"Yes, we'd already put through an inquiry about calls from that number. There was a Toll call out at 11.04 to Warmsley Vale 36. That's the Marchmonts' number."

"Very, very interesting," murmured Poirot.

But Spence was going on painstakingly and methodically.

"Rowley Cloade left Arden at five minutes to nine. He's quite definite it wasn't earlier. About 9.10 Lynn Marchmont sees Hunter up at Mardon Wood. Granted he's run all the way from the Stag, would he have had time to meet Arden, quarrel with him, kill him and get to Mardon Wood?

We're going into it and I don't think it can be done. However, now we're starting again. Far from Arden being killed at nine o'clock, he was alive at ten minutes past ten - that is unless your old lady is dreaming. He was either killed by the woman who dropped the lipstick, the woman in the orange scarf - or by somebody who came in after that woman left. And whoever did it, deliberately put the hands of the watch back to nine-ten."

"Which if David Hunter had not happened to meet Lynn Marchmont in a very unlikely place would have been remarkably awkward for him?" said Poirot.

"Yes, it would. The 9.20 is the last train up from Warmsley Heath. It was growing dark. There are always golfers going back by it. Nobody would have noticed Hunter - indeed the station people don't know him by sight. And he didn't take a taxi at the other end. So we'd only have his sister's word for it that he arrived back at Shepherd's Court when he said he did."

Poirot was silent and Spence asked:

"What are you thinking about, M. Poirot?"

Poirot said, "A long walk round the White House. A meeting in Mardon Woods. A telephone call later... And Lynn Marchmont is engaged to Rowley Cloade... I should like very much to know what was said over that telephone call."

"It's the human interest that's getting you?"

"Yes," said Poirot. "It is always the human interest."

Chapter 8

It was getting late, but there was still one more call that Poirot wanted to make. He went along to Jeremy Cloade's house.

There he was shown into Jeremy Cloade's study by a small intelligent- looking maid.

Left alone, Poirot gazed interestedly round him. All very legal and dry as dust, he thought, even in his home. There was a large portrait of Gordon Cloade on the desk. Another faded one of Lord Edward Trenton on a horse, and Poirot was examining the latter when Jeremy Cloade came in.

"Ah, pardon." Poirot put the photoframe down in some confusion.

"My wife's father," said Jeremy, a faint self-congratulatory note in his voice. "And one of his best horses. Chestnut Trenton. Ran second in the Derby in 1924. Are you interested in racing?"

"Alas, no."

"Runs away with a lot of money," said Jeremy dryly. "Lord Edward came a crash over it - had to go and live abroad. Yes, an expensive sport."