"It's broken him up completely," Frobisher

spoke shortly.

"He is very fond of his son ?"

"Wrapped up in the boy. You see, his

wife was drowned in a boating accident

when the boy was only ten years old.

Since then he's lived for nothing but the

child."

"Was he very devoted to his wife ?"

"Worshipped her. Everybody worshipped

her. She was --she was one of the

loveliest women I've ever known." He

paused a moment and then said jerkily, "Care to see her portrait ?"

"I should like to see it very much."

Frobisher pushed back his chair and

rose. Aloud he said:

"Going to show M. Poirot one or two

things, Charles. He's a bit of a con

*»

noisseur."

The Admiral raised a vague hand. Frobisher

tramped along the terrace and

Poirot followed him. For a moment Diana's

face dropped its mask of gaiety and looked

^5

an agonised question. Hugh, too, raised

his head, and looked steadily at the small

man with the big black moustache.

Poirot followed Frobisher into the house.

It was so dim at first coming in out of the

sunlight that he could hardly distinguish

one article from another. But he realised

that the house was full of old and beautiful

things.

Colonel Frobisher led the way to the

Picture Gallery. On the panelled walls

hung portraits of dead and gone Chandlers.

Faces stern and gay, men in court dress

or in Naval uniform. Women in satin and

pearls.

Finally Probisher stopped under a

portrait at the end of the gallery.

"Painted by Orpen,33 he said gruffly.

They stood looking up at a tall woman, her hand on a greyhound's collar. A woman with auburn hair and an expression of

radiant vitality.

"Boy's the spitting image of her," said

Frobisher. "Don't you think so ?33

"In some things, yes.55

"He hasn't got her delicacy --her femininity, of course. He's a masculine edition

--but in all the essential things --" He

256

broke off. "Pity he inherited from the

Chandlers the one thing he could well have

done without. . . ."

They were silent. There was melancholy

in the air all around them—as though

dead and gone Chandlers sighed for the

taint that lay in their blood and which,

remorselessly, from time to time, they

passed on. . . .

Hercule Poirot turned his head to look

at his companion. George Frobisher was

still gazing up at the beautiful woman on

the wall above him. And Poirot said softly:

"You knew her well. ..."

Frobisher spoke jerkily.

"We were boy and girl together. I went

off as a subaltern to India when she was

sixteen. . . . When I got back — she was

married to Charles Chandler."

"You knew him well also ?"

"Charles is one of my oldest friends. He's

my best friend — always has been."

"Did you see much of them — after the

marriage ?"

"Used to spend most of my leaves here.

Like a second home to me, this place.