“I say, Mother, I suppose you couldn’t let me have a spot of cash. I’m absolutely broke.”

“No, I couldn’t,” his mother replied decisively. “I’ve got the most frightful overdraft myself. I don’t know what your father will say when he hears about it.”

There was a tap at the door and Sir George entered.

“Ah, there you are, Reggie. Will you go down to the library? M. Hercule Poirot wants to see you.”

Poirot had just concluded an interview with the redoubtable Mrs. Macatta.

A few brief questions had elicited the information that Mrs. Macatta had gone up to bed just before eleven, and had heard or seen nothing helpful.

Poirot slid gently from the topic of the burglary to more personal matters. He himself had a great admiration for Lord Mayfield. As a member of the general public he felt that Lord Mayfield was a truly great man. Of course, Mrs. Macatta, being in the know, would have a far better means of estimating that than himself.

“Lord Mayfield has brains,” allowed Mrs. Macatta. “And he has carved his career out entirely for himself. He owes nothing to hereditary influence. He has a certain lack of vision, perhaps. In that I find all men sadly alike. They lack the breadth of a woman’s imagination. Woman, M. Poirot, is going to be the great force in government in ten years’ time.”

Poirot said that he was sure of it.

He slid to the topic of Mrs. Vanderlyn. Was it true, as he had heard hinted, that she and Lord Mayfield were very close friends?

“Not in the least. To tell you the truth I was very surprised to meet her here. Very surprised indeed.”

Poirot invited Mrs. Macatta’s opinion of Mrs. Vanderlyn—and got it.

“One of those absolutely useless women, M. Poirot. Women that make one despair of one’s own sex! A parasite, first and last a parasite.”

“Men admired her?”

“Men!” Mrs. Macatta spoke the word with contempt. “Men are always taken in by those very obvious good looks. That boy, now, young Reggie Carrington, flushing up every time she spoke to him, absurdly flattered by being taken notice of by her. And the silly way she flattered him too. Praising his bridge—which actually was far from brilliant.”

“He is not a good player?”

“He made all sorts of mistakes last night.”

“Lady Julia is a good player, is she not?”

“Much too good in my opinion,” said Mrs. Macatta. “It’s almost a profession with her. She plays morning, noon, and night.”

“For high stakes?”

“Yes, indeed, much higher than I would care to play. Indeed I shouldn’t consider it right.”

“She makes a good deal of money at the game?”

Mrs. Macatta gave a loud and virtuous snort.