"They were different kinds of wigs, I suppose." "Yes, one had a very pretty gray streak in it, and then there was a party one and one for evening wear, and one closecropped with curls. Very nice, that you could wear under a hat and it didn't get messed up. I was sorry not to have seen Lady Ravenscroft again. Even apart from her illness, she had been very unhappy about a sister who had recently died. A twin sister," "Yes, twins are very devoted, aren't they?" said Mrs. Oliver.

"She'd always seemed such a happy woman before," said Mrs. Rosentelle.

Both women sighed. Mrs. Oliver changed the subject.

"Do you think that I'd find a wig useful?" she asked.

The expert stretched out a hand and laid it speculatively on Mrs. Oliver's head.

"I wouldn't advise it-you've got a splendid crop of hair- very thick still. I imagine"-a faint smile came to her lips- "you enjoy doing things with it?" "How clever of you to know that. It's quite true-I enjoy experimenting. It's such fun." "You enjoy life altogether, don't you?" "Yes, I do. I suppose it's the feeling that one never knows what might be going to happen next." "Yet that feeling," said Mrs. Rosentelle, "is just what makes so many people never stop worrying!"

Mr. Goby came into the room and sat, as indicated by Poirot, in his usual chair. He glanced around him before choosing what particular piece of furniture or part of the room he was about to address. He settled, as often before, for the electric fire, not turned on at this time of year. Mr. Goby had never been known to address the human being he was working for directly. He selected always the cornice, a radiator, a television set, a clock, sometimes a carpet or a mat. Out of a briefcase he took a few papers.

"Well," said Hercule Poirot, "you have something for me?" "I have collected various details," said Mr. Goby.

Mr. Goby was celebrated all over London, indeed possibly all over England and even further, as a great purveyor of information. How he performed these miracles, nobody ever really quite knew. He employed a not excessive staff. Sometimes he complained that his legs, as he sometimes called them, were not as good as they used to be. But his results were still able to astonish people who had commissioned them.

"Mrs. Burton-Cox," he said, announcing the name much as though he had been the local churchwarden having his turn at reading the lessons. He might equally have been saying, "Third verse, fourth chapter, the book of Isaiah." "Mrs. Burton-Cox," he said again. "Married Mr. Cecil Aidbury, manufacturer of buttons on a large scale. Rich man.

Entered politics, was MP for Little Stansmere. Mr. Cecil Aldbury was killed in a car accident four years after their marriage. The only child of the marriage died in an accident shortly afterwards, Mr. Aldbury's estate was inherited by his wife, but was not as much as had been expected, since the firm had not been doing well of late years. Mr. Aldbury also left quite a considerable sum of money to a Miss Kathleen Fenn, with whom it seemed he had been having intimate relations quite unknown to his wife. Mrs. Burton-Cox continued her political career. Some three years after that she adopted a child which had been born to Miss Kathleen Fenn. Miss Kathleen Fenn insisted that the child was the son of the late Mr.

Aldbury. This, from what I have been able to learn in my inquiries, is somewhat difficult to accept," continued Mr.

Goby. "Miss Fenn had had many relationships, usually with gentlemen of ample means and generous dispositions, but after all, so many people have their price, have they not? I'm afraid this is quite a serious bill I may have to send you in." "Continue," said Hercule Poirot.

"Mrs. Aldbury, as she then was, agreed to adopt the child.

A short while later she married Major Burton-Cox. Miss Kathleen Fenn became, I may say, a most successful actress and pop singer and made a very large amount of money. She then wrote to Mrs. Burton-Cox, saying she would be willing to take back the adopted child. Mrs. Burton-Cox refused.

Mrs. Burton-Cox has been living quite comfortably since, I understand. Major Burton-Cox was killed in Malaya. He left her moderately well off. A further piece of information I have obtained is that Miss Kathleen Fenn, who died a very short while ago-eighteen months, I think-left a will by which her entire fortune, which amounted by then to a considerable sum of money, was left to her natural son Desmond, at present known under the name of Desmond Burton-Cox." "Very generous," said Poirot. "Of what did Miss Fenn die?" "My informant tells me that she contracted leukemia." "And the boy has inherited his mother's money?" "It was left in trust for him to acquire at the age of twenty-five." "So he will be independent, will have a substantial fortune?

And Mrs, Burton-Cox?" "Has not been happy in her investments, it is understood.

She has sufficient to live on but not much more." "Has the boy Desmond made a will?" asked Poirot.

"That," said Mr. Goby, "I fear I do not know as yet. But I have certain means of finding out. If I do, I will acquaint you with the fact without loss of time." Mr. Goby took his leave, absent-mindedly, bowing a farewell to the electric fire.

About an hour and a half later the telephone rang.

Hercule Poirot, with a sheet of paper in front of him, was making notes. Now and then he frowned, twirled his moustaches, crossed something out and rewrote it and then proceeded onward. When the telephone rang, he picked up the receiver and listened.

"Thank you," he said; "that was quick work. Yes… yes, I'm grateful. I really do not know sometimes how you manage these things… Yes, that sets out the position clearly. It makes sense of something that did not make sense before…

Yes… I gather… yes, I'm listening… you are pretty sure that that is the case. He knows he is adopted… but he never has been told who his real mother was… yes. Yes, I see…

Very well. You will clear up the other point, too? Thank you." He replaced the receiver and started once more writing down words. In half an hour the telephone rang once more.

Once again he picked up the phone.

"I'm back from Cheltenham," said a voice which Poirot bad no difficulty in recognizing.

"Ah, chore madame, you have returned? You have seen Mrs.

Rosentelle?" "Yes. She is nice. Very nice. And you were quite right, you know. She is another elephant." "Meaning, chere madame'?" "I mean that she remembered Molly Ravenscroft." "And she remembered her wigs?" "Yes." Briefly she outlined what the retired hairdresser had told her about the wigs.

"Yes," said Poirot, "that agrees. That is exactly what Superintendent Garroway mentioned to me. The four wigs that the police found. Curls, an evening type of headdress, and two other plainer ones. Four." "So I really only told you what you knew already?" "No, you told me something more than that. She said-that is what you told me just now, is it not?-that Lady Ravenscroft wanted two extra wigs to add to the two that she already had and that this was about three weeks to six weeks before the suicide tragedy occurred. Yes, that is interesting, is it not?" "It's very natural," said Mrs. Oliver. "I mean, you know that people, women, I mean, may do awful damage to things.

To false hair and things of that kind. If it can't be redressed and cleaned, if it's got burnt or got stuff spilt on it you can't get out, or it's been dyed and dyed all wrong-something like that-well then, of course you have to get two new wigs or switches or whatever they are. I don't see what makes you excited about that." "Not exactly excited," said Poirot, "no. It is a point, but the more interesting point is what you have just added. It was a French lady, was it not, who brought the wigs to be copied or matched?" "Yes. I gathered some kind of companion or something.