‘Not at all what I’d like to have, Poirot. I hate these long-haired, religious cranks like poison. Filling up women with a lot of mumbo-jumbo. But this fellow’s being careful. There’s nothing one can get hold of. All sounds a bit batty but harmless.’

‘Have you learned anything about this Dr Andersen?’

‘I’ve looked up his past history. He was a promising chemist and got chucked out of some German University. Seems his mother was Jewish. He was always keen on the study of Oriental Myths and Religions, spent all his spare time on that and has written various articles on the subject—some of the articles sound pretty crazy to me.’

‘So it is possible that he is a genuine fanatic?’

‘I’m bound to say it seems quite likely!’

‘What about those names and addresses I gave you?’

‘Nothing doing there. Miss Everitt died of ulcerative colitis. Doctor quite positive there was no hankypanky. Mrs Lloyd died of broncho-pneumonia. Lady Western died of tuberculosis. Had suffered from it many years ago—before she even met this bunch. Miss Lee died of typhoid—attributed to some salad she ate somewhere in the north of England. Three of them got ill and died in their own homes, and Mrs Lloyd died in a hotel in the south of France. As far as those deaths go, there’s nothing to connect them with the Great Flock or with Andersen’s place down in Devonshire. Must be pure coincidence. All absolutely O.K. and according to Cocker.’

Hercule Poirot sighed. He said:

‘And yet, mon cher, I have a feeling that this is the tenth Labour of Hercules, and that this Dr Andersen is the Monster Geryon whom it is my mission to destroy.’

Japp looked at him anxiously.

‘Look here, Poirot, you haven’t been reading any queer literature yourself lately, have you?’

Poirot said with dignity:

‘My remarks are, as always, apt, sound, and to the point.’

‘You might start a new religion yourself,’ said Japp, ‘with the creed: “There is no one so clever as Hercule Poirot, Amen, D.C. Repeat ad lib.”!’

‘It is the peace here that I find so wonderful,’ said Miss Carnaby, breathing heavily and ecstatically.

‘I told you so, Amy,’ said Emmeline Clegg.

The two friends were sitting on the slope of a hillside overlooking a deep and lovely blue sea. The grass was vivid green, the earth and the cliffs a deep, glowing red. The little estate now known as Green Hills Sanctuary was a promontory comprising about six acres. Only a narrow neck of land joined it to the mainland so that it was almost an island.

Mrs Clegg murmured sentimentally:

‘The red land—the land of glow and promise—where threefold destiny is to be accomplished.’

Miss Carnaby sighed deeply and said:

‘I thought the Master put it all so beautifully at the service last night.’

‘Wait,’ said her friend, ‘for the festival tonight. The Full Growth of the Pasture!’

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Miss Carnaby.

‘You will find it a wonderful spiritual experience,’ her friend promised her.