“Yes.”

“And you have been married how long?”

“Just over four years.”

“And her name before she was married?”

“Helen Stuart. Her acting name was Arlena Stuart.”

“She was an actress?”

“She appeared in Revue and musical shows.”

“Did she give up the stage on her marriage?”

“No. She continued to appear. She actually retired only about a year and a half ago.”

“Was there any special reason for her retirement?”

Kenneth Marshall appeared to consider.

“No,” he said. “She simply said that she was tired of it all.”

“It was not—er—in obedience to your special wish?”

Marshall raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, no.”

“You were quite content for her to continue acting after your marriage?”

Marshall smiled very faintly.

“I should have preferred her to give it up—that, yes. But I made no fuss about it.”

“It caused no point of dissension between you?”

“Certainly not. My wife was free to please herself.”

“And—the marriage was a happy one?”

“Kenneth Marshall said coldly:

“Certainly.”

Colonel Weston paused a minute. Then he said:

“Captain Marshall, have you any idea who could possibly have killed your wife?”

The answer came without the least hesitation.

“None whatever.”

“Had she any enemies?”

“Possibly.”

“Ah?”

The other went on quickly. He said:

“Don’t misunderstand me, sir. My wife was an actress. She was also a very good-looking woman. In both capacities she aroused a certain amount of jealousy and envy. There were fusses over parts—there was rivalry from other women—there was a good deal, shall we say, of general envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness! But that is not to say that there was anyone who was capable of deliberately murdering her.”

Hercule Poirot spoke for the first time. He said:

“What you really mean, Monsieur, is that her enemies were mostly or entirely, women?”

Kenneth Marshall looked across at him.

“Yes,” he said. “That is so.”

The Chief Constable said:

“You know of no man who had a grudge against her?”

“No.”

“Was she previously acquainted with anyone in this hotel?”

“I believe she had met Mr. Redfern before—at some cocktail party. Nobody else to my knowledge.”

Weston paused. He seemed to deliberate as to whether to pursue the subject. Then he decided against that course. He said:

“We now come to this morning. When was the last time you saw your wife?”

Marshall paused a minute, then he said:

“I looked in on my way down to breakfast—”

“Excuse me, you occupied separate rooms?”

“Yes.”

“And what time was that?”

“It must have been about nine o’clock.”

“What was she doing?”

“She was opening her letters.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Nothing of any particular interest. Just good morning—and that it was a nice day—that sort of thing.”

“What was her manner? Unusual at all?”

“No, perfectly normal.”

“She did not seem excited, or depressed, or upset in any way?”

“I certainly didn’t notice it.”

Hercule Poirot said:

“Did she mention at all what were the contents of her letters?”

Again a faint smile appeared on Marshall’s lips. He said: