They'll be home by now."

He gave Poirot an interested glance.

"So that's the way your mind is working, is it? There's some already as thinks the same."

"No, I think nothing as yet. But they were among those present that is all."

As he took leave and walked away, he mused, "Among those present I have come nearly to the end of my list." r | iWO pairs of eyes looked at Poirot | uneasily.

AL "I don't see what else we can tell you. We've both been interviewed by the police, M. Poirot."

Poirot looked from one boy to the other.

They would not have described themselves as boys; their manner was carefully adult.

So much so that if one shut one's eyes, their conversation could have passed as that of elderly club men Nicholas was eighteen. Desmond was sixteen.

"To oblige a friend, I make my inquiries of those present on a certain occasion. Not the Hallowe'en party itself-the preparations for that party. You were both active in these."

"Yes, we were."

"So far," Poirot said, "I have interviewed cleaning women, I have had the benefit of police views, of talks to a doctor -the doctor who examined the body first -have talked to a school-teacher who was present, to the headmistress of the school, to distraught relatives, have heard much of the village gossip-By the way, I understand you have a local witch here?"

The two young men confronting him both laughed.

"You mean Mother Goodbody. Yes, she came to the party and played the part of the witch." «I have come now," said Poirot, "to the younger generation, to those of acute eyesight and acute hearing and who have up-to-date scientific knowledge and shrewd philosophy. I am eager-very eager-to hear your views on this matter."

Eighteen and sixteen, he thought to himself, looking at the two boys confronting him. Youths to the police, boys to him, adolescents to newspaper reporters. Call them what you will. Products of to-day.

Neither of them, he judged, at all stupid, even if they were not quite of the high mentality that he had just suggested to them by way of a flattering sop to start the conversation. They had been at the party.

They had also been there earlier in the day to do helpful offices for Mrs. Drake.

They had climbed up step-ladders, they had placed yellow pumpkins in strategic positions, they had done a little electrical work on fairy lights, one or other of them had produced some clever effects in a nice batch of phoney photographs of possible husbands as imagined hopefully by teenage girls. They were also, incidentally, of the right age to be in the forefront of suspects in the mind of Inspector Raglan and, it seemed, in the view of an elderly gardener.

The percentage of murders committed by this age group had been increasing in the last few years. Not that Poirot inclined to that particular suspicion himself, but anything was possible. It was even possible that the killing which had occurred two or three years ago might have been committed by a boy, youth, or adolescent of fourteen or twelve years of age. Such cases had occurred in recent newspaper reports.

Keeping all these possibilities in mind he pushed them, as it were, behind a curtain for the moment, and concentrated instead on his own appraisement of these two, their looks, their clothes, their manner, their voices and so on and so forth in the Hercule Poirot manner, masked behind a foreign shield of nattering words and much increased foreign mannerisms, so that they themselves should feel agreeably contemptuous of him, though hiding that under politeness and good manners. For both of them had excellent manners. Nicholas, the eighteen-year-old, was good-looking, wearing side-burns, hair that grew fairly far down his neck, and a rather funereal outfit of black. Not as a mourning for the recent tragedy, but what was obviously his personal taste in modern clothes. The younger one was wearing a rose-coloured velvet coat, mauve trousers and a kind of frilled shirting. They both obviously spent a good deal of money on their clothes which were certainly not purchased locally and were probably paid for by themselves and not by their parents or guardians.

Desmond^s hair was ginger coloured and there was a good deal of fluffy profusion about it.

"You were there in the morning or afternoon of the party, I understand, helping with the preparations for it?"

"Early afternoon," corrected Nicholas.

"What sort of preparations were you helping with? I have heard of preparation from several people, but I am not quite clear. They don't all agree."

"A good deal of the lighting, for one thing."

"Getting up on steps for things that had to be put high up."

"I understand there were some very good photographic results too."

Desmond immediately dipped into his pocket and took out a folder from which he proudly brought certain cards.

"We faked up these beforehand," he said.

"Husbands for the girls," he explained.

"They're all alike, birds are.

They all want something up-to-date. Not a bad assortment, are they?"

He handed a few specimens to Poirot who looked with interest at a rather fuzzy reproduction of a ginger-bearded young man and another young man with an aureole of hair, a third one whose hair came to his knees almost, and there were a few assorted whiskers, and other facial adornments.

"Made "em pretty well all different. It wasn't bad, was it?"

"You had models, I suppose?"

"Oh, they're all ourselves. Just make-up, you know. Nick and I got 'em done. Some Nick took of me and some I took of him. Just varied what you might call the hair motif."

"Very clever," said Poirot.

"We kept 'em a bit out of focus, you know, so that they'd look more like spirit pictures, as you might say."

The other boy said, "Mrs. Drake was very pleased with them.

She congratulated us. They made her laugh too. It was mostly electrical work we did at the house. You know, fitting up a light or two so that when the girls sat with the mirror one or other of us could take up a position, you'd only to bob up over a screen and the girl would see a face in the mirror with, mind you, the right kind of hair.

Beard or whiskers or something or other."

"Did they know it was you and your friend?"

"Oh, I don't think so for a moment. Not at the party, they didn't.

They knew we had been helping at the house with some things, but I don't think they recognised us in the mirrors. Weren't smart enough, I should say. Besides, we'd got sort of an instant make-up to change the image. First me, then Nicholas. The girls squeaked and shrieked.

Damned funny."

"And the people who were there in the afternoon? I do not ask you to remember who was at the party."

"At the party, there must have been about thirty, I suppose, knocking about.

In the afternoon there was Mrs. Drake, of course, and Mrs. Butler.

One of the school-teachers, Whittaker I think her name is. Mrs.

Flatterbut or some name like that. She's the organist's sister or wife.

Dr. Ferguson's dispenser. Miss Lee; it's her afternoon off and she came along and helped too and some of the kids came to make themselves useful if they could. Not that I think they were very useful. The girls just hung about and giggled."

"Ah yes. Do you remember what girls there were there?"

"Well, the Reynolds were there. Poor, old Joyce, of course. The one who got* done in, and her elder sister Arm.

Frightful girl. Puts no end of side on., Thinks she's terribly clever. Quite sure she's going to pass all her "A" levels. And the small kid, Leopold, he's awful," said Desmond.

"He's a sneak. He eavesdrops.

Tells tales. Real nasty bit of goods. And there was Beatrice Ardley and Cathie Grant, who is dim as they make and a couple of useful women, of course.

Cleaning women, I mean. And the authoress woman the one who brought you down here."