A moment’s silence and then Keene said, ‘As a matter of fact it was this.’ He picked up the match box. ‘I must have dropped it earlier in the evening.’

‘I think not,’ said Poirot.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What I say. I, monsieur, am a man of tidiness, of method, of order. A match box on the ground, I should see it and pick it up–a match box of this size, assuredly I should see it! No, monsieur, I think it was something very much smaller–such as this, perhaps.’

He picked up the little silk rosebud.

‘From Miss Cleve’s bag, I think?’

There was a moment’s pause, then Keene admitted it with a laugh.

‘Yes, that’s so. She–gave it to me last night.’

‘I see,’ said Poirot, and at the moment the door opened and a tall fair-haired man in a lounge suit strode into the room.

‘Keene–what’s all this? Lytcham Roche shot himself? Man, I can’t believe it. It’s incredible.’

‘Let me introduce you,’ said Keene, ‘to M. Hercule Poirot.’ The other started. ‘He will tell you all about it.’ And he left the room, banging the door.

‘M. Poirot–’ John Marshall was all eagerness ‘–I’m most awfully pleased to meet you. It is a bit of luck your being down here. Lytcham Roche never told me you were coming. I’m a most frightful admirer of yours, sir.’

A disarming young man, thought Poirot–not so young, either, for there was grey hair at the temples and lines in the forehead. It was the voice and manner that gave the impression of boyishness.

‘The police–’

‘They are here now, sir. I came up with them on hearing the news. They don’t seem particularly surprised. Of course, he was mad as a hatter, but even then–’

‘Even then you are surprised at his committing suicide?’

‘Frankly, yes. I shouldn’t have thought that–well, that Lytcham Roche could have imagined the world getting on without him.’

‘He has had money troubles of late, I understand?’

Marshall nodded.

‘He speculated. Wildcat schemes of Barling’s.’

Poirot said quietly, ‘I will be very frank. Had you any reason to suppose that Mr Lytcham Roche suspected you of tampering with your accounts?’

Marshall stared at Poirot in a kind of ludicrous bewilderment. So ludicrous was it that Poirot was forced to smile.

‘I see that you are utterly taken aback, Captain Marshall.’

‘Yes, indeed. The idea’s ridiculous.’

‘Ah! Another question. He did not suspect you of robbing him of his adopted daughter?’

‘Oh, so you know about me and Di?’ He laughed in an embarrassed fashion.

‘It is so, then?’

Marshall nodded.