them on arrival.

“Hullo,” he said. “Had a good day?”

Mrs. Gardener said:

“Indeed we did. The moors were just too lovely for anything. So English and old world. And the air delicious and invigorating. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for being so lazy as to stay behind.”

The Major chuckled.

“I’m too old for that kind of thing—sitting on a patch of bog and eating sandwiches.”

A chambermaid had come out of the hotel. She was a little out of breath. She hesitated for a moment then came swiftly up to Christine Redfern.

Hercule Poirot recognized her as Glady’s Narracott. Her voice came quick and uneven.

“Excuse me, Madam, but I’m worried about the young lady. About Miss Marshall. I took her up some tea just now and I couldn’t get her to wake, and she looks so—so queer somehow.”

Christine looked round helplessly. Poirot was at her side in a moment. His hand under her elbow he said quietly:

“We will go up and see.”

They hurried up the stairs and along the passage to Linda’s room.

One glance at her was enough to tell them both that something was very wrong. She was an odd colour and her breathing was hardly perceptible.

Poirot’s hand went to her pulse. At the same time he noticed an envelope stuck up against the lamp on the bedside table. It was addressed to himself.

Captain Marshall came quickly into the room. He said:

“What’s this about Linda? What’s the matter with her?”

A small frightened sob came from Christine Redfern.

Hercule Poirot turned from the bed. He said to Marshall:

“Get a doctor—as quick as you possibly can. But I’m afraid—very much afraid—it may be too late.”