George retreated, returning presently to announce formally:

"Mrs Cloade."

The figure in the worn tweeds and the floating scarf came in with a beaming face. She advanced to Poirot with an outstretched hand, all her bead necklaces swinging and clinking.

"M. Poirot," she said, "I have come to you under spirit guidance."

Poirot blinked slightly.

"Indeed, Madame. Perhaps you will take a seat and tell me -"

He got no further.

"Both ways, M. Poirot. With the automatic writing and with the ouija board. It was the night before last. Madame Elvary (a wonderful woman she is) and I were using the board. We got the same initials repeatedly. H.P. H.P. H.P. Of course I did not get the true significance at once. It takes, you know, a little time. One cannot, on this earthly plane, see clearly. I racked my brains thinking of someone with those initials. I knew it must connect up with the last seance - really a most poignant one, but it was some time before I got it. And then I bought a copy of Picture Post (Spirit guidance again, you see, because usually I buy the New Statesman) and there you were - a picture of you, and described, and an account of what you had done. It is wonderful, don't you think, M. Poirot, how everything has a purpose? Clearly, you are the person appointed by the Guides to elucidate this matter."

Poirot surveyed her thoughtfully.

Strangely enough the thing that really caught his attention was that she had remarkably shrewd light-blue eyes. They gave point, as it were, to her rambling method of approach.

"And what, Mrs - Cloade - is that right?" He frowned. "I seem to have heard the name some time ago -"

She nodded vehemently.

"My poor brother-in-law - Gordon. Immensely rich and often mentioned in the press. He was killed in the Blitz over a year ago - a great blow to all of us. My husband is his younger brother. He is a doctor. Dr Lionel Cloade... Of course," she added, lowering her voice, "he has no idea that I am consulting you. He would not approve. Doctors, I find, have a very materialistic outlook. The spiritual seems to be strangely hidden from them. They pin their faith on Science - but what I say is... what is Science - what can it do?"

There seemed, to Hercule Poirot, to be no answer to the question other than a meticulous and painstaking description embracing Pasteur, Lister, Humphrey Davy's safety lamp - the convenience of electricity in the home and several hundred other kindred items. But that, naturally, was not the answer Mrs Lionel Cloade wanted. In actual fact her question, like so many questions, was not really a question at all. It was a mere rhetorical gesture.

Hercule Poirot contented himself with inquiring in a practical manner:

"In what way do you believe I can help you, Mrs Cloade?"

"Do you believe in the reality of the spirit world, M. Poirot?"