"God rest, his soul," she said. "I've never seen that man in my life. I don't know who he is."

Spence thought to himself:

"Either you're one of the finest actresses I've ever known or else you're speaking the truth."

Later, Spence rang up Rowley Cloade.

"I've had the widow down," he said. "She says definitely that he's not Robert Underhay, and that she's never seen him before. So that settles that!"

There was a pause. Then Rowley said slowly:

"Does it settle it?"

"I think a jury would believe her - in the absence of evidence to the contrary, of course."

"Ye-es," said Rowley and rang off.

Then, frowning, he picked up not the local telephone directory, but the London one. His forefingers ran methodically down the letter P. Presently he found what he wanted.

BOOK II

Chapter 1

Hercule Poirot carefully folded the last of the newspapers he had sent George out to purchase. The information they gave was somewhat meagre. Medical evidence was given that the man's skull was fractured by a series of heavy blows. The inquest had been adjourned for a fortnight. Anybody who could give information about a man named Enoch Arden believed to have lately arrived from Cape Town was asked to communicate with the Chief Constable of Oatshire.

Poirot laid the papers in a neat pile and gave himself up to meditation. He was interested. He might, perhaps, have passed the first small paragraph by without interest if it had not been for the recent visit of Mrs Lionel Cloade. But that visit had recalled to him very clearly the incidents of that day at the Club during that Air Raid. He remembered, very distinctly, Major Porter's voice saying, "Maybe a Mr Enoch Arden will turn up somewhere a thousand miles away and start life anew." He wanted now, rather badly, to know more about this man called Enoch Arden who had died by violence at Warmsley Vale.

He remembered that he was slightly acquainted with Superintendent Spence of the Oatshire police and he also remembered that young Mellon lived not very far from Warmsley Heath, and that young Mellon knew Jeremy Cloade.

It was while he was meditating a telephone call to young Mellon that George came in and announced that a Mr Rowland Cloade would like to see him.

"Aha," said Hercule Poirot with satisfaction. "Show him in."

A good-looking worried young man was shown in, and seemed rather at a loss how to begin.

"Well, Mr Cloade," said Poirot helpfully, "and what can I do for you?"

Rowley Cloade was eyeing Poirot rather doubtfully. The flamboyant moustaches, the sartorial elegance, the white spats and the pointed patent leather shoes all filled this insular young man with distinct misgivings.

Poirot realised this perfectly well, and was somewhat amused.

Rowley Cloade began rather heavily:

"I'm afraid I'll have to explain who I am and all that. You won't know my name -"

Poirot interrupted him:

"But yes, I know your name perfectly. Your aunt, you see, came to see me last week."