Upstairs, Mrs. Hubbard was sitting facing Inspector Sharpe who was asking questions in a soft apologetic voice. He was a big, confidential looking man with a deceptively mild manner.

"It's very awkward and distressing for you, I know," he said soothingly. "But you see, as Dr. Coles has already told you, there will have to be an inquest, and we have just to get the picture right, so to speak. Now this girl had been distressed and unhappy lately, you say?" "Yes." "Love affair?" "Not exactly." Mrs. Hubbard hesitated.

"You'd better tell me, you know," said Inspector Sharpe, persuasively. "As I say, we've got to get the picture. There was a reason, or she thought there was, for taking her own life? Any possibility that she might have been pregnant?" "It wasn't that kind of thing at all. I hesitated, Inspector Sharpe, simply because the child had done some very foolish things and I hoped it needn't be necessary to bring them out in the open." Inspector Sharpe coughed.

"We have a good deal of discretion, and the Coroner is a man of wide experience. But we have to know." "Yes, of course. I was being foolish. The truth is that for some time past, three months or more, things have been disappeariny-smah things, I mearmothing very important." "Trinkets, you mean, finery, nylon stockings and all that? Money, too?" "No money as far as I know." "Ah. And this girl was responsible?" "Yes.

"You'd caught her at it?" "Not exactly. The night before last a-er-a friend of mine came to dine. A M. Hercule Poirot-I don't know if you know the name." Inspector Sharpe had looked up from his notebook. His eyes had opened rather wide. It happened that he did know the name.

"M. Hercule Poirot?" he said. "Indeed?

Now that's very interesting." "He gave us a little talk after dinner and the subject of these thefts came up. He advised me, in front of them all, to go to the police." "He did, did he?" "Afterwards, Celia came along to my room and owned up. She was very distressed." "Any question of prosecution?" "No. She was going to make good the losses, and everyone was very nice to her about it." "Had she been hardup?" "No. She had an adequately paid job as dispenser at St. Catherine's Hospital and has a little money of her own, I believe. She was rather better off than most of our students." "So she'd no need to steal-but did," said the Inspector, writing it down.

"It's kleptomania, I suppose," said Mrs. Hubbard.

"That's the label that's used. I just mean one of the people that don't need to take things, but nevertheless do take them." "I wonder if you're being a little unfair to her.

You see, there was a young man." "And he ratted on her?" "Oh no. Quite the reverse. He spoke very strongly in her defence and as a matter of fact last night, after supper, he announced that they'd become engaged." Inspector Sharpe's eyebrows mounted his forehead in a surprised fashion.

"And then she goes up to bed and takes morphia?

That's rather surprising, isn't it?" G It is. I can't understand it." Mrs. Hubbard's face was creased with perplexity and distress.

"And yet the facts are clear enough." Sharpe nodded to the small torn piece of paper that lay on the table between them.

Dear Mrs. Hubbard, (it ran) I really am sorry- and this is the best thing I can do.

"It's not signed, but you've no doubt it's her handwriting?" 'ationo.

Mrs. Hubbard spoke rather uncertainly and frowned as she looked at the torn scrap of paper. Why did she feel so strongly that there was something wrong about it-his "There's one clear fingerprint on it which is definitely hers," said the Inspector. "The morphia was in a small bottle with the label of St. Catherine's Hospital on it and you tell me that she works as a dispenser in St. Catherine's.

She'd have access to the poison cupboard and that's where she probably got it. Presumably she brought it home with her yesterday with suicide in nful." "I really can't believe it. It doesn't seem right some how. She was so happy last night." "Then we must suppose that a reaction set in when she went up to bed. Perhaps there's more in her past than you know about. Perhaps she was afraid of that coming out. You think she was very much in love with this young man-what's his name, by the way?" "Colin Mcationabb. He's doing a post graduate course at St. Catherine's." "A doctor? Hm. And at St.

Catherine's?" "Celia was very much in love with him, more I should say, than he with her. He's a rather self-centered young man." "Then that's probably the explanation. She didn't feel worthy of him, or hadn't told him all she ought to tell him. She was quite young, wasn't she?" "Twenty-three." "They're idealistic at that age and they take love affairs hard. Yes, that's it, I'm afraid. Pity." He rose to his feet. "I'm afraid the actual facts will have to come out, but we'll do all we can to gloss things over. Thank you, Mrs. Hubbard.

I've got all the information I need now. Her mother died two years ago and the only relative you know of is this elderly aunt in Yorkshire-we'll communicate with her." He picked up the small torn fragment with Celia's agitated writing oDit.

"There's something wrong about that," said Mrs.

Hubbard suddenly.

"Wrong? In what way?" "I don't know comb I feel I ought to know. Oh dear." "You're quite sure it's her handwriting?" "Oh yes. It's not that." Mrs. Hubbard pressed her hands to her eyeballs.

"I feel so dreadfully stupid this morning," she said apologetically.

"It's all been very trying for you, I know," said the Inspector with gentle sympathy. "I don't think we need to trouble you further at the moment, Mrs.

Hubhard." Inspector Sharpe opened the door and immediately fell over Gerortimo who was pressed against the door outside.

"Hullo," said Inspector Sharpe pleasantly. "Listening at doors, eh?" "No, no," Geronimo answered with an air of virtuous indignation. "I do not listermever, never! I am just coming in with message." "I see. What message?" Geronimo said sulkily, "Only that there is gentleman downstairs to see la Signora Hubbard." "All right. Go along in, sonny, and tell her." He walked past Geronimo down the passage and then, taking a leaf out of the Italian's book, turned sharply, and tiptoed Doiselessly back. Might as well know if little monkey face had been telling the truth.

He arrived in time to hear Geronimo say, "The gentleman who came to supper the other night, the gentleman with the moustaches, he is downstairs waiting to see you." "Eh? What?" Mrs. Hubbard sounded abstracted. "Oh, thank you, Geronimo. I'll be down in a minute or two.

"Gentleman with the moustaches, eh," said Sharpe to himself, grinning. "I bet I know who that is." He went downstairs and into the Common Room.

"Hullo, Mr. Poirot," he said. "It's a long time since we met." Poircyt rose without visible discomposure from a kneeling position by the bottom shelf near the fireplace.

"Aha," he said. "But surely-yes, it is Inspector Sharpe, is it not? But you were not formerly in this division?" "Transferred two years ago. Remember that business down at Crays Hill?" "Ah yes. That is a long time ago now. You are still a young man, Inspector" "Getting on, getting on." hiscomand I am an old one. Alas!" Poirot si,eaeahe'd.

"But still active, eh, Mr. Poirot.

Active in certain ways, shall we say?" "Now what do you mean by that?" "I mean that I'd like to know why you came along here the other night to give a andM on criminology to students." Poirot smiled.

"But there is such a simple explanation. Mrs.

Hubhard here is the sister of my much valued secretary, Miss Lemon. So when she asked me-was "When she asked you to look into what had been going on here, you came along. That's it really, isn't it?" "You are quite correct." "But why? That's what I want to know. What was there in it for you?" "To interest me, you mean?" "That's what I mean. Here's a silly kid who's been pinching a few things here and there. Happens all the time. Rather small beer for you, Mr.