alone at a table in the corner. She looked at

no one.

Afterwards, as Poirot was sitting in the

lounge, the manager came to him and was

confidential.

Monsieur must not judge the hotel too

hardly. It was out of the season. No one

came here till the end of July. That lady,

Monsieur had noticed her, perhaps? She

came at this time every year. Her husband

had been killed climbing three years ago.

It was very sad. They had been very

devoted. She came here always before the

season commenced — so as to be quiet. It

was a sacred pilgrimage. The elderly

gentleman was a famous doctor. Dr. Karl

Lutz, from Vienna. He had come here, so

he said, for quiet and repose.

"It is peaceful, yes,33 agreed Hercule

Poirot. "And ces Messieurs there?" He

indicated the three horsy men. "Do they

also seek repose do you think ?"

The manager shrugged his shoulders.

Again there appeared in his eyes that

worried look. He said vaguely:

143

"Ah, the tourists, they wish always a

new experience . . . The altitude--that

alone is a new sensation."

It was not, Poirot thought, a very

pleasant sensation. He was conscious of his

own rapidly beating heart. The lines of a

nursery rhyme ran idiotically through his

mind. "Up above the world so high. Like a

tea tray in the sky."

Schwartz came into the lounge. His eyes

brightened when he saw Poirot. He came over to him at once.

"Pve been talking to that Doctor. He

speaks English after a fashion. He's a Jew

--been turned out of Austria by the

Nazis. Say, I guess those people are just

crazy! This Doctor Lutz was quite a big

man, I gather --nerve specialist --psychoanalysis

--that kind of stuff."

His eyes went to where the tall woman

was looking out of a window at remorseless

mountains. He lowered his voice.

cc! got her name from the waiter. She's

a Madame Grandier. Her husband was

killed climbing. That's why she comes

here. I sort of feel, don't you, that we

ought to do something about it --try to

take her out of herself?"

144

Hercule Poirot said:

"If I were you I should not attempt it."

But the friendliness of Mr. Schwartz was

indefatigable.

Poirot saw him make his overtures, saw

the remorseless way in which they were

rebuffed. The two stood together for a

minute silhouetted against the light. The

woman was taller than Schwartz. Her head

was thrown back and her expression was

cold and forbidding.

He did not hear what she said, but

Schwartz came back looking crestfallen.

"Nothing doing," he said. He added

wistfully: "Seems to me that as we're all

human beings together there's no reason

we shouldn't be friendly to one another.

Don't you agree. Air.— You know, I don't

know your name ?"

"My name," said Poirot, "is Poirier." He added: "I am a silk merchant from Lyons."

"I'd like to give you my card, M.