‘Mr Cornworthy hurried out of the room and directed the butler to ring up Dr Stillingfleet. By the latter’s advice, Mr Cornworthy also informed the police.’

‘Was the shot heard?’ asked Poirot.

‘No. The traffic is very noisy here, the landing window was open. What with lorries and motor horns it would be most unlikely if it had been noticed.’

Poirot nodded thoughtfully. ‘What time is it supposed he died?’ he asked.

Stillingfleet said:

‘I examined the body as soon as I got here—that is, at thirty-two minutes past four. Mr Farley had been dead at least an hour.’

Poirot’s face was very grave.

‘So then, it seems possible that his death could have occurred at the time he mentioned to me—that is, at twenty-eight minutes past three.’

‘Exactly,’ said Stillingfleet.

‘Any fingermarks on the revolver?’

‘Yes, his own.’

‘And the revolver itself?’

The inspector took up the tale.

‘Was one which he kept in the second right-hand drawer of his desk, just as he told you. Mrs Farley has identified it positively. Moreover, you understand, there is only one entrance to the room, the door giving on to the landing. The two reporters were sitting exactly opposite that door and they swear that no one entered the room from the time Mr Farley spoke to them, until Mr Cornworthy entered it at a little after four o’clock.’

‘So that there is every reason to suppose that Mr Farley committed suicide.’

Inspector Barnett smiled a little.

‘There would have been no doubt at all but for one point.’

‘And that?’

‘The letter written to you.’

Poirot smiled too.

‘I see! Where Hercule Poirot is concerned—immediately the suspicion of murder arises!’

‘Precisely,’ said the inspector drily. ‘However, after your clearing up of the situation—’

Poirot interrupted him. ‘One little minute.’ He turned to Mrs Farley. ‘Had your husband ever been hypnotized?’

‘Never.’

‘Had he studied the question of hypnotism? Was he interested in the subject?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

Suddenly her self-control seemed to break down. ‘That horrible dream! It’s uncanny! That he should have dreamed that—night after night—and then—it’s as though he were—hounded to death!’

Poirot remembered Benedict Farley saying—‘I proceed to do that which I really wish to do. I put an end to myself.’

He said, ‘Had it ever occurred to you that your husband might be tempted to do away with himself?’

‘No—at least—sometimes he was very queer . . .’

Joanna Farley’s voice broke in clear and scornful. ‘Father would never have killed himself. He was far too careful of himself.’

Dr Stillingfleet said, ‘It isn’t the people who threaten to commit suicide who usually do it, you know, Miss Farley. That’s why suicides sometimes seem unaccountable.’

Poirot rose to his feet. ‘Is it permitted,’ he asked, ‘that I see the room where the tragedy occurred?’

‘Certainly. Dr Stillingfleet—’

The doctor accompanied Poirot upstairs.

Benedict Farley’s room was a much larger one than the secretary’s next door. It was luxuriously furnished with deep leather-covered arm-chairs, a thick pile carpet, and a superb outsize writing-desk.