Hubhard left the room.

"May the Almighty give me patience," said Mrs. Hubbard to herself and went down to the kitchen to interview Maria.

Maria was sullen and uncooperative. The word "police" hovered unspoken in the air.

"It is I who WiRather be accused. I and Geronimo-the povero. What justice can you expect in a foreign land?

No, I cannot cook the risotto as you suggesthey send the wrong rice. I make you instead the spaghetti." "We had spaghetti last night." "It does not matter. In my country we eat the spaghetti every day-every single day. The pasta, it is good all the time." "Yes, but you're in England now." "Very well then, I make the stew. The English stew. You will not like it but I make it-pale-palewith the onions boiled in much water instead of cooked in the oil-and pale meat on cracked bones." Maria spoke so menacingly that Mrs. Hubbard felt she was listening to an account of a murder.

"Oh, cook what you like," she said angrily and left the kitchen.

By six o'clock that evening, Mrs. Hubbard was once more her efficient self again. She had put notes in all the students' rooms asking them to come and see her before dinner, and when the various summonses were obeyed, she explained that Celia had asked her to arrange matters. They were all, she comthought, very nice about it.

Even Genevieve, softened by a generous estimate of the value of her compact, said cheerfully that all would be sans rancune and added with a wise air, "One knows that these crises of the nerves occur. She is rich, this Celia, she does not need to steal.

No, it is a storm in her head. M. Mcationabb is right there." Len Bateson drew Mrs. Hubbard aside as she came down when the dinner bell rang.

"I'll wait for Celia out in the hall," he said, "and bring her in. So that she sees it's all right." "That's very nice of you, Len." "That's O.K., Ma." In due course, as soup was being passed round, Len's voice was heard booming from the hall.

"Come along in, Celia. All friends here." Nigel remarked waspishly to his soup plate, "Done his good deed for the day!" but otherwise controlled his tongue and waved a hand of greeting to Celia as she came in with Len's large arm passed round her shoulders.

There was a general outburst of cheerful conversation on various topics and Celia was appealed to by one and the other.

Almost inevitably this manifestation of goodwill died away into a doubtful silence. It was then that MT. Akibombo turned a beaming face towards Celia and leaning across the table said: "They have explained me good now all that I did not understand. You very clever at steal things. Long time nobody know. Very clever." At this point Sally Finch, gasping out, "Akibombo, you'll be the death of me," had such a severe choke that she had to go out in the hall to recover. And the laughter broke out in a thoroughly natural fashion.

Colin Mcationabb came in late. He seemed reserved and even more uncommunicative than usual. At the close of the meal and before the others had finished he got up and said in an embarrassed mumble, "Got to go out and see someone. Like to tell you all first Celia and I-hope to get married next year when I've done my course." The picture of blushing misery, he received the congratulations and jeering cat-calls of his friends and finally escaped, looking terribly sheepish.

Celia, on the other side, was pink and composed.

"Another good man gone West," sighed Len Bateson.

"I'm so glad, Celia," said Patricia.

"I hope you'll be very happy." "Everything in the garden is now perfect," said Nigel.

"Tomorrow we'll bring some chianti in and drink your health. Why is our dear Jean looking so grave?

Do you disapprove of marria e, Jean?" "Of course not, Nigel." "I always think it's so much better than Free Love, don't you? Nicer for the children. Looks better on their passports." "But the mother should not be too young," said Genevieve.

"They tell one that in comthe Physiology classes." "Really, dear," said Nigel, "you're not suggesting that Celia's below the age of consent or anything like that, are you? She's free, white, and twenty-one." "That," said Mr. Chandra Lal, "is a most offensive remark." "No, no, Mr. Chandra Lal," said Patricia. "It's just a-a kind of idiom. It doesn't mean anything." "I do not understand," said Mr. Akibombo. "If a thing does not mean anything, why should it be said?" Elizabeth Johnston said suddenly, raising her voice a little, "Things are sometimes said comt do not seem to mean anything but they mean a good deal. No, it is not your American quotation I mean. I am talking of something else." She looked round the table. "I am talking of what happened yesterday." Valerie said sharply, "What's up, Bess?" "Oh, please," said Celia. "T think-I really do-that by tomorrow everything will be cleared up. I really mean it. The ink on your papers, and that silly business of the rucksack. And if-if the person owns up, like I've done, then everything will be cleared up." She spoke earnestly, with a flushed face, and one or two people looked at her curiously.

Valerie said with a short laugh, "And we'll all live happy ever afterwards." Then they got up and went into the Common Room.

There was quite a little competition to give Celia her coffee. Then the wireless was turned on, some students left to keep appointments or to work and finally the inhabitants of 24 and 26 Hickory Road got to bed.

It had been, Mrs. Hubbard reffected, as she climbed gratefully betweenthe sheets, a long wearying day.

"But thank goodness," she said to herself. "It's all over now." Miss LEMON WAS SELDOM, if ever, unpunctual. Fog, storm, epidemics of flu, transport breakdowns-none of these things seemed to affect that remarkable woman. But this morning Miss Lemon arrived, breathless, at five minutes past ten instead of on the stroke of ten o'clock. She was profusely apologetic and for her, quite ruffled.

"I'm extremely sorry, Mr.

Poirot-really extremely sorry. I was just about to leave the flat when my sister rang up." "Ah, she is in good health and spirits, I trust?" "Well, frankly no." Poirot looked inquiring. "In fact, she's very distressed. One of the students has committed suicide." Poirot stared at her. He muttered something softly under his breath.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Poirot?":, What is the name of the student?" "A girl called Celia Austin." "How?" "They think she took morphia." "Could it have been an accident?" "Oh no. She left a note, it seems." Poirot said softly, "It was not this I expected, no, it was not this… and yet it is true, I expected something." He looked up to find Miss Lemon at attention, waiting with pencil poised above her pad.

He sighed and shook his head.

"No, I will hand you here this morning's mail.

File them, please, and answer what you can. Me, I shall go round to Hickory Road." Geronimo let Poirot in and recognizing him as the honoured guest of two nights before became at once voluble in a sibilant conspirational whisper.

"Ah, Signor, it is you. We have here the trouble the big trouble. The little Signorina, she is dead in her bed this morning. First the doctor come. He shake his head. Now comes an Inspector of the Police.

He is upstairs with the Signora and the Padrona.

Why should she wish to kill herself, the poverina? When last night all is so gay and the betrothment is made?" "Betrothment?" "Si, si. To Mr. Colin-you know combig, dark, always smoke the pipe." "I know." Geronimo opened the door of the Common Room and introduced Poirot into it with a redoublement of the conspiratorial manner.

"You stay here, yes? Presently, when the police go, I tell the Signora you are here. That is good, yes?" Poirot said that it was good and Geronimo withdrew.

Left to himself, Poirot who had no scruples of delicacy, made as minute an examination as possible of everything in the room with special attention to everything belonging to the students. His rewards were mediocre. The students kept most of their belongings and personal papers in their bedrooms.