When Mrs. Oliver returned to the house the following morning, she found Miss Livingstone waiting for her.

"There have been two telephone calls, Mrs. Oliver." "Yes?" said Mrs. Oliver.

"The first one was from Crichton and Smith. They wanted to know whether you had chosen the lime-green brocade or the pale blue one." "I haven't made up my mind yet," said Mrs. Oliver. "Just remind me tomorrow morning, will you? I'd like to see it by night light." "And the other was from a foreigner, a Mr. Hercules Poirot, I believe." "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Oliver. "What did he want?" "He asked if you would be able to call and see him this afternoon." "That will be quite impossible," said Mrs. Oliver. "Ring him up, will you? I've got to go out again at once, as a matter of fact. Did he leave a telephone number?" "Yes, he did." "That's all right, then. We won't have to look it up again.

All right. Just ring him. Tell him I'm sorry that I can't but that I'm out on the track of an elephant." "I beg your pardon?" said Miss Livingstone, "Say that I'm on the track of an elephant." "Oh, yes," said Miss Livingstone, looking shrewdly at her employer to see if she was right in the feelings that she sometimes had that Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, though a successful novelist, was at the same time not quite right in the head.

"I've never hunted elephants before," said Mrs. Oliver.

"It's quite an interesting thing to do, though." She went into the sitting room, opened the top volume of the assorted books on the sofa, most of them looking rather the worse for wear, since she had toiled through them the evening before and written out a paper with various addresses.

"Well, one has got to make a start somewhere," she said.

"On the whole I think that if Julia hasn't gone completely off her rocker by now, I might start with her. She always had ideas, and after all, she knew that part of the country because she lived near there. Yes, I think we'll start with Julia." "There are four letters for you here to sign," said Miss Livingstone.

"I can't be bothered now," said Mrs. Oliver. "I really can't spare a moment. I've got to go down to Hampton Court, and it's quite a long ride." The Honorable Julia Carstairs, struggling with some slight difficulty out of her armchair, the difficulty that those over the age of seventy have when rising to their feet after prolonged rest, even a possible nap, stepped forward, peering a little to see who it was who had just been announced by the faithful retainer who shared the apartment which she occupied in her status of a member of "Homes for the Privileged." Being slightly deaf, the name had not come clearly to her.

Mrs. Gulliver. Was that it? But she didn't remember a Mrs.

Gulliver. She advanced on slightly shaky knees, still peering forward.

"I don't expect you'll remember me, it's so many years since we met." Like many elderly people/Mrs. Carstairs could remember voices better than she did faces.

"Why," she exclaimed, "it's-dear me, it's Ariadne! My dear, how very nice to see you." Greetings passed.

"I just happened to be in this part of the world," explained Mrs. Oliver. "I had to come down to see someone not far from here. And then I remembered that looking in my address book last night I had seen that this was quite near where you had your apartment. Delightful, isn't it?" she added, looking round.

"Not too bad," said Mrs. Carstairs. "Not quite all it's written up to be, you know. But it has many advantages. One brings one's own furniture and things like that, and there is a central restaurant where you can have a meal, or you can have your own things, of course. Oh, yes, it's very good, really. The grounds are charming and well-kept-up. But sit down, Ariadne; do sit down. You look very well. I saw you were at a literary lunch the other day, in the paper. How odd it is that one just sees something in the paper and almost the next day one meets the person. Quite extraordinary." "I know," said Mrs. Oliver, taking the chair that was offered her. "Things do go like that, don't they?" "You are still living in London?" Mrs. Oliver said yes, she was still living in London. She then entered into what she thought of in her own mind, with vague memories of going to dancing class as a child, the first figure of the Lancers. Advance, retreat, hands out, turn round twice, whirl round, and so on.

She inquired after Mrs. Carstairs's daughter and about the two grandchildren, and she asked about the other daughter, what she was doing. She appeared to be doing it in New Zealand. Mrs. Carstairs did not seem to be quite sure what it was. Some kind of social research. Mrs. Carstairs pressed an electric bell that rested on the arm of her chair, and ordered Emma to bring tea. Mrs. Oliver begged her not to bother.

Julia Carstairs said: "Of course Ariadne has got to have tea." The two ladies leaned back. The second and third figures of the Lancers. Old friends. Other people's children. The death of friends.

"It must be years since I saw you last," said Mrs. Carstairs.

"I think it was at the Llewellyns' wedding," said Mrs.

Oliver.

