Did he think that Mr Cole was quite—was quite—

The Master laid a hand on her shoulder.

‘You must cast out Fear,’ he said. ‘Perfect Love casteth out Fear . . .’

‘But I think Mr Cole is mad. Those Visions he has—’

‘As yet,’ said the Master, ‘he sees Imperfectly . . . through the Glass of his own Carnal Nature. But the day will come when he shall see Spiritually—Face to Face.’

Miss Carnaby was abashed. Of course, put like that—She rallied to make a smaller protest.

‘And really,’ she said, ‘need Lipscomb be so abominably rude?’

Again the Master gave his Heavenly Smile.

‘Lipscomb,’ he said, ‘is a faithful watch-dog. He is a crude—a primitive soul—but faithful—utterly faithful.’

He strode on. Miss Carnaby saw him meet Mr Cole, pause, put a hand on Mr Cole’s shoulder. She hoped that the Master’s influence might alter the scope of future visions.

In any case, it was only a week now to the Autumn Festival.

On the afternoon preceding the Festival, Miss Carnaby met Hercule Poirot in a small teashop in the sleepy little town of Newton Woodbury. Miss Carnaby was flushed and even more breathless than usual. She sat sipping tea and crumbling a rock bun between her fingers.

Poirot asked several questions to which she replied monosyllabically.

Then he said:

‘How many will there be at the Festival?’

‘I think a hundred and twenty. Emmeline is there, of course, and Mr Cole—really he has been very odd lately. He has visions. He described some of them to me—really most peculiar—I hope, I do hope, he is not insane. Then there will be quite a lot of new members—nearly twenty.’

‘Good. You know what you have to do?’

There was a moment’s pause before Miss Carnaby said in a rather odd voice:

‘I know what you told me, M. Poirot . . .’

‘Très bien!’

Then Amy Carnaby said clearly and distinctly:

‘But I am not going to do it.’

Hercule Poirot stared at her. Miss Carnaby rose to her feet. Her voice came fast and hysterical.

‘You sent me here to spy on Dr Andersen. You suspected him of all sorts of things. But he is a wonderful man—a great Teacher. I believe in him heart and soul! And I am not going to do your spying work any more, M. Poirot! I am one of the Sheep of the Shepherd. The Master has a new message for the World and from now on, I belong to him body and soul. And I’ll pay for my own tea, please.’

With which slight anticlimax Miss Carnaby plonked down one and threepence and rushed out of the tea-shop.

‘Nom d’un nom d’un nom,’ said Hercule Poirot.

The waitress had to ask him twice before he realized that she was presenting the bill. He met the interested stare of a surly looking man at the next table, flushed, paid the check and got up and went out.

He was thinking furiously.