As we left the room, Poirot called me back. "You are determined to accompany the expedition, Hastings?"

"Oh, yes. I shouldn't be happy staying here inactive."

"There is activity of mind as well as body, Hastings."

"Well, you're better at it than I am," I said.

"You are incontestably right, Hastings. Am I correct in supposing that you intend to be a cavalier to one of the ladies?"

"That was the idea."

"And which lady did you propose to honour with your company?"

"Well—I—er—hadn't considered yet."

"What about Miss Barnard?"

"She's rather the independent type," I demurred.

"Miss Grey?"

"Yes. She's better."

"I find you, Hastings, singularly though transparently honest! All along you had made up your mind to spend the day with your blonde angel!"

"Oh, really, Poirot!"

"I am sorry to upset your plans, but I must request you to give your escort elsewhere."

"Oh, all right. I think you've got a weakness for that Dutch doll of a girl."

"The person you are to escort is Mary Drower—and I must request you not to leave her."

"But, Poirot, why?"

"Because, my dear friend, her name begins with a D. We must take no chances."

I saw the justice of his remark. At first it seemed far-fetched. But then I realized that if A.B.C. had a fanatical hatred of Poirot, he might very well be keeping himself informed of Poirot's movements. And in that case the elimination of Mary Drower might strike him as a very neat fourth stroke.

I promised to be faithful to my trust.

I went out leaving Poirot sitting in a chair near the window. In front of him was a little roulette wheel. He spun it as I went out of the door and called after me: "Rouge—that is a good omen, Hastings. The luck, it turns!"

Below his breath Mr. Leadbetter uttered a grunt of impatience as his next-door neighbour got up and stumbled clumsily past him, dropping his hat over the seat in front, and leaning over to retrieve it.

All this at the culminating moment of Not a Sparrow, that all-star, thrilling drama of pathos and beauty that Mr. Leadbetter had been looking forward to seeing for a whole week.

The golden-haired heroine, played by Katherine Royal (in Mr. Leadbetter's opinion the leading film actress in the world), was just giving vent to a hoarse cry of indignation:

"Never. I would sooner starve. But I shan't starve. Remember those words: not a sparrow falls—"

Mr. Leadbetter moved his head irritably from right to left. People! Why on earth people couldn't wait till the end of a film . . . And to leave at this soul-stirring moment.

Ah, that was better. The annoying gentleman had passed on and out. Mr. Leadbetter had a full view of the screen and of Katherine Royal standing by the window in the Van Schreiner Mansion in New York.

And now she was boarding the train—the child in her arms . . . . What curious trains they had in America—not at all like English trains.

Ah, there was Steve again in his shack in the mountains . . . .

The film pursued its course to its emotional and semi-religious end. Mr. Leadbetter breathed a sigh of satisfaction as the lights went up.

He rose slowly to his feet, blinking a little.

He never left the cinema very quickly. It always took him a moment or two to return to the prosaic reality of everyday life. He glanced round. Not many people this afternoon—naturally. They were all at the races. Mr. Leadbetter did not approve of racing or of playing cards or of drinking or of smoking. This left him more energy to enjoy going to the pictures.

Everyone was hurrying towards the exit. Mr. Leadbetter prepared to follow suit. The man in the seat in front of him was asleep—slumped down in his chair. Mr. Leadbetter felt indignant to think that anyone could sleep with such a drama as Not a Sparrow going on.

An irate gentleman was saying to the sleeping man whose legs were stretched out blocking the way: "Excuse me, sir."

Mr. Leadbetter reached the exit. He looked back. There seemed to be some sort of commotion. A commissionaire . . . a little knot of people. Perhaps that man in front of him was dead drunk and not asleep . . . . He hesitated and then passed out—and in so doing missed the sensation of the day—a greater sensation even than Not Half winning the St. Leger at 85 to 1.

The commissionaire was saying: "Believe you're right, sir . . . He's ill. Why—what's the matter, sir?"

The other had drawn away his hand with an exclamation and was examining a red sticky smear.

"Blood . . . ."

The commissionaire gave a stifled exclamation. He had caught sight of the corner of something yellow projecting from under the seat.

"[Garbled]," he said. "It is an A.B.C.."

Mr. Cust came out of the Regal Cinema and looked up at the sky.

A beautiful evening . . . . A really beautiful evening . . . .

A quotation from Browning came into his head.

"God's in His heaven. All's right with the world."

He had always been fond of that quotation. Only there were times, very often, when he had felt it wasn't [missing].

He trotted along the street smiling to himself until he came to the Black Swan where he was staying. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, a stuffy little room on the second floor, giving over a paved inner court and garage.

As he entered the room, his smile faded suddenly. There was a stain on his sleeve near the cuff. He touched it tentatively—wet and red—blood . . . .

His hand dipped into his pocket and brought out something—a long, slender knife. The blade of that, too, was sticky and red . . . .

Mr. Cust sat there a long time.

Once his eyes shot round the room like those of a hunted animal. His tongue passed feverishly over his lips . . . .

"It isn't my fault," said Mr. Cust.

He sounded as though he were arguing with somebody—a schoolboy pleading to his schoolmaster.

He passed his tongue over his lips again . . . .

Again, tentatively, he felt his coat sleeve.

His eyes crossed the room to the washbasin.

A minute later he was pouring out water from the old-fashioned jug into the basin. Removing his coat, he rinsed the sleeve, carefully squeezing it out . . . .

Ugh! The water was red now . . . .

A tap on the door.

He stood there frozen into immobility—staring.

The door opened. A plump young woman—jug in hand.

"Oh, excuse me, sir. Your hot water, sir."

He managed to speak then.

Thank you. I've washed in cold."

Why had he said that? Immediately her eyes went to the basin.

He said frenziedly: "I—I've cut my hand . . . ."

There was a pause—yes, surely a very long pause—before she said: "Yes, sir."

She went out, shutting the door.

Mr. Cust stood as though turned to stone.

It had come—at last . . . .

He listened.

Were there voices—exclamations—feet mounting the stairs?

He could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart . . . .

Then, suddenly, from frozen immobility he leaped into activity.

He slipped on his coat, tiptoed to the door and opened it. No noise as yet except the familiar murmur arising from the bar. He crept down the stairs . . . .