"Yes, that must have been about it. How terrible Moira looked as a bridesmaid. That dreadfully unbecoming shade of apricot they wore." "I know. It didn't suit them." "I don't think weddings are nearly as pretty as they used to be in our day. Some of them seem to wear such very peculiar clothes. The other day one of my friends went to a wedding and she said the bridegroom was dressed in some sort of quilted white satin and ruffles at his neck. Made of Valenciennes lace, I believe. Most peculiar. And the girl was wearing a very peculiar trouser suit. Also white, but it was stamped with green shamrocks all over.

"Well, my dear Ariadne, can you imagine it. Really, extraordinary. In church, too. If I'd been a clergyman, I'd have refused to marry them." Tea came. Talk continued.

"I saw my goddaughter, Celia Ravenscroft, the other day," said Mrs. Oliver. "Do you remember the Ravenscrofts? Of course, it's a great many years ago." "The Ravenscrofts? Now wait a minute. That was that very sad tragedy, wasn't it? A double suicide, didn't they think it was? Near their house at Overcliffe." "You've got such a wonderful memory, Julia," said Mrs.

Oliver.

"Always had. Though I have difficulties with names sometimes. Yes, it was very tragic, wasn't it?" "Very tragic indeed." "One of my cousins knew them very well in India, Roddy Foster, you know. General Ravenscroft had had a most distinguished career. Of course he was a bit deaf by the time he retired. He didn't always hear what one said very well." "Do you remember them quite well?" "Oh, yes. One doesn't really forget people, does one? I mean, they lived at Overcliffe for quite five or six years." "I've forgotten her Christian name now," said Mrs. Oliver.

"Muriel, I think. But everyone called her Molly. Yes, Muriel.

So many people were called Muriel, weren't they, at about that time? She used to wear a wig, do you remember?" "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Oliver. "At least I can't quite remember, but I think I do." "I'm not sure she didn't try to persuade me to get one. She said it was so useful when you went abroad and traveled. She had four different wigs. One for evening and one for traveling and one-very strange, you know. You could put a hat on over it and not really disarrange it." "I didn't know them as well as you did," said Mrs. Oliver.

"And of course at the time of the shooting I was in America on a lecture tour. So I never really heard any details." "Well, of course, it was a great mystery," said Julia Carstairs.

"I mean to say, one didn't know. There were so many different stories going about." "What did they say at the inquest-I suppose they had an inquest?" "Oh, yes, of course. The police had to investigate it. It was one of those indecisive things, you know, in that the death was due to revolver shots. They couldn't say definitely what had occurred. It seemed possible that General Ravenscroft had shot his wife and then himself, but apparently it was just as probable that Lady Ravenscroft had shot her husband and then herself. It seemed most likely, I think, that it was a suicide pact, but it couldn't be said definitely how it came about." "There seemed to be no question of its being a crime?" "No, no. It was said quite clearly there was no suggestion of foul play. I mean there were no footsteps or any signs of anyone coming near them. They left the house to walk after tea, as they so often did. They didn't come back again for dinner and the manservant or somebody or the gardener- whoever it was-went out to look for them, and found them both dead. The revolver was lying by the bodies." "The revolver belonged to him, didn't it?" "Oh, yes. He had two revolvers in the house. These exmilitary people so often do, don't they? I mean, they feel safer what with everything that goes on nowadays. A second revolver was still in the drawer in the house, so that he- well, he must have gone out deliberately with the revolver, presumably. I don't think it likely that she'd have gone out for a walk carrying a revolver." "No. No, it wouldn't have been so easy, would it?" "But there was nothing apparently in the evidence to show that there was any unhappiness or that there'd been any quarrel between them or that there was any reason why they should commit suicide. Of course one never knows what sad things there are in people's lives." "No, no," said Mrs. Oliver. "One never knows. How very true that is, Julia. Did you have any ideas yourself?" "Well, one always wonders, my dear." "Yes," said Mrs. Oliver, "one always wonders." "It might be of course, you see, that he had some disease. I think he might have been told he was going to die of cancer, but that wasn't so, according to the medical evidence. He was quite healthy. I mean, he had-I think he had had a-what do they call those things?-coronary, is that what I mean? It sounds like a crown, doesn't it, but it's really a heart attack, isn't it? He'd had that but he'd recovered from it, and she was, well, she was very nervy. She was neurotic always." "Yes, I seem to remember that," said Mrs. Oliver. "Of course I didn't know them well, but-" she asked suddenly- "was she wearing a wig?" "Oh. Well, you know, I can't really remember that. She always wore her wig. One of them, I mean." "I just wondered," said Mrs. Oliver. "Somehow I feel if you were going to shoot yourself or even shoot your husband, I don't think you'd wear your wig, do you?" The ladies discussed this point with some interest.