Poirot asked a few more questions, then dismissed the butler with the command to request Miss Cleves to come to him.

She came immediately, and he studied her attentively in view of Barling’s revelations. She was certainly beautiful in her white satin frock with the rosebud on the shoulder.

He explained the circumstances which had brought him to Lytcham Close, eyeing her very closely, but she showed only what seemed to be genuine astonishment, with no signs of uneasiness. She spoke of Marshall indifferently with tepid approval. Only at mention of Barling did she approach animation.

‘That man’s a crook,’ she said sharply. ‘I told the Old Man so, but he wouldn’t listen–went on putting money into his rotten concerns.’

‘Are you sorry, mademoiselle, that your–father is dead?’

She stared at him.

‘Of course. I’m modern, you know, M. Poirot. I don’t indulge in sob stuff. But I was fond of the Old Man. Though, of course, it’s best for him.’

‘Best for him?’

‘Yes. One of these days he would have had to be locked up. It was growing on him–this belief that the last Lytcham Roche of Lytcham Close was omnipotent.’

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

‘I see, I see–yes, decided signs of mental trouble. By the way, you permit that I examine your little bag? It is charming–all these silk rosebuds. What was I saying? Oh, yes, did you hear the shot?’

‘Oh, yes! But I thought it was a car or a poacher, or something.’

‘You were in the drawing room?’

‘No. I was out in the garden.’

‘I see. Thank you, mademoiselle. Next I would like to see M. Keene, is it not?’

‘Geoffrey? I’ll send him along.’

Keene came in, alert and interested.

‘Mr Barling has been telling me of the reason for your being down here. I don’t know that there’s anything I can tell you, but if I can–’

Poirot interrupted him. ‘I only want to know one thing, Monsieur Keene. What was it that you stooped and picked up just before we got to the study door this evening?’

‘I–’ Keene half sprang up from his chair, then subsided again. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said lightly.

‘Oh, I think you do, monsieur. You were behind me, I know, but a friend of mine he says I have eyes in the back of my head. You picked up something and you put it in the right hand pocket of your dinner jacket.’

There was a pause. Indecision was written plainly on Keene’s handsome face. At last he made up his mind.

‘Take your choice, M. Poirot,’ he said, and leaning forward he turned his pocket inside out. There was a cigarette holder, a handkerchief, a tiny silk rosebud, and a little gold match box.