"Shall I try my hand?" asked Franklin. "I've—er—a pretty wide experience, M. Poirot. Let me see what I can do with the young lady."

"You've got your own part of the world to attend to," said Thora Grey rather sharply.

Franklin's face fell just a little. "Yes," he said. "I have."

"Tout de [garbled], I do not think there is much you can do down there for the present," said Poirot. "Mademoiselle Grey now, she is far more fitted—"

Thora Grey interrupted him. "But you see, M. Poirot, I have left Devon for good."

"Ah? I did not understand."

"Miss Grey very kindly stayed on to help me clear up things," said Franklin. "But naturally she prefers a post in London."

Poirot directed a sharp glance from one to the other.

"How is Lady Clarke?" he demanded.

I was admiring the faint colour in Thora Grey's cheeks and almost missed Clarke's reply.

"Pretty bad. By the way, M. Poirot, I wonder if you could see your way to running down to Devon and paying her a visit? She expressed a desire to see you before I left. Of course, she often can't see people for a couple of days at a time, but if you would risk that—at my expense, of course."

"Certainly, Mr. Clarke. Shall we say, the day after tomorrow?"

"Good. I'll let nurse know and she'll arrange the dope accordingly."

"For you, my child," said Poirot, turning to Mary, "I think you might perhaps do good work in Andover. Try the children."

"The children?"

"Yes. Children will not chat readily to outsiders. But you are known in the street where your aunt lived. There were a good many children playing about. They may have noticed who went in and out of your aunt's shop."

"What about Miss Grey and myself?" asked Clarke. "That is, if I'm not to go to Bexhill."

"M. Poirot," said Thora Grey. "What was the postmark on the third letter?"

"Putney, mademoiselle."

She said thoughtfully: "S.W.15, Putney, that is right, is it not?"

"For a wonder, the newspapers printed it correctly."

"That seems to point to A.B.C. being a Londoner."

"On the face of it, yes."

"One ought to be able to draw him," said Clarke. "M. Poirot, how would it be if I inserted an advertisement—something after these lines: A.B.C.. Urgent. H.P. close on your track. A hundred for my silence. X.Y.Z.. Nothing quite so crude as that—but you see the idea. It might draw him."

"It is a possibility, yes."

"Might induce him to try and have a shot at me."

"I think it's very dangerous and silly," said Thora Grey sharply.

"What about it, M. Poirot?"

"It can do no harm to try. I think myself that A.B.C. will be too cunning to reply." Poirot smiled a little. "I see, Mr. Clarke, that you are—if I may say so without being offensive—still a boy at heart."

Franklin Clarke looked a little abashed. "Well," he said, consulting his notebook, "we're making a start:

A.—Miss Barnard and Milly Higley.

B.—Mr. Fraser and Miss Higley.

C.—Children in Andover.

D.—Advertisement.

I don't feel any of it is much good, but it will be something to do whilst waiting."

He got up and a few minutes later the meeting had dispersed.

Poirot returned to his seat and sat humming a little tune to himself. "Unfortunate that she is so intelligent," he murmured.

"Who?"

"Megan Barnard. Mademoiselle Megan. 'Words,' she snaps out. At once she perceives that what I am saying means nothing at all. Everybody else was taken in."

"I thought it sounded very plausible."

"Plausible, yes. It was just that that she perceived."

"Didn't you mean what you said, then?"

"What I said could have been comprised into one short sentence. Instead I repeated myself ad lib without anyone but Mademoiselle Megan being aware of the fact."

"But why?"

"Eh bien—to get things going! To imbue everyone with the impression that there was work to be done! To start—shall we say—conversations!"

"Don't you think any of these lines will lead to anything?"

"Oh, it is always possible."

He chuckled. "In the midst of tragedy we start the comedy. It is so, is it not?"

"What do you mean?"

"The human drama, Hastings! Reflect a little minute. Here are three sets of human beings brought together by a common tragedy. Immediately a second drama commences—tout [unreadable] part. Do you remember my first case in England? Oh, so many years ago now. I brought together two people who loved one another by the simple method of having one of them arrested for murder! Nothing less would have done it! In the midst of death we are in life, Hastings. Murder, I have often noticed, is a great matchmaker."

"Really, Poirot," I cried, scandalized. "I'm sure none of those people was thinking of anything but—"

"Oh! my dear friend. And what about yourself?"

"I?"

"Mais oui, as they departed, did you not come back from the door humming a tune?"

"One may do that without being callous."

"Certainly, but that tune told me your thoughts."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. To hum a tune is extremely dangerous. It reveals the subconscious mind. The tune you hummed dates, I think, from the days of the war. Comme ca," Poirot sang in an abominable falsetto voice:

"Some of the time I love a brunette,

Some of the time I love a blonde (who comes from Eden by way of Sweden).

"What could be more revealing? Mais je crois que la blonde l'emporte sur la brunette.''

"Really, Poirot," I cried, blushing slightly.

"C'est tout naturel. Did you observe how Franklin Clarke was suddenly at one and in sympathy with Mademoiselle Megan? How he leaned forward and looked at her? And did you also notice how very much annoyed Mademoiselle Thora Grey was about it? And Mr. Donald Fraser, he—"

"Poirot," I said, "your mind is incurably sentimental."

"That is the last thing my mind is. You are the sentimental one, Hastings."

I was about to argue the point hotly, but at that moment the door opened. To my astonishment it was Thora Grey who entered.

"Forgive me for coming back," she said composedly. "But there was something that I think I would like to tell you, M. Poirot."

"Certainly, mademoiselle. Sit down, will you not?"

She took a seat and hesitated for just a minute as though choosing her words.

"It is just this, Mr. Poirot. Mr. Clarke very generously gave you to understand just now that I had left Combeside by my own wish. He is a very kind and loyal person. But as a matter of fact, it is not quite like that. I was quite prepared to stay on—there is any amount of work to be done in connection with the collections. It was Lady Clarke who wished me to leave! I can make allowances. She is a very ill woman, and her brain is somewhat muddled with the drugs they give her. It makes her suspicious and fanciful. She took an unreasoning dislike to me and insisted that I should leave the house."

I could not but admire the girl's courage. She did not attempt to gloss over facts, as so many might have been tempted to do, but went straight to the point with an admirable candour. My heart went out to her in admiration and sympathy.