"That's hardly a question in my line," said Spence.

"You think not? I think it is. Character, mon cher, does not stand still. It can gather strength. It can also deteriorate. What a person really is, is only apparent when the test comes - that is, the moment when you stand or fall on your own feet."

"I don't really know what you are getting at, M. Poirot." Spence looked bewildered. "Anyway, the Cloades are all right now. Or will be, once the legal formalities are through."

That, Poirot reminded him, might take some time. "There is still Mrs Gordon Cloade's evidence to shake. After all, a woman should know her own husband when she sees him?"

He put his head a little on one side and gazed inquiringly at the big Superintendent.

"Isn't it worth while to a woman not to recognise her husband if the income of a couple of million pounds depends on it?" asked the Superintendent cynically. "Besides, if he wasn't Robert Underhay, why was he killed?"

"That," murmured Poirot, "is indeed the question."

Chapter 6

Poirot left the police station frowning to himself. His steps grew slower as he walked. In the market square he paused, looking about him. There was Dr Cloade's house with its worn brass plate, and a little way along was the post office. On the other side was Jeremy Cloade's house.

In front of Poirot, set back a little, was the Roman Catholic Church of the Assumption, a small modest affair, a shrinking violet compared to the aggressiveness of St. Mary's which stood arrogantly in the middle of the square facing the Cornmarket, and proclaiming the dominance of the Protestant religion.

Moved by an impulse Poirot went through the gate and along the path to the door of the Roman Catholic building.

He removed his hat, genuflected in front of the altar and knelt down behind one of the chairs. His prayers were interrupted by the sound of stifled heartbroken sobs.

He turned his head. Across the aisle a woman in a dark dress was kneeling, her head buried in her hands. Presently she got up and, still sobbing under her breath, went towards the door. Poirot, his eyes wide with interest, got up and followed her. He had recognised Rosaleen Cloade.

She stood in the porch, fighting for control, and there Poirot spoke to her, very gently:

"Madame, can I help you?"

She showed no signs of surprise, but answered with the simplicity of an unhappy child.

"No," she said. "No one can help me."

"You are in very bad trouble. That is it, is it not?"

She said: "They've taken David away... I'm all alone. They say he killed

-But he didn't! He didn't!"

She looked at Poirot and said: "You were there today? At the inquest. I saw you!"

"Yes. If I can help you, Madame, I shall be very glad to do so."