“Nonsense, man, it’s a beautiful day. Calm as a mill pond. You can’t let us down, you know.”

Hercule Poirot hardly looked like responding to this British adjuration. But at that moment, Mrs. Castle poked her ladylike face and elaborate coiffure round the door.

“Ay’m sure ay hope ay am not intruding,” she said. “But Mr. Lane, the clergyman, you know, has just returned. Ay thought you might like to know.”

“Ah yes, thanks, Mrs. Castle. We’ll see him right away.”

Mrs. Castle came a little farther into the room. She said:

“Ay don’t know if it is worth mentioning, but ay have heard that the smallest incident should not be ignored—”

“Yes, yes?” said Weston impatiently.

“It is only that there was a lady and gentleman here about one o’clock. Came over from the mainland. For luncheon. They were informed that there had been an accident and that under the circumstances no luncheons could be served.”

“Any idea who they were?”

“Ay couldn’t say at all. Naturally no name was given. They expressed disappointment and a certain amount of curiosity as to the nature of the accident. Ay couldn’t tell them anything, of course. Ay should say, myself, they were summer visitors of the better class.”

Weston said brusquely:

“Ah well, thank you for telling us. Probably not important but quite right—er—to remember everything.”

“Naturally,” said Mrs. Castle, “ay wish to do my Duty!”

“Quite, quite. Ask Mr. Lane to come here.”

V

Stephen Lane strode into the room with his usual vigour.

Weston said:

“I’m the Chief Constable of the County, Mr. Lane. I suppose you’ve been told what has occurred here?”

“Yes—oh yes—I heard as soon as I got here. Terrible… Terrible…” His thin frame quivered. He said in a low voice: “All along—ever since I arrived here—I have been conscious—very conscious—of the forces of evil close at hand.”

His eyes, burning eager eyes, went to Hercule Poirot.

He said:

“You remember, M. Poirot? Our conversation some days ago? About the reality of evil?”

Weston was studying the tall, gaunt figure in some perplexity. He found it difficult to make this man out. Lane’s eyes came back to him. The clergyman said with a slight smile:

“I dare say that seems fantastic to you, sir. We have left off believing in evil in these days. We have abolished Hell fire! We no longer believe in the Devil! But Satan and Satan’s emissaries were never more powerful than they are today!”

Weston said:

“Er—er—yes, perhaps. That, Mr. Lane, is your province. Mine is more prosaic—to clear up a case of murder.”

Stephen Lane said:

“An awful word. Murder! One of the earliest sins known on earth—the ruthless shedding of an innocent brother’s blood…” He paused, his eyes half closed. Then, in a more ordinary voice he said: