In my opinion," said Poiro t, "a girl is entitled to attempt desperate measures to get her man." "I shouldn't have thought she had the brains to think it up," said Mrs. Hubbard.

Poirot did not reply. He frowned. Mrs.

Hubbard went on.

"So the whole thing's been a mare's nest! I really do apologise, M. Poirot, for taking p your time over such a trivial business.

Anyway, all's well that ends well." "No, no." Poirot shook his head. "I do not think we are at the end yet. We have cleared out of the way somethin, rather trivial that was at the front of the Z, picture. But there are things still that are not explained and me, I have the impression that we have here something serious-really serious." Mrs. Hubbard's face clouded over again.

"Oh, Mr. Poirot, do you really think so?" "It is my impression. . . . I wonder, Madame, if I could speak to Miss Patricia Lane. I would like to examine the ring that was stolen." "Why, of course, Mr. Poirot. I'll go down and send her up to you. I want to speak to Len Bateson about something." Patricia Lane came in shortly afterward with an inquiring look on her face.

"T am so sorry to disturb you, Miss Lane." "Oh, that's all right. I wasn't busy.

Mrs. Hubbard said you wanted to see my ring." She slipped it off her finger and held it out to him.

"It's quite a large diamond really, but of course it's an old fashioned setting. It was mymother's engagement ring." Poirot, who was examining the ring, nodded his head.

"She is alive still, your mother?" "No. Both my parents are dead." "That is sad." "Yes. They were both very nice people but somehow I was never quiet so close to them as I ought to have been.

One regrets that afterwards. My mother wanted a frivolous pretty daughter, a daughter who was fond of clothes and social things. She was very disappointed when I took up archeology." "You have always been of a serious turn of mind?" "I think so, really. One feels life is so short one ought really to be doing something worth while." Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.

Patricia Lane was, he guessed, in her early thirties. Apart from a smear of lipstick, carelessly applied, she wore no make-up. Her mouse coloured hair was combed back from her face and arranged without artifice. Her quite pleasant blue eyes looked at you seriously through glasses.

"No allure, bon Dieu," said Poirot to himself with feeling. "And her clothes! What is it they say? Dragged through a hedge backwards?

Ma for, that expresses it exactly!" He was disapproving. He found Patricia's well bred unaccented tones wearisome to the ear. "She is intelligent and cultured, this girl," he said to himself, "and, alas, every year she will grow more boring!

In old age-was His mind darted for a fleeting moment to the memory of the Countess Vera Rossakoff.