"Yes, of course, that's possible," admitted Clarke. "What it comes to is that a murderer's got to take a chance."

"Precisely. A murderer is always a gambler. And, like many gamblers, a murderer often does not know when to stop. With each crime his opinion of his own abilities is strengthened. His sense of proportion is warped. He does not say, 'I have been clever and lucky!' No, he says only, 'I have been clever!' And his opinion of his cleverness grows . . . and then, mon amis, the ball spins, and the run of colour is over—the ball drops into a new number and the croupier calls out 'Rouge.'"

"You think that will happen in this case?" asked Megan, drawing her brows together in a frown.

"It must happen sooner or later! So far the luck has been with the criminal—sooner or later it must turn and be with us. I believe that it has turned! The clue of the stockings is the beginning. Now, instead of everything going right for him, everything will go wrong for him! And he, too, will begin to make mistakes . . . ."

"I will say you're heartening," said Franklin Clarke. "We all need a bit of comfort. I've had a paralysing feeling of helplessness ever since I woke up."

"It seems to me highly problematical that we can accomplish anything of practical value," said Donald Fraser.

Megan rapped out: "Don't be a defeatist, Don."

Mary Drower, flushing up a little, said: "What I say is, you never know. That wicked fiend's in this place, and so are we—and after all, you do run up against people in the funniest way sometimes."

I fumed: "If only we could do something more."

"You must remember, Hastings, that the police are doing everything reasonably possible. Special constables have been enrolled. The good Inspector Crome may have the irritating manner, but he is a very able police officer, and Colonel Anderson, the Chief Constable, is a man of action. They have taken the fullest measures for watching and patrolling the town and the racecourse. There will be plainclothes men everywhere."

"There is also the press campaign. The public is fully warned."

Donald Fraser shook his head. "He'll never attempt it, I'm thinking," he said more hopefully. "The man would just be mad!"

"Unfortunately," said Clarke dryly, "he is mad! What do you think, M. Poirot? Will he give it up or will he try to carry it through?"

"In my opinion the strength of his obsession is such that he must attempt to carry out his promise! Not to do so would he to admit failure, and that his insane egoism would never allow. That, I may say, is also Dr. Thompson's opinion. Our hope is that he may be caught in the attempt."

Donald shook his head again. "He'll be very cunning."

Poirot glanced at his watch. We took the hint. It had been agreed that we were to make an all-day session of it, patrolling as many streets as possible in the morning, and later, stationing ourselves at various likely points on the racecourse.

I say "we." Of course, in my own case such a patrol was of little avail since I was never likely to have set eyes on A.B.C.. However, as the idea was to separate so as to cover as wide an area as possible I ha suggested that I should act as escort to one of the ladies.

Poirot had agreed—I am afraid with somewhat of a twinkle in his eye.

The girls went off to get their hats on. Donald Fraser was standing by the window looking out, apparently lost in thought.

Franklin Clarke glanced over at him, then evidently deciding that the other was too abstracted to count as a listener, he lowered his voice a little and addressed Poirot.

"Look here, M. Poirot. You went down to Churston, I know, and saw my sister-in-law. Did she say—or hint—I mean—did she suggest anything at all—?" He stopped, embarrassed.

Poirot answered with a face of blank innocence that aroused my strongest suspicions.

"Comment? Did your sister-in-law say, hint or suggest—what?"

Franklin Clarke got rather red. "Perhaps you think this isn't a time for butting in with personal things—"

"Du tout!"

"But I feel I'd like to get things quite straight."

"An admirable course."

This time I think Clarke began to suspect Poirot's bland face of concealing some inner amusement. He ploughed on rather heavily.

"My sister-in-law's an awfully nice woman. I've been very fond of her always—but of course she's been ill some time—and in that kind of illness, being given drugs and all that—one tends to—well— to fancy things about people!"

"Ah?" By now there was no mistaking the twinkle in Poirot's eye.

But Franklin Clarke, absorbed in his diplomatic task, was past noticing it. "It's about Thora—Miss Grey," he said.

"Oh, it is of Miss Grey you speak?" Poirot's tone held innocent surprise.

"Yes. Lady Clarke got certain ideas in her head. You see, Thora—Miss Grey is well, rather a good-looking girl—"

"Perhaps—yes," conceded Poirot.

"And women are, even the best of them, a bit catty about other women. Of course, Thora was invaluable to my brother—he always said she was the best secretary he ever had—and he was very fond of her, too. But it was all perfectly straight and aboveboard. I mean, Thora isn't the sort of girl—"

"No?" said Poirot helpfully.

"But my sister-in-law got it into her head to be—well—jealous, I suppose. Not that she ever showed anything. But after Car's death, when there was a question of Miss Grey staying on—well, Charlotte cut up rough. Of course, it's partly the illness and the morphine and all that—Nurse Capstick says so—she says we mustn't blame Charlotte for getting these ideas into her head—"

He paused.

"Yes?"

"What I want you to understand, M. Poirot, is that there isn't anything in it at all. It's just a sick woman's imaginings. Look here"—he fumbled in his pocket—"here's a letter I received from my brother when I was in the Malay States. I'd like you to read it because it shows exactly what terms they were on."

Poirot took it. Franklin came over beside him and with a pointing finger read some of the extracts out loud.

Things go on here much as usual. Charlotte is moderately free from pain. I wish one could say more. You may remember Thora Grey? She is a dear girl and a greater comfort to me than I can tell you. I should not have known what to do through this bad time but for her. Her sympathy and interest are unfailing. She has an exquisite taste and flair for beautiful things and shares my passion for Chinese art. I was indeed lucky to find her. No daughter could be a closer or more sympathetic companion. Her life had been a difficult and not always a happy one, but I am glad to feel that here she has a home and a true affection.

"You see," said Franklin. "That's how my brother felt to her. He thought of her like a daughter. What I feel so unfair is the fact that the moment my brother is dead, his wife practically turns her out of the house! Women really are devils, M. Poirot."

"Your sister-in-law is ill and in pain, remember."

"I know. That's what I keep saying to myself. One mustn't judge her. All the same, I thought I'd show you this. I don't want you to get a false impression of Thora from anything Lady Clarke may have said."

Poirot returned the letter. "I can assure you," he said, smiling, "that I never permit myself to get false impressions from anything anyone tells me. I form my own judgments."

"Well," said Clarke, stowing away the letter, "I'm glad I showed it to you anyway. Here come the girls. We'd better be off."