Hercule Poirot said gently:

299

"But who brought it here ?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know. ... It might have been

Tony — Tony Hawker. But I don't really

know anything about it."

Poirot said gently:

"Is it the first time you have taken

cocaine. Mademoiselle ?"

She nodded.

"You'd better make it the last," said

Stoddart brusquely.

"Yes — I suppose so — but it was rather

marvellous."

"Now look here, Sheila Grant," said

Stoddart. "I'm a doctor and I know what

I'm talking about. Once start this drugtaking

racket and you'll land yourself in

unbelievable misery. I've seen some and

I know. Drugs ruin people, body and soul.

Drink's a gentle little picnic compared to

drugs. Cut it right out from this minute.

Believe me, it isn't funny! What do you

think your father would say to tonight's

business ?"

"Father?" Sheila Grant's voice rose.

"Father?" She began to laugh. "I can

just see Father's face! He mustn't know

about it. He'd have seven fits!"

300

"And quite right too," said Stoddart. "Doctor --doctor --" the long wail of Mrs. Grace's voice came from the other

room.

Stoddart muttered something uncomplimentary

under his breath and went out of

the room.

Sheila Grant stared at Poirot again.

She was puzzled. She said:

"Who are you really? You weren't at

the party.55

"No, I was not at the party. I am a friend

of Dr. Stoddart's."

"You're a doctor, too? You don't look

like a doctor."

"My name," said Poirot, contriving

as usual to make the simple statement

sound like the curtain of the first

act of a play, "my name is Hercule

Poirot...."

The statement did not fail of its effect.

Occasionally Poirot was distressed to find

that a callous younger generation had

never heard of him.

But it was evident that Sheila Grant

had heard of him. She was flabbergasted

--dumbfounded. She stared and

stared. . . .

301

Ill

It has been said, with or without justification

for the statement, that everyone

has an aunt in Torquay.

It has also been said that everyone has

at least a second cousin in Mertonshire.

Mertonshire is a reasonable distance from

London, it has hunting, shooting and

fishing, it has several very picturesque but

slightly self-conscious villages, it has a good

system of railways and a new arterial road

facilitates motoring to and from the metropolis.

Servants object to it less than they

do to other, more rural, portions of the

British Isles. As a result, it is practically

impossible to live in Mertonshire unless

you have an income that runs into four

figures, and what with income-tax and one

thing and another, five figures is better.

Hercule Poirot being a foreigner, had

no second cousins in the county, but he

had acquired by now a large circle of

friends and he had no difficulty in getting

himself invited for a visit in that part of

the world. He had, moreover, selected as

hostess a dear lady whose chief delight was