He took the letter with his name on it and ripped open the envelope. Inside were a few lines of writing in Linda’s prim schoolgirl hand.

I think this is the best way out. Ask Father to try and forgive me. I killed Arlena. I thought I should be glad—but I’m not. I am very sorry for everything.

III

They were assembled in the lounge—Marshall, the Redferns, Rosamund Darnley and Hercule Poirot.

They sat there silent—waiting….

The door opened and Dr. Neasden came in. He said curtly:

“I’ve done all I can. She may pull through—but I’m bound to tell you that there’s not much hope.”

He paused. Marshall, his face stiff, his eyes a cold frosty blue, asked:

“How did she get hold of the stuff?”

Neasden opened the door again and beckoned.

The chambermaid came into the room. She had been crying:

Neasden said:

“Just tell us again what you saw.”

Sniffing, the girl said:

“I never thought—I never thought for a minute there was anything wrong—though the young lady did seem rather strange about it.” A slight gesture of impatience from the doctor started her off again. “She was in the other lady’s room. Mrs. Redfern’s. Your room, Madam. Over at the washstand, and she took up a little bottle. She did give a bit of a jump when I came in, and I thought it was queer her taking things from your room, but then, of course, it might be something she’d lent you. She just said: ‘Oh, this is what I’m looking for—’ and went out.”

Christine said almost in a whisper.

“My sleeping tablets.”

The doctor said brusquely:

“How did she know about them?”

Christine said:

“I gave her one. The night after it happened. She told me she couldn’t sleep. She—I remember her saying—‘Will one be enough?’—and I said, Oh yes, they were very strong—that I’d been cautioned never to take more than two at most.” Neasden nodded: “She made pretty sure,” he said. “Took six of them.”

Christine sobbed again.

“Oh dear, I feel it’s my fault. I should have kept them locked up.”

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

“It might have been wiser, Mrs. Redfern.”

Christine said despairingly:

“She’s dying—and it’s my fault….”

Kenneth Marshall stirred in his chair. He said:

“No, you can’t blame yourself. Linda knew what she was doing. She took them deliberately. Perhaps—perhaps it was best.”

He looked down at the crumpled note in his hand—the note that Poirot had silently handed to him.

Rosamund Darnley cried out.

“I don’t believe it. I don’t believe Linda killed her. Surely it’s impossible—on the evidence!”

Christine said eagerly:

“Yes, she can’t have done it! She must have got overwrought and imagined it all.”

The door opened and Colonel Weston came in. He said: