‘Well, the two men were apparently not on very good terms. Lowen is a speculator in quite a small way. Nevertheless, he has been able once or twice to score a coup off Davenheim in the market, though it seems they seldom or never actually met. It was a matter concerning some South American shares which led the banker to make his appointment.’

‘Had Davenheim interests in South America, then?’

‘I believe so. Mrs Davenheim happened to mention that he spent all last autumn in Buenos Aires.’

‘Any trouble in his home life? Were the husband and wife on good terms?’

‘I should say his domestic life was quite peaceful and uneventful. Mrs Davenheim is a pleasant, rather unintelligent woman. Quite a nonentity, I think.’

‘Then we must not look for the solution of the mystery there. Had he any enemies?’

‘He had plenty of financial rivals, and no doubt there are many people whom he has got the better of who bear him no particular goodwill. But there was no one likely to make away with him—and, if they had, where is the body?’

‘Exactly. As Hastings says, bodies have a habit of coming to light with fatal persistency.’

‘By the way, one of the gardeners says he saw a figure going round to the side of the house towards the rose-garden. The long french window of the study opens on to the rose-garden, and Mr Davenheim frequently entered and left the house that way. But the man was a good way off, at work on some cucumber frames, and cannot even say whether it was the figure of his master or not. Also, he cannot fix the time with any accuracy. It must have been before six, as the gardeners cease work at that time.’

‘And Mr Davenheim left the house?’

‘About half-past five or thereabouts.’

‘What lies beyond the rose-garden?’

‘A lake.’

‘With a boathouse?’

‘Yes, a couple of punts are kept there. I suppose you’re thinking of suicide, Monsieur Poirot? Well, I don’t mind telling you that Miller’s going down tomorrow expressly to see that piece of water dragged. That’s the kind of man he is!’

Poirot smiled faintly, and turned to me. ‘Hastings, I pray you, hand me that copy of Daily Megaphone. If I remember rightly, there is an unusually clear photograph there of the missing man.’

I rose, and found the sheet required. Poirot studied the features attentively.

‘H’m!’ he murmured. ‘Wears his hair rather long and wavy, full moustache and pointed beard, bushy eyebrows. Eyes dark?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hair and beard turning grey?’

The detective nodded. ‘Well, Monsieur Poirot, what have you got to say to it all? Clear as daylight, eh?’

‘On the contrary, most obscure.’

The Scotland Yard man looked pleased.

‘Which gives me great hopes of solving it,’ finished Poirot placidly.

‘Eh?